Housesitting Adventures in England

This summer, I spent an incredible nine days housesitting in England. I met Anne, the homeowner, through my friend Jasmin, whom I petsat for earlier this year in Gökçeovacık. We corresponded through email for a couple of months and she asked me to petsit in Bradford-on-Avon while she was on holiday in Turkey.

I hadn't heard of Bradford-on-Avon, but after a quick Google image search, I was in love.  The town is located in Wiltshire county, about 110 miles west of London.  The population is only about 9,500 people. As my hometown has a thousand less people, I felt right at home.  Although Tecumseh, Michigan isn’t quite the premier cultural destination when compared to BoA.

Downtown Bradford-on-Avon

I’d been to London in 2009 for a hurried, but memorable weekend with my friend Nicole.  The trip sealed our lifelong friendship and begot about a dozen inside jokes, but we didn’t have much chance to experience English culture.

This time around, I was certain that my extensive exposure to British television, living with Clive for a year, and hanging out with my Turkish/English hybrid friends would have me prepared for whatever came my way.

The beginning of my adventure!

After arriving at Heathrow Airport, I took a coach to a town called Corsham.  The bus dropped me off in the little village and I went to wait in a random pub for Anne.  A real English pub.  I was exactly like the guy in “Love Actually” who goes to a typical American bar for some Budweiser.

This was my first time in an English speaking country in over a year and as I was drinking my half-pint of Carling, I realized that I could understand every single person in the pub. In Istanbul, with my limited Turkish, I can easily tune out the conversations happening around me.

At first, understanding everyone was really overwhelming.  I felt like I was intruding on private conversations, even though they were all speaking loudly.  I know it seems dramatic, but it almost felt like I was telepathic.  (This is based entirely on how telepathy is presented on TV shows.) I heard men making bawdy jokes.  The barmaid called a regular customer, “my treacle”.  Thanks to Clive and the countless hours we’d spent watching British television, I recognized a lot of the slang. It was weird and amazing.

Selam, Pippin!

I'm always a bit anxious meeting someone in person who previously only existed in my inbox, but Anne and her daughter Alice (and Alice's tiny daughter Erin) are the sort of people that you instantly feel comfortable around. You’d be hard pressed to find a fault with these three generations of women. Their home was gorgeous and I couldn’t have felt more at ease. 

While the ladies were on holiday, my wards included two sweet dogs and half a dozen chickens. The lovely Pippin is a former sokak köpeği from Turkey. So if I got homesick for Istanbul, I could always recite the days of the week, ask if she had an older brother, or comment on the weather in Turkish.

Hiya, Jake!

Jake is an elderly dog with the spirit of a puppy.  I’ve mentioned before that one of the things I miss most about America are my pets.  Any time I spend with domesticated animals is a pleasure.  It was nice sharing my bed with the pint sized Jake, although I had to check a few times that he wasn’t suffocating under the covers.  

My stay in BoA was a weird vacation/working hybrid, with a few chores thrown in. But when the chores are snuggling with dogs and collecting (and eating) freshly laid eggs, there’s not much to complain about.

One of our lovely morning walks

Even though I was working full time, I found small ways to implement English culture into my day without interrupting my work schedule.  Eating beans on toast for breakfast. Having elevenses. Wearing ‘wellies’ for the dogs’ morning walk on a rainy day. I even ate my meals in a conservatory!  The only conservatory I’d ever been in was during a game of Clue when I suspected Colonel Mustard with the candlestick.  

My workday was accompanied by the soundtrack of unfamiliar bird songs and a backdrop of plants and flowers that seemed to be growing by the hour. In the evening, I tried watching the ‘telly’ a few times, but it turns out a lot of British television is reruns of “Teen Mom” and “Hoarders”.

Behold, my lifestyle blog photography skills!

But I think I might have taken elevenses too literally.  I’d watch the clock in the corner of my computer screen, slowly approach snack time.  10:56...10:57...10:58.  I’d tell my grumbling stomach to calm down and wait another two GD minutes.  When those beautiful double ones hit the screen, I’d jump up, startling the dozing dogs, and head for the coffee and biscuits.

Returning from a rainy morning walk (Please note the authentic wellies.)

My inability to communicate with people in Turkey is completely self-inflicted and I don’t deserve any sympathy.  But, I couldn’t get over how much I loved speaking my mother tongue (however bastardized)  to everyone.  And because they were English, they were too polite not to laugh at my bad jokes.

One afternoon, the doorbell rang and I found a guy with a clipboard wearing a Save The Children t-shirt.

Normally, if I’d seen the same thing through my peephole back home, I would have silently tiptoed away and hoped that the person hadn’t seen the shadow of my feet under the door. But this was England.

“Hi!”, I beamed.

“Hello there.  How are you today?”

“I’m fine.  How about you?”

“Wow.  I’m good.  Thank you for asking...No one ever asks me that.”

“Oh. Well that doesn’t seem very nice.”

“Yeah. Um...you smile a lot.  People don’t usually smile at me.”

“It’s probably because I’m American.”

We chatted a bit about American college football teams and he asked me to save the children, but it turns out (much to the relief of my bank account) that needy children only accept British credit cards.

“Can’t I just give you a fiver?”, I asked trying to show off some English slang.

“No, I’m sorry.  We can’t accept cash.”

“That’s too bad. Good luck, then! I hope you find people with British bank accounts who smile at you! Have a great day! Take care!”

I’m less amiable with most of my blood relatives.

Yum!

Before my trip, I knew I had to be careful about spending. At the time, the exchange rate was 1 GBP to 4.21 TL. Because I'm paid in Turkish lira, the price of everything in England was more than quadruple for me. Yikes! As my lodging was free (Thank you, Anne), I knew that my biggest expense would be food. 

I had planned to sustain myself on the Oliver Twist diet of water and stale bread, but ended up eating like Queen Victoria (and gaining her physique). Surprisingly all the foods I wanted to eat were the most affordable. Many of them (baked beans, pork products, Indian food, etc.) were cheaper than in Turkey. Plus, Anne and Alice very generously let me raid the refrigerator. I may have overindulged in their biscuit supply though.

I enjoyed eating in and cooking microwaving meals, but I knew I had to consume some things that didn't come from the Co-Op. One of the few times I ate out, I stopped by the Grumpy Badger in the city center. This amazing latte and enormous slice of hummingbird cake only set me back £5.20, which is around the same amount I’d spend in Istanbul when you convert it to lira.

£14 for admission, but well worth it

On Sunday, I took a twenty minute train journey to Bath.   This city was incredible. Jane Austen spent a lot of time here and used it for the backdrop of “Persuasion” (which I tried to read beforehand as I felt a connection to the protagonist, a 27-year-old spinster). The Roman baths, for which the city is named, were built circa 70 CE and are still pretty cool nearly two millennia later.

Jump, Russell Crowe, and put our ears out of their misery!

Many movies have been filmed in Bath, including “Vanity Fair”, “The Duchess”, and most recently, Javert’s suicide scene in “Les Miserables”.  I’d only ever seen architecture like this in the BBC costume dramas that my parents watch.  It was strange to see 21st century people walking around in jeans and OBEY baseball caps, when I thought the dress code should include bonnets, top hats, and Empire waists.  Where were the carriages, bewigged aristocrats, and peasants with rotted teeth?

The Bath Abbey was founded in the 7th century, and over the next millennium underwent some major changes, getting a serious facelift in the 1860s.  The place was absolutely stunning, inside and out.  My only problem was with the admission fee, or as the sign put it, “suggested donation”. I take serious umbrage at suggested donations.  You should either say “donations welcome” or list a price.  I always end up paying the suggested amount to avoid feeling guilty and then immediately feel like a sucker.  Grievances aside, it was well worth the £2.50 I paid to visit the abbey.

Anne’s niece Helen lived just down the street (and generously watched Toby, Anne’s third dog with a reputation for riling up the other pooches). She stopped by one evening with a bottle of wine and her infectious laugh.  I liked her immediately.  The following day, she offered to take me to the nearby village of Lacock, which is comically pronounced LAY-COCK.

The tiny village is mostly owned by the National Trust, which sets out ‘To Look after Places of Historic Interest or Natural Beauty permanently for the benefit of the nation across England, Wales and Northern Ireland’.  It has been used as a filming location for “Pride and Prejudice” (the Colin Firth version), two Harry Potter films, and the current season of “Downton Abbey”.  Economy cars aside, the area really did feel like it was from another time.

Imperative cultural experience

With few exceptions, I loathe seafood, but I knew I needed to try fish and chips.  (I’m very committed to assimilating into a foreign culture, you see.)  I only hoped that my love of fried food would outweigh my disgust for scaled creatures.  I figured that the aptly named restaurant FISH N’CHIPS would be the best place to go.  At £8.95 (37 TL), it was one of my most expensive purchases, so I forced myself to eat everything (except the salad, obviously). 

It wasn’t that bad, until I started to head back to the house.  Now weighed down by an entire cod and a kilo of fried potatoes, the typically invigorating walk up to Anne’s home became the worst 15 minutes of my life.  It felt like the fish had miraculously reassembled itself in my bulging belly and was trying to escape.  It’s a miracle that I didn’t vomit.

Wowee!

Early on, I went to the town’s tourist information center, which was run by senior citizens in tailored pantsuits.  After telling them that I was on a budget, I was handed a small booklet titled “Walks in Bradford-on-Avon”.  Never has a brochure been more applicable to me.  Few things give me as much pleasure as exploring places on foot and BoA gave me plenty of opportunities to do exactly that.  Plus, walking is free!

Completed in 1805, the Avoncliff Aqueduct crosses the River Avon.

I stuck with normal Istanbul working hours, so I finished work at 4pm GMT, which allowed me to maximize my walking time. I was most blown away by the flowers everywhere. Every blossom I saw before coming to England was a weed. Many of the homes were fitted with immaculate gardens and roses the size of your face. 

I think I expected Bradford-on-Avon to be more familiar, like a Downton Abbey/American Midwest hybrid. I was way off. I have never felt so good to be wrong. (Apart from that time when I thought that I had a brain tumor, but it turned out I was just hungry.)

I was completely unaware of the river boat lifestyle before my trip.

One of my biggest pet peeves is when someone who has never been to the US tries to contradict my description of American culture based on an episode of Friends/Big Bang Theory/How I Met Your Mother. This happens way more often than you might think. 

Spending time in England made me realize that I’d been doing the exact same thing. I carry on about all the British shows I watch and demonstrate my vast knowledge of naughty Britishisms. But during my stay in Bradford-on-Avon, I was exposed to so many things I never could have imagined. It was pretty freaking wonderful.

As luck would have it, during my stay, the local actor’s guild was performing ‘Hamlet’ in Bradford-on-Avon's historic 14th century Tithe Barn.  How could I pass on an amateur Shakespeare production in England?  At £12 a ticket, it was within my budget.

Somewhere between Act I, Scene I and Act I, Scene II, I noticed a small insect on the head of a man sitting in front of me.  The bug was slowly weaving its way through his white wispy hair.  I asked myself if it would be weirder to touch a stranger’s head or knowingly let a bug meander around his scalp.  

Did people see me see the bug and do nothing!?  Were my fellow audience members wondering who this sadistic woman was who couldn’t be bothered to gently remove a potential parasite?  I tried to look away and focus on the play.

In 12th grade, my AP English class read “Hamlet” from a book that had the Shakespearean text printed on the left side of the page and a simplified version on the right.  Our teacher, Mr. Klauza, urged all of us to ignore the right-hand column and mumbled something about budgets cuts.  But with lines like “The king doth wake tonight and takes his rouse. Keeps wassail and the swaggering upspring reels”, it was hard to resist reading the dumbed-down, “The king is staying up all night drinking and dancing”.

Back in the Tithe Barn, whenever Hamlet would launch into one of his more verbose monologues, I found my eyes drifting to my right to see how the simple plot of the bug in the stranger’s hair was getting on.  I learned at intermission from the woman in front of me that the head belonged to her husband, Dave. By Act III, the bug had disappeared forever into his follicles. Alas, poor Dave.

The production was excellent, but the open barn got pretty chilly. Halfway through Act IV, I started wishing that everyone would hurry up and die.  By the way, what’s with Shakespearean characters saying, “I am slain” or “I am murdered”?  We would have gathered that from your lifeless body, Polonius.  Just lie still and be quiet, dammit.

I saw people playing cricket!  And they saw me, the classless American, taking pictures of them.  

I spent my final day traipsing around the town, oblivious to the humiliating farmer’s tan burning into my skin. I thought a lot about how great it is to have five senses and mobile legs and was surprised at how much money I saved by utilizing them. My Bradford-on-Avon adventure exceeded every expectation, as you can tell from this loquacious blog post.

I have many people to thank this adventure.  First, Jasmin for introducing me to Anne.  Next, Anne, Alice, and little Erin for sharing their home and pets with me.  Also Helen, for making me laugh and taking me on an adventure. Thank you to my friend Tarık for lending me his camera.  And, last but not least, my boss Erol for letting me do this yet again.

Oslo Adventures

(Photo Andrii Zherebko)

My recent trip to Norway was a bit of an impulse. I hadn’t left Turkey in seven months and was getting a bit stir-crazy. I searched for cheap plane tickets out of Istanbul, found a direct round trip flight to Oslo for only 130 USD, and clicked “purchase”. It wasn’t until later that I learned that Oslo is one of the most expensive cities in the world. This was problematic, as I’m paid in a currency whose value is steadily declining. I might have baller status on this side of the Bosphorus, but I plummeted to serfdom the moment my feet touched Norwegian soil. 

Merde. 

I arrived quite late in Oslo and my only option to get into the city center was a shuttle that set me back 60 TL! As the exchange offices were closed, I had to pay with my credit card...which got declined...twice. A string of words my mom hates played on repeat in my head. Just as I was contemplating hitchhiking for the first time in my life, the guy behind me got his card declined as well. 

“Oh, forget it”, the mustachioed bus driver said in flawless English, “Save your money. Everybody on!” 

What the [heck]? Is this really happening? 

I took my seat on the bus and the friendly driver (who was my new best friend, he just didn’t know it yet) announced, “Everybody, please put on your safety-belts”. 

My fellow passengers and I obediently buckled up. 

I have entered an alternate universe.

After careful consideration, I decided to spend my first two nights in a hostel and the latter two Couchsurfing.  I'd been meaning to try CS for years, but it just never happened.

I once met a girl who spent three months Couchsurfing throughout Europe and she said the only downsides were that you always had to be engaging with your hosts and never had any private time.  This is the exact opposite of things that make me happy.  

I needed to have a couple days and nights to be antisocial more antisocial than usual.  What better way to achieve solitude than paying an exorbitant amount of money to share a hostel dormitory with three strangers?  

As I was checking in, I asked the Scottish receptionist, “Is it true that you can drink the tap water in Oslo?”

The tap water in Istanbul won't kill you, but it definitely won't make you stronger.

His eyes got wide as he leaned in and said, “You could drink the toilet water if you wanted to”.

“Nice.  That’s what we normally do in America anyway.”

Super groovy tapestry at the National Gallery

I started my first day at the absolutely superb National Gallery.  The Scream by Edvard Munch, Norway’s most globally recognized artist, is the museum’s crown jewel.  The permanent exhibit started with limbless statues from Ancient Greece and built chronologically, from room to room, finally reaching its zenith with the 1893 tableau of The Scream.  It was presented as though Munch was the end all of art evolution and everything that predated the distressed skeletal man was merely simian.  It was forbidden to photograph the painting, but fret not, you could just purchase a Sceamified mousepad, toothbrush holder, putty toy, or magnet from the gift shop.  

The Oseberg ship, which dates from the 9th century (and maybe earlier) was the burial vessel for two unidentified women.

After saying farewell to the tableaus of peasants, prostitutes, and sea monsters, I took a small ferry to the Viking Ship Museum. IT. WAS. UNBELIEVABLE. The ships in the museum were discovered underneath burial mounds around Norway in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

KON-TIKI!!!

The next stop on my sightseeing adventure was the Kon-Tiki Museum, which featured the original Kon-Tiki raft used in the 1947 expedition led by Thor Heyerdahl.  My knowledge of the expedition was limited to the 2012 film and the Wikipedia page, but it was still pretty special to see in person.

The Fram museum was adjacent to Kon-Tiki and I honestly just went there to get out of the rain.  Yet again, Norway amazed me with its explorers and sea vessels.  The Fram was used in both Arctic and Antarctic expeditions in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  No other wooden ship has traveled further North or South. Its museum was beyond incredible and allowed visitors to explore the deck and interior of the ship.

I was struck by one placard in particular, which read, “Blank areas on early maps were filled with imaginary monsters and nonexistent land and sailing routes, but explorers, scientists and hunting expeditions (particularly whaling) gradually filled in many gaps.”

I’m a big fan of science and the accomplishments of humankind.  Seeing something this applicable to much of history (and hopefully the near future) gave me goosebumps.  Yeah, the whaling puts a bit of a damper on the sentiment, but nothing’s perfect.

Next was the Nobel Peace Prize Museum, which highlighted this year’s winners Malala Yousafzai and Kailash Satyarthi.  Learning about 2014’s laureates was great, but the main exhibit was this weird room in which every Nobel Peace Prize recipient had a personal iPad that alternated between their face and a motivational quote.  I found it to be extremely ‘meh’.  

That night, as I lay on my top bunk back at the hostel, I reflected on my day that had been filled with artists, explorers, innovators, and laureates.  When I thought of all that these people had accomplished, I started to feel bad that an average evening for me consists of being horizontal on my bed, eating lunchmeat directly from the package, and staring at my computer screen. In my 27 years, what had I done to contribute to world peace or further human knowledge?

"Nothing", I thought to my lateral self.

My portrait would never end up on an iPad next to Al Gore’s in a lackluster museum display. My likeness would never become a bronze statue for birds to crap on.  The stick-figure drawings in the margins of my daily to-do lists would never be hung in a national gallery.  I would never become a hallowed explorer, as any place left for white people to “discover” is set in some extreme climate that I would undoubtedly find very off-putting.  

I was still contemplating my insignificance when I drifted off to sleep.

Norwegians in traditional bunad (Photo Andrii Zherebko)

I was fortuitously in Oslo for Constitution Day, a holiday filled with parades, traditional folk costumes, champagne, fancy clothes, and impending high school graduates (called Russ) dressed in blue and red overalls reminiscent of the Super Mario Brothers. Olesia, the girl I stayed with for my second two nights, invited me to celebrate with her and her friends.

Yours truly.  My bunad was at the cleaners.

The parade was mostly school marching bands that made their way down Kristian IVs Gate all the way to the palace. Each group would pause briefly before the balcony and the royal family would wave. We were pretty far back and the monarchs were just blurred dots. 

The Royal Palace

“They could really be anyone”, I commented. 

“It would suck to just stand there waving all day”, one of us added. 

"Maybe they switch out body doubles every hour", someone guessed.

“Maybe they’re robotic arms”, I said.
"The king just waved at me", Olesia concluded.

Norwegians looking fly as hell in their bunad (Photo Andrii Zherebko)

Olesia is originally from Kiev and is getting her masters in Strategic Marketing Management. People like her will one day successfully run the planet, so people like me can continue to eat turkey slices in bed.

The Oslo Opera House, where we walked on the roof. NBD.

After the parade, Olesia and her friend Andreii, another Ukrainian masters student, showed me around.  Olesia is an Oslo expert and gave me a lot of background on the area and Norwegian culture. Andreii knew a ton about the city’s history and graciously let me use some of the photos he took that day. 

Akershus Fortress (Photo by Andrii Zherebko)

Olesia is a photobomb GODDESS!

It was actually nice to see Oslo through non-Norwegian eyes.  I think foreigners are better at identifying cultural idiosyncrasies, as we’re oblivious to our own culture when we’re living in. For example, when I’m in the States, I never think, “I’m speaking loudly because I’m American” or “I’m smiling at strangers because I grew up in the Midwest”.

The Oslo public transit system operated on an honor’s system. You didn’t have to show anyone your pass when you boarded a train, but you faced a hefty fine if you were caught without one. Although in the four days I was there, I didn’t see a single ticket agent. 

“This would never work in Istanbul”, I told Olesia, “and probably not in America”. 

“Not in Ukraine either. But everyone here can afford a pass, so why wouldn’t they just buy one?”

Essentially Olesia's backyard

Olesia’s place was located next to a breathtaking lake called Sognsvann.  I sat there for a while, writing in my journal like a weirdo,  as gaggles of aspiring olympians jogged around the lake’s perimeter.  These spandex coated people had 0% body fat and the only thing that moved were their blonde ponytails swishing back and forth.  Curious ducks came to investigate, me, the lethargic humanlike creature.

The National Gallery should swap “The Scream” with this photo.

I like visiting grocery stores when I’m in a foreign country, partly because you can get candy marginally cheaper than at the airport, but also because it gives you a good idea of what’s common in that country’s diet. I swooned when I saw this entire shelf of Tex-Mex food. 

Norway didn’t seem to have much in the way of national cuisine that wasn’t seafood, but it was home to a huge array of international food. I, of course, ate pork products at every affordable opportunity. 

My mom called this "a little x-rated". I don't know where she gets her filthy mind.

I expected everyone in Oslo to be white, blond, and blue-eyed, but there was a surprising amount of ethnic diversity. I read that about 40% of the city's residents were from other countries.  

I didn’t see a single street dog or cat, but I did see plenty of purebred dogs with their Westminster Kennel Club hopeful humans in tow.

I hereby decree that henceforth, my coffee shall be served in a bowl.

To me, the Norwegian language sounded like someone took a page of English text, ran it through a shredder,  carelessly taped it together, and added a few German vowels.  In the four days that I was there, I only retained the adorable greeting, "hei hei". 

Gustav Vigeland sculptures in Frogner Park

A culture section on a map Olesia gave me explained that Norwegians may come across as timid and stated, “We’re not Americans. We don’t strike up conversation with strangers on the bus.” 

Is this an actual American stereotype? 

Is it true?! 

I know we’re known for being a bit too friendly and over sharing, but jeez. I can’t think of any personal friendships I have that blossomed from smalltalk on a crowded subway car. When I’m in public, the words “please don’t talk to me” cycle through my head on an endless loop.

Frogner Park

I admired Oslo's symmetry and right angles. It was a nice break from Istanbul’s labyrinth. I found the lack of people on the street strange though. Granted part of my vacation was during the workweek, but I still found the empty sidewalks odd. Istanbul has at least 25 times as many people as Oslo, so it was bound to seem less crowded to me.

More naked sculptures by Gustav Vigeland in Frogner Park

By the third day of my trip, I started to think about what I’d write for this blog post. Much to my disappointment, I realized that I hadn’t had any terrible experiences that with the passing of time would become a funny story. Nothing went wrong. Nobody, to my knowledge, had bamboozled me. Oslo was perfect.  

I started to compare everything in the city to Istanbul and it really upset me. I told myself to stop thinking about Turkey and just enjoy Norway as its own thing, but I couldn’t help it.  

I felt like Daenerys in Game of Thrones, when she’s in the House of the Undying. But instead of being tempted by visions of sexy Khal Drogo and a would be baby, it was impeccable infrastructure and polite drivers. And rather than dragons and the promise of the Iron Throne calling me back, it was feral felines and my lumpy mattress in Istanbul. Just call me Laurel, Mother of Street Cats.

The 12th century Gol Stave Church at the Folk Museum

I began to wonder how happy Norwegians really were. They rank number one on the Human Development Index, whereas Turkey is sixty-nine (still considered “high development”, thank you very much). As I walked the pristine streets, I asked myself if a person could be truly happy, if they don’t know what profound unhappiness feels like? Of course Oslovians experience universal tragedies such as the death of a loved one, heartbreak, and occasionally losing sporting events to Sweden.

Astrup Fearnley Museum of Modern Art I thought those bottles were part of the display, until one of the staff removed them.

But...

If you’ve never lived in a city that ceases to function after two inches of snow, does the arrival of spring seem quite as lovely? 

If you’ve never had your water unexpectedly cut by the municipality for three days straight, how can you know what if feels like to be completely clean? 

If you’ve never inhaled the overwhelming stench of feces from the canal in Yoğurtçu Park, do the lilacs at its exit smell as sweet?

I decided that Oslo might be a utopia, but it wasn't home.

Goodbye, Oslo. You were a dream.

Back in Istanbul, after being accused of being a spy by the customs agent, waiting 45 minutes for a bus, getting stuck in traffic for an hour, and walking through Taksim past a guy openly puking on the street, I climbed into a dolmuş to take me to Kadıköy. I was fishing around for my money, when the guy to my left nudged me and said, “The driver is telling you to hurry up”. 

“Home sweet home”, I thought.

A very special thanks to Olesia and her roommates Lilia and Daryna. Your hospitality and humor made my trip unforgettable. Thank you also to Andrii for the amazing photos!