CH 4 – Narration Exercise: Mandarin picking with the In-Laws

A sharp pain is spreading through my lower back, all thanks to the centre console of the car. I am 16 again on my way home from a party with 6 in a car meant for 5. Except I can’t follow the conversation, the music is definitely not Backstreet Boys, and there is no alcohol in sight. The reality is that I am 28, ridding home with my In-Laws after a day spent picking mandarins in the Turkish town of Sürmene. I think back to the beginning of the day that started out breathtaking but has led to holding my breath. 7 hours earlier the crystal blue of the Black Sea lay at the mountain’s feet, the air crisp and fresh with undertones of earth, and smoke. The sun had just topped the mountainside that ebbs and flows like a wave. The slopes are covered in tea bushes that look like giant dark green pillows. The varying shades of green are offset with a spattering of bright orange from the ripe manadarins. The houses are a mixture of wood and stone, nothing fancy, but sturdy and sound. The largest building is a Mosque with a blue dome, and when the call to prayer starts at 11am it echoes all through the valley. Here and there on the slope you can see people working the land. Some are burning pitch, most are women, wearing colourful head scarves and skirts that should clash, but they are as much a part of the landscape as the plush tea bushes. We climb a set of old stone steps littered with fallen mandarins up to the home of Cansu. A teacher with short choppy black hair and an easy smile. She works at the same school as my Father-In-Law. Her family has lived here for centuries, but now she only spends summers and weekends up here as it is too far from her job in Trabzon. She is the only one who can speak English. My Mother-In-Law Cevar has set herself up at a table outside and is gutting the small Hamsi fish that are very popular in Turkey. I sit down and pick up a knife in an attempt to prove that I may be foreign, but I am also helpful and not at all a sissy girl. I pick up the 3″ fish cut the head off, slice the belly open and pull the guts out. I glance over at Cevar expecting a nod of respect, but all I get is Mustafa, my Father-In-Law showing me how I to do it correctly. Mustafa thinks my inability to understand Turkish is in direct correlation to my hearing so he is forever shouting instructions at me. I refuse to stop until the 2 kilos of Hamsi are headless, intent on assuring my In-Laws of my worth. After the Hamsi are rinsed and the table cleaned up we sit down and enjoy some freshly squeezed orange juice, a crunchy cinnamon cake, and my all time favourite snack Börek. Börek is almost like a stuffed croissant but not quite as flakey. Cevar knows I love this dish and always makes it for me. Bellies filled up we all put a wicker basket with straps onto our backs and head over to one of the many Manadarin trees along the slope. It seems the trees have no owners and the fruit they bear belongs to anyone willing to pick it. By mid-afternoon the sun has disappeared into some clouds and two more teachers have showed up to help with the picking. We fill up the trunk of my In-Laws Ford Focus and head inside Cansu’s home to warm our hands around the wood fire stove. Dinner is Hamsi, salad, and more orange juice, and is followed up with several glasses of tea. I can now pinpoint this as the moment everything started to go downhill. The conversation seems to revolve around their work with Mustafa being the dominant player, he is the Principal after all. In this moment he reminds me of my husband who also tends to dominate conversations. I find myself smiling despite the encroaching boredom, wishing he was here to explain what the hell everyone is talking about. Cevar is not speaking very much. She does not work at the school and therefore is on the outs almost as much as I am. She glances my way and I give her a big smile trying to trick her into believing I am the most laid back daughter-in-law ever, even if it is a front. Cansu, however, is holding her own, energetically debating what I can only guess are educational reforms, since she is no longer keeping me in the loop. Perhaps she has used up all her English words. I really want to play CandyCrush but settle for memorizing a flower crochet picture instead. Finally we pack up and head to the car, and that’s when I realize pretending to be the laid back daughter-in-law has trapped me into sharing the front seat with Cansu, and a center console.

CH 3 – Original voice Exercise: Tea time in Trabzon

I’ve just sat down on a stool that feels like it belongs in an elementary school. The smell of sea, cigarettes and charcoal float through the air. The busy highway is directly behind me, the black sea directly in front. The two noises clash against one another, creating a havoc of whooshes.  All around me people are squatted down on these 2 feet stools, sipping from tiny clear tulip shaped glasses. They are drinking the Turkish equivalent for tea known as çay. Although it sounds exactly like Indian Chai tea, the flavour of Turkish tea couldn’t be more different. It has a brick like colour, with dark green leaves lightly floating on the bottom. It resembles orange pekoe in flavour, but sharper and tarter. It is not sweet at all, unless you add 2 or 3 of the individually wrapped sugar cubes, available in a glass jar on your table. There are three groups of people sitting around drinking their çay. Three young girls sit to my left.  Two are wearing multi coloured head scarves and long tan coloured trench coats. The third is dressed in Western garb right down to Ugg boots, and her dark thick hair flows freely.  All three have their bedazzled phones out and appear to be simultaneously texting and chatting to each other. The conversation moves very quickly with a flurry of hand motions. Their faces are full of a strength and attitude that even a girl from the Bronx would be hesitant to mess with. An old man in a wheelchair sits in front of 2 young men. They sit on the only normal sized bench, and they are all smoking. The conversation moves slower here, and when the old man speaks both young men listen attentively. He seems to be sharing an opinion with them, perhaps on politics. He holds out a hand, and seems to list an assortment of reasons why the answer to whatever problem they are discussing is simple. He shakes his head expecting full agreement from both young men. They respect the man in the wheelchair, it is obvious in the way their heads are tilted down, as if in deference. Finally there is a group of rowdy young boys, one of which has just joined the group. He goes around the circle to each boy and forcefully grabs their hand. They lightly touch their temples to each other on both sides and embrace.  The newcomer lights up a cigarette while the others follow suit, like a row of dominoes. They are all talking at once in a crescendo that rises and abets like the black sea waves in front of us. Their hands are out to both sides holding the boys’ arms on either side to them in what appears to be an attempt to hold the other down, while each one attempts to be the loudest and finally dominate the conversation. It is not violent in any way, in fact it is quite endearing. The way these boys laugh and touch each other is sweet. It appears as though they have been friends forever and have such familiarity they can all speak at once and somehow everyone will still be heard. These Trabzonians are undeniably loud, and full of passionate motions when they speak. But just like the iconic beverage we are all sipping on they are uniquely Turkish.

CH 2 – Story forms Exercise: A walk to the Seawall

It’s 9:15am, I step outside of the Pacific Beach building on Jervis St. in the West End of Vancouver, Canada. A faint whiff of the sea drifts my way, and a siren is blaring in the distance. The creamy white Calla Lilly and princess pink Foxgloves are so big they are starting to droop over into the sidewalk. I could head right and proceed to climb the 75 degree hill that has given me buns of steel over the winter, but the sun is shinning and the water off English Bay is sparkling so I proceed to the left instead and head downhill. There is a scent of asphalt heating up in the morning sun as I patiently await for the beep boop sound that signals it’s safe to cross. I am on Beach Ave. or is it Pacific? It is just where the fork begins and one road becomes two. It is like a street purgatory not quite Beach and yet not quite Pacific either. It always leaves me baffled as to which street I should tell the taxi cab to drop me off home at. But today I am on foot, and the salty sea smell is getting stronger. The siren is fading and is replaced by the  delicate sound of a trickle of water as I pass by a 10 ft. Pyramid shaped fountain that slowly flows water down each one of the steps. It is surrounded by Palm trees, that are not only surviving but thriving, a mystery to me as this is Canada after all.  The fountain was donated by Doris and Charles Davis to Vancouver on it’s centennial. The fountain is so protected by the Palm trees I didn’t even notice it until after a few months of living in the neighbourhood. The hill on the fork of Beach/Pacific has a nice easy slope that draws you down towards the water. As I pass over the crosswalk I hear the woosh of a group of bikers as they whiz by in their second skin neon clothing. I pass under the shade of a Cherry Blossom tree that was in full bloom throughout the month of March but now looks slightly like a large bonsai tree. That incredible fresh aroma of fresh cut grass wafts up as I pass by, I try to fill my lungs with it, but the hill is pulling me down. The concrete path takes you to a set of stairs that are about 3 feet wide and are too big to walk down normally. I must resort to descending like a child does placing both feet upon each step before I continue on to the next. I hate this forced return to infancy so I usually take my chances on running down the last part of the hill praying that I don’t slip and fall on the freshly cut grass and make a fool of myself. I prefer the feel of the grass under my feet anyway although the grass is never truly dry in the Vancouver climate of near constant rain. The other risk I take by going the grass route is accidentally walking in the local residents poo. Today I can see the group of 25 Canadian Geese soaking in some early sun on Sunset Beach. There are only 3 groups of people on the beach at this hour. A lone girl with a big coral hat lies out in her matching pink bikini reading a Vogue with Katy Perry on the front. A family of three follows their toddler as he wanders by the water’s edge picking up anything that catches his attention. His small blue shirt seems to keep rising above his little pot belly. And a young gentlemen has a tripod set up and what looks to be a Canon camera, he is getting set up to catch some morning shots of the North Shore Mountains. His khaki shorts are bulging at the pockets with what I would assume are batteries and flashes and other camera paraphernalia. The salty smell of the ocean is so strong now I can almost taste it, and inevitably a craving for oysters grabs hold of me. I have one more obstacle to pass before I reach my destination and can relax into a morning stroll; the seawall bike path. Everything from unicycles to skateboards whiz by without any real ability to stop should some careless pedestrian cross without looking both ways. But after a break in traffic I scramble to the far side and join the hundreds of people out for a walk on the Vancouver seawall. By evening thousands will have walked over some part of it’s 22km asphalt pathway that includes Stanley Park, Coal Harbour, English Bay and Kitslano.

CH 1 – Travel writing evolution Assignment: They’re off and Pacing!

The trumpet song “First Call” blasts through the speakers. http://youtu.be/SGnZxcS7VKA
The big white truck with fence like arms that extend a metre out to each side picks up speed. The horses line up and begin to follow the white truck around the turn. As they approach the start line the crowd’s anticipation builds for the 4 words they know are coming. “They’re off and pacing!” Yells race tack announcer Vance Cameron.
Each Announcer tries to develop their own signature send off similar to Michael Buffer’s “Let’s Get Ready to Rumble!”I know Vance Cameron has won over the respect of the crowd but I think I speak for us all when I say Boomer (who is now our local weatherman) was the best. Boomer could take the time the race was won in and make it last as long as the actual race had been, his voice was so boisterous I often wondered if he even needed the microphone.
The horses have just completed their first lap of the Quarter Mile track, 1 more to go. The pounding of  32 hooves slamming into the gravel track sends up a thunderous echo and a cloud of dust. The excitement builds as 2 horses pull away from the pack, the #2 horse Mr. Dibs and the #5 horse Scarlet Starlet. They are rounding the back stretch now Mr Dibbs and Scarlet Starlet are neck and neck. People are beginning to stand and lean forward. As they go around the final turn and barrel toward the finish line people begin to yell and cheer. Suddenly the rolled up race programs are whips and the more excited members of the crowd are using them to urge along their pick, screaming things like “Come on!” “Almost there!”  It’s down to the wire, but what’s this Mr. Dibbs pulls ahead at the last second to win it, Scarlet Starlet right behind him to place and Lightning Boulevard for the triactor. Some tear up their tickets with varying degrees of disappointment on their faces others head down to collect the winnings from their bet. But my family and I head down to the winner’s circle for a photo with Mr. Dibbs and my Dad his Trainor/Owner/Driver.
The Charlottetown Driving Park in Prince Edward Island, Canada is where I spent many summer hours. It has changed a lot since I was a kid going from a white wooden building that could hold 500 to a shinny modern 50,000 sq ft. building complete with a casino and top of the park restaurant. The name isn’t even CDP it’s Red Shores, but what does remain is the beautiful white and green judges stand, located right at the finish line in the centre of the track. Originally built in 1889 the year the track first opened. It’s a wonderful example of how PEI has embraced the future while holding onto to a piece of our history. This balance of new and old is just one of the many things I love about Prince Edward.