#15 Hitting the Buttons (By Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

For me, an apartment's appeal lies in its stairway. If I have to climb the stairway, the apartment totally loses its appeal. If I don't have to climb, the apartment receives much, much more love from me. In fact, the love is in negative territory for apartments with a lot of steps. For the past 37 years I have told anyone who would listen that our young family suffered much in Egypt because we lived on the top floor of an apartment house and walked up 85 steps. Every time. The number of steps never changed no matter how many times I counted them. I have now met the match.

Grandma and I went off to zone conference a few days ago and went to one of the SV's apartments for dinner the first evening. We wended our way through the city streets, much as one would experience in Egypt, and then came to the apartment building. The Sister was guiding us because her husband had suffered an accident earlier in the day and was resting. She pulled out her key, let us through the street door, and then stepped in front of us to lead us up the stairs to their apartment. Up we went. My legs began saying, " O No you don't." My will had to say, "O yes you do." It was that kind of an ascent. But I had no idea where we were going. Or how far.

We passed the doors of other people living in the building on the first floor up from the street. Then the doors on the next floor. Then the doors on the third floor. (I think you see where I am going with this.) Out of an old habit, I began to count the steps as soon as we began to climb. When we finally hit the top step I said under my breath, "Eighty-six." 86! These guys had been living in that apartment for fourteen months, going out every day perhaps multiple times, and climbing those eighty-six steps each time they returned home. I mean, that's serious torture. Or something. That sort of daily experience makes them heroes in my mind.

And so it goes in that city. One of the SV couples lives in an apartment with more than thirty steps to climb to reach the front door. Another lives in an apartment with only ten steps on the outside, but a bunch inside the place. To go to the interior office or the bedroom requires climbing sixteen steps. Man. Those guys are really tough. Or I am a major wimp. I don't even know how many steps are in our staircase. I haven't climbed it. Yet. I just step inside the lift and hit the button for the fourth floor and enjoy the ride, whether my hands are empty or carrying a bunch of groceries. My appreciation for our four-person lift just grew and grew the past few days. Someday I'll give it a big hug. But not today. I'll wait a while to see if it keeps working.

For people in our situation, the MTC is the vehicle to see that we get a debit card that allows us to make certain payments while serving. Somehow we missed ours. Either we weren't paying attention or the offer did not come to us. We left and arrived without the precious card. On Thursday evening, it finally came into our hands. It had been promised weeks ago, but was finally delivered rather than being sent to our address via some courier service. We were excited. So that evening we tried several ATMs to get some needed money. Nothing worked. We tried three ATMs and were told on the screens that we needed to contact our bank. O brother.

The pin number is tied to cards that we received when we went the first day to the MTC. We were told that the cards would allow us to open electronic gates and to eat lunches (for which we paid at the end of our training). But because I had no idea that that number was important in some other setting, I dumped mine. By very good fortune, Grandma kept hers. Her card was the key to our pin number. She later read in the materials that came with the card that we had to activate it. That's why our attempts had failed. So she activated it the next day. Then the moment arrived. We stepped up to an ATM, inserted the card, punched in the needed information, and ... were denied again. Fortunately, our president had not gone to bed. (Don't ask how I knew that.) I called his cell phone and explained our dilemma. He made two phone calls that evening. One of the people called me on my cell phone and, while I waited for another person to dig into our card's troubles, he explained how these things sometimes go off the reservation. He invited me to call him anytime I have a problem. Then his colleague came on the line and said that our card had been refreshed by the bank. Ahhh. Sweeeet. Naturally, at 10:30 p.m. we went immediately and tried the card. It worked. Sweeeet again! Now if it will work tomorrow ....

I love you and pray for each of you.

Grandpa Brown

#14 Summing it Up (By Grandma)

Our greek salad at the cafe does not come with olives...

I thought I'd tell you what our life is like here.  All of you will remember our 5th floor walk-up in Egypt.  Well, this is a 4th floor, but it has an elevator.  But we have noticed that the heat rises with the elevation.  The lobby is about 10 degrees cooler than the hall for our apartment.  There are only 4 levels in our apartment.  As far as we know we only have 3rd floor neighbors.  There is a doctor's office on the 1st floor, and a bedding shop on the ground level.

BTW, the elevator isn't very big... Just 4 passengers or 300 kilograms.  I'm not sure how many kilograms I weigh.  Sometimes I try to be cute and punch all the buttons so we can stop at every floor.  It is a wonderful activity.  Since we have no TV it helps to kill the time.    Dad doesn't like the little game very much.

Our apartment is actually quite nice and totally furnished.  However it isn't furnished with anything I'd ever choose.  The landlord has fancy wine glasses, etc.  No one wears shoes in Turkish homes.  So we have a towel by the door so visitors can take off their shoes.  Dad keeps forgetting to take his off.  I tell him he is contaminating the whole house.  We have a king-size bed.  But it is hard as the marble floors.  We washed the sheets today and they look gross, very wrinkled.  I've already written a description of the so-called shower.  I crave a real bathtub and a real shower.  Can I survive 1 1/2 years taking spit bathes in a shower container?

I have only cooked a couple of meals because our kitchen is the warmest room in the house.  I don't plan to cook until September.  But we are having a guest tomorrow, so I'll have to come up with something.

We have an oven, of sorts.  I have no idea how it works.  It is a stove-top variety and the clock has been blinking since we moved in.  I've twisted a few dials, but nothing stops the blinking.  I assume I could bake something in it, but I have no idea how.

We have a dishwasher but all the symbols are in Turkish.  So I just punched a few the first time and the dishes all came out with the food baked on them.  So I tried again.  This time I could hear some water running and the dishes looked better.

Our washing machine is also a mystery.  I punch a few buttons, add some soap, and hope for the best.  So far it has churned out some clean clothes.  We have no dryer, so we hang the clothes all over the house.  But since the house is so warm, stuff dries very quickly. 

We have 3 AC units in the apartment.  But the AC only cools you if you are standing in front of it.  We have windows on 3 sides of the apt and you'd think there would be a cross-draft with the windows open.  Not so.  I work up a sweat just walking to the bathroom.

Two things are very frustrating for me.  The language... And that is a given.  But the other is getting things done.  It is a huge effort to do the simplest things.  We have to walk to the Post Office to pay one bill, we have to walk to a bank to pay another, and then there are other offices for other bills.  We have to pay our rent in US dollars.  So we have to change money, and change it back.  And we lose a bunch in fees.  WE brought some cash, but not nearly enough because we have not been reimbursed for anything yet that the church pays...  And we could do better with US dollars.  Someone is supposed to bring us a credit card next week.  Luckily our visa works indefinitely.  We've been applying for a bank account here... Visited 3 banks, finally found one to help us,  Visited them 3 times, gave them tons of information, and waited for our account.  Today we got a text saying they need more information.  And everything is like that.  We had a challenge figuring out how to order our 5 gallon water jugs.  And of course I wrote about being locked out. 

But we do enjoy being here and will enjoy it more when it cools.  It is supposed to cool in September.  We walk a lot and shop for little items a lot.  We are quite comfortable on the buses and metros now  We often take one and ride to the end of the line, just to see where it goes.  Dad does most of the grocery shopping.  He goes out each day and picks up items.  Walking along the streets is a little like Egypt, but more modern.  People are all out in the evenings.  Most young people are stylishly dressed.  There are a few traditional men and women.  And we see refugees here and there.  That is another sad story.  YOu might google "refugees in Turkey" to learn about the situation.  They are from Syria, trying to get to Greece.  

We go out to dinner every night.  We rarely spend more than $10.00  There are cafes EVERYWHERE.  They line all the streets.  We often get soup (lentil) and tonight I had a Greek Salad.  They vary quite a bit.

We think of you ALL the time and try to not even think about all the activities we are missing.  I can see the little faces and big faces of all the grandchildren and of Hannalynn.   I wonder how everyone is liking school this year.   Benson, I need a foot Massage!  I've walked millions of miles, and my feet need a break.  I need to do something with my hair, but I don't know where to go.

Your father has been a wonderful companion.  He is patient, and he is kind.  He doesn't nag at me to keep up with him.  During my earlier depression he just kept encouraging me.  He takes this assignment very seriously and is always trying to see if he can make a difference.  Right now it is very lonely for him to be the sole committed Priesthood holder in this area.  It is hard for me to see a vision of growth.  But who knows?

We pray for all of you, and love you very much.
Love,

Mother

#13 It Comes In Twos (By Grandpa)

Dear Family,

The past week was defined by two experiences, one with fleeing refugees and one with the process of becoming legal.

I haven’t ridden a bike for six weeks. And only three times during the two weeks before that. So my legs have lost a bunch of muscle mass (boohoo) and, when I climb stairs, I feel like I am on a steep mountain side. So I decided to take up early morning walking, just the thing for a drooping seventy-four year old man. I have needed to do something. Even though walking does nothing for a person’s cardio-vascular system, it is way better than doing nothing. For the past week, I have been walking for an hour each morning, heading south along the nicely arranged boardwalk along the bay. Most mornings I see dozens and dozens of mostly Syrian refugees sleeping on the grass or on benches or on the hard concrete surfaces that stretch along the bay. Most of these people are youngish men, in their late teens or twenties, who are desperate to reach European soil and to escape the horrors of war and sectarian attacks against Christians and certain kinds of Muslims. The closest European soil is on the Greek islands just off the Turkish western coastline. In viewing these people, especially the sleeping women and children, I feel tugs in my heart. For months I have read newspaper and internet accounts of such people getting on rickety boats and then drowning in the Mediterranean Sea when the boats sink. Hundreds of fleeing refugees have perished this year trying to make the Italian shore from North Africa. Then I read four days ago about a boat capsizing off the island of Cos, about a three-hour drive south of us. Three adults drowned, along with an infant. My heart twisted inside me. Why? Because I have now seen some of these people who are desperate for a better life. They were sleeping only a few feet from where I was walking. Usually, if some one of them is awake and sitting up, it is a woman, often tending to the needs of a child. To be sure, those whom I have seen in the early morning light have likely not gone south in the hope of crossing the 2.5 miles from the Turkish shore to the island of Cos. At least, I don’t think so. But they represent the thousands of people who are charging out of the chaos of the Middle East and North Africa and trying to find a way, any way, to Europe. I seem to sense their upwelling of hope for life on better terms. There they were, sleeping on the grass and benches with no place to go to the bathroom and no place to take a shower and little water and food. But they have come to the shores of Turkey and will continue to probe the paths that lead through the sea to something better. I know that some of them will die trying. And my heart aches for them and their families. Instead of praying for the comfort of family and friends who lose loved ones to death on the sea, I have begun to pray that these people — all of them — make it to a better life.

The second set of experiences began last Tuesday when a very nice woman came to begin the process of making us legal to stay in the country. She said that it was her second visit to the city. Neither she nor we knew the ropes. She has performed this service for others in other cities. But our town is new for her. And, of course, for us. The first day we made it to the correct tax office. There Grandma and I received our tax numbers. So far so good. We next had to open a bank account. We had noticed a couple of bank branches in our neighborhood. Off we went in a taxi to our neighborhood. We soon learned that these small branch offices cannot open accounts for foreigners. The woman had experience with another brand of bank (there must be almost 20 kinds of banks in the city). So we went to one of the branches. Ah, it seemed that the fellow there could help us. So we filled out a bunch of forms and he then ran into a wall. As of two weeks ago, his bank had been requiring foreigners to fill out a US tax form. So he printed out a form each for Grandma and me and asked us to come back the next morning at 10:30. (Aren’t you growing tired reading this?) Truth be told, the time required to fill out the tax form was about six minutes tops. We returned with our helper at 10:30 and were asked to sign and date more forms. We did. Then we were told to return two days later at the same time and all should be ok. The helper returned with us to our apartment to fill out still more forms on line so that we could make an appointment in the immigration office for interviews. Then she was gone. Friday we went to the bank for the third time, signed and dated some forms in spots we had missed earlier, and then were told that we would receive a telephone call in the afternoon telling us the number of our new bank account. The afternoon passed quietly. Silently. No call. Actually, we/I thought little about the telephone’s silence. (Really. Aren’t you growing tired of reading this?) Saturday morning we each received at text message in Turkish. We called the woman helper, who lives in another city far away. She called the number in the text message and then called us back. She was not allowed to get information for us. We were to call and, from the audio menu, select an English speaker to tell us the next step. We did so. The young lady in the call center found the text and said that we probably needed our temporary residence permit to finish opening the account. Aha! We were told that we needed the bank account in order to receive that permit. Someone seems to be mixed up. At least one of the someones is myself. Our helper is to call the bank Monday morning and learn what’s up. We may have gone through all of this activity last week for nothing. Except to get our tax numbers. We shall know the real stuff in less than twenty-four hours.

Our other option was to go through the agency that led our SV friends to our apartment back in July. Those guys do this all the time, for a fee of course. We might have been done weeks ago. But we wouldn’t be having this adventure. Stay tuned.

We just had a fellow from Australia who lived in South Africa for a number of years in our home for lunch. During our conversation we learned that he knew the late R.J. Snow who was one of my successors as director of the Jerusalem Center and was also a mission president in Johannesburg. He also knows well the suburb where Tanner is working (he called it "tough" because of the character of the Afrikaaners who live there) and was married to his now ex-wife in the Krugersdorp ward chapel. Small world indeed. He is divorced, jointly owns a business in Turkey, and has lost one of his sons to inactivity in the Church. We have been reaching out to branch members in a social way to try to engender a little unity and mutual respect among us. We took our dentist member and his older son and Turkish wife to dinner mid-week. I am convinced that each of these experiences allows us to grow a little closer to those for whom we bear some responsibility. A young woman investigator is coming into town today. We shall find a way to spend some time with her this next week.

Our numbers were smaller today -- four. The fellow who was to give a talk last week showed up this week without his children. He was disappointed that our interpreter was not there (she is at home in another city). With our encouragement, he gave his talk in Russian (not Turkish which is an acquired language for him) and the other three of us read through some of the general conference address by Pres. Uchdorf that his remarks were based on. All good. I didn't understand a word he said but I felt the good spirit that he brought to the meeting. And he accepted the assignment to give a talk three weeks hence. He is a children's program animator and he showed us the interview with him on Turkish TV this past week. Cool.

I love you and pray for you.

Grandpa 

#12 Lost 100 Pounds (By Grandma)

I have finally found a weight-loss program that really works. It doesn't involve special foods, pills, exercise, patches, creams, or work-out clothes.  It is called sweat.  If you live in a hot environment and all your sweat pores are in working shape you can shed many many pounds of excess fluid

The average adult female is 55% water.  So if you sweat a lot you can reduce a considerable amount of weight.  We have 5 gallon water jugs in our apartment. Each weighs about 20 pounds.  I figure that on a good day I can sweat out at least a 5 gallon jug of liquid.  If I do not drink much then  I am definitely ahead.

In order to sweat properly you need to stay away from any AC units.  You need to be sure you run your errands during the hottest part of the day.  And the brisker you walk the better the outflow. Be sure to take buses that are super crowded.  Crowds in themselves excite the sweat glands. When going out in the evening choose an outdoor cafe whose hot ovens are adjacent to the seating area.  

Weight loss from sweat isn't new or trendy, but it is better than a salt scrub and much cheaper.  

#11 Anniversary Musings (By Grandpa)

Dear Family,

Our anniversary came and went with little fanfare. We bought a small box of chocolate covered nuts to munch on last evening and 16 pieces of baklava to take to church meetings today so that we could spread the joy with the three people who came (besides ourselves; the father with two children did not come because of some problem with water in the apartment). We didn't buy cards for each other because we didn't know whether we would be purchasing a card of congratulations for getting out of a beauty salon with our hair intact. You know, the usual kind of card.

We will try to go to a nice place for dinner Monday evening. I was able to garner a few suggestions of nice restaurants from an acquaintance who lives and works in the area. Most were of places that specialize in fish dishes.

Because the fellow with the two children did not come to church services, and he had agreed to talk, I had to fill in. So immediately after the sacrament I pointed to the JST excerpts from Mark 14 that are printed in the back of the LDS edition of the Bible. I didn't have my copy of the Bible, but another fellow did. So I asked him to read the selections from Mark that have to do with the last supper. (It was the first time that he had ever known that JST materials were in the back of his Bible.) I made the point that, in all the accounts of the last supper, we miss the immediacy of the Passover experience when celebrants are as if they are in Egypt and are, at that moment, coming out of there with Moses. None of that feeling is in the gospels' accounts. But in the JST Mark passages, the immediacy is there. It just comes in the form of Jesus asking his apostles to think of their time with him that night the next time they perform the sacrament ordinance. And the next time. And the next time. They will all be as if they are back with him in the upper room, celebrating the transformation of the Passover into the sacrament. So too, we might think of being in that room with the Savior as we partake of the sacrament each Sunday.

Here are some of my musings on our anniversary. They are kind of long. Happy reading!

***

It started in the MTC. Our togetherness that is. We began to ask whether one of us should leave a room without the other. Or step inside the lunch room without the other. We were still pretty independent at that point. So if one us had to go in a different direction, we did not insist that the other go along. But the question of togetherness was always lurking around the corner. There were times, of course, during our training that the Elders in our group were separated from the Sisters. But those training sessions did not raise the togetherness question. But the idea of serving a mission with one another did.

The issue of togetherness really arose the day after our arrival in the country. One of the SVs volunteered to take us to an interesting part of town where the old mosques and churches are located. Because the SV guide was a female, Gayle couldn’t very well opt out and send me forth. So she went. And had a smashing good time, with the emphasis on "smashing." She was completely tuckered out by the time we sat down on a boat for a ride up the Bosphorus. After that ride, and a metro ride back to the general neighborhood where we were staying, we still had to walk a fair distance to reach the apartment. Although I thought at the time that this was a good way to keep us from just wandering around in the fog of jet lag, it involved a tremendous effort just to make it through such a day. And there was no way that she could go off to do something by herself and I by myself. After all, we were in a totally strange city that we had visited twenty-seven years earlier with children. And we needed each other so that we could get lost together. Or some such thing.

The cruncher came almost a week later on the day we moved into our apartment. At the end of a long day, we were finally alone together with the need to clean ourselves up and go out to meet one of the SVs for dinner at a place a mile away via the only route that we knew to that point. We had to walk the whole distance together, at Gayle’s speed. She was exhausted. So we didn’t go fast. That walk, to the restaurant and back, was a defining moment for me. I knew that I couldn’t just set the pace or walk off by myself. We had to stay together. She was not going to window shop by herself at her pace and I was not going to go off to do something else by myself. It was a matter of going together or not at all.

For much of our married life, we had moved rather independently of each other. And that situation became even more pronounced after our children left home. We owned two cars, except when we owned three. That meant she could go where she needed to go without involving me in the least in her activities. I could do the same. When I went to clean the church building with members of the high priests group, she did not tag along. On the contrary, she wanted no part of that action. When she had a church meeting, I didn’t go with her. And so forth and so on.

Now, what I find myself doing much of the time is walking behind Grandma. This action serves two purposes. First, the walkways along the streets are usually narrow between the cars (parked or moving) and the buildings and fenced off areas. So it is difficult to walk side by side. Second, she walks more slowly than most of the other walkers on the sidewalks. And walking behind her serves as a buffer to on-coming foot traffic from our rear. It does me little good to walk in front of her. If I do, I find myself stopping constantly to allow her to catch up. And she has ideas about what she wants to see and write down (she carries a pen and paper to write Turkish words that interest her). So I walk behind her at her moderate to slow pace, something that I have done only rarely in our married life. This pattern is now my constant companion, to borrow an expression, an aspect that has surprised me. And made me change my thinking.

The only times that we can really walk together are when we are in one of the city’s pedestrian malls or the boardwalk along the bay where people walk at varying speeds. Even then, we are constantly watching out that we don’t bump into people or people don’t bump into us. Walking together always means that we are walking at a speed slower than the other foot traffic around us. I have occasionally tried to speed up our pace as we walk arm in arm. My attempts have failed. Grandma has her own pace and that’s that.

Very occasionally Grandma walks as she used to walk, setting off like a house on fire. But then she pays for it big time. The heat and humidity sap her energy for the rest of the day. She recovers best in the presence of one of our air conditioners.

* * *

Almost every time Grandma and I go somewhere, we find ourselves in a big conversation about the best way to go. And since the number of streets are seemingly endless around here, going this way and that, a case can be made for almost any direction and any street. And this conversation will happen several times a day. The only times we ever used to get in such discussions back home was when she would be driving the two of us on a short trip, say, to Lehi. But that was it. Once or twice in a week. Now, the conversations just keep coming and coming, obviously with no end in sight. At least not for another sixteen months or so. I can hardly wait — for more conversations of course (what were you thinking?).

* * *

The upshot is that our lives together have taken a big turn. I am not sure which way all this will lead. But togetherness is the new watchword, whatever consequences may come. I have decided that, in the end, in contrast other experiences, all this has endeared Grandma to me even more. So there.

I love you and pray for each of you.

Grandpa Brown

#10 I Guess I'm Just Lucky (By Grandma)

We feel it is part of our assignment to get out and about daily.  As I mentioned that involves lots of walking and taking public transport.  You can purchase a metro card that will allow you to travel millions of miles in our city that is about as big as the state of Utah with a much denser population.

Last evening we began a metro adventure to the outskirts.  We've learned how to swipe cards, go through turnstiles, and scramble for seats while madly gripping the handrails so we don't fall with the fits and starts of the bus or train.    

Things went well. We viewed the coastline as we rode along.  Some of it the trip was underground and we viewed dark walls of the tunnels.  We arrived at our destination. We shopped a little and found a place to eat.  I ate a sort of grilled cheese sandwich and dad had a Greek salad that didn't resemble any we'd ever seen.  

We made our way back to the metro for our return trip.  Finally boarded, and found 2 seats together. I quickly plopped down.  And just as quickly plopped back up.  The seat was soaking wet.  My bottom was soaking wet.  Gross, gross, gross!  I had no idea what the liquid was.  But I could imagine.  I sat back down in the adjacent seat.  Many riders motioned to that seat and wanted to sit there.  I pointed to the wet spot and pantomimed "don't sit there".  No one did.  

We returned to our apartment and I quickly shed my clothing and began a thorough scrubbing.  At least I was wearing black pants.

#9 Busses (By Grandpa)

Grandchildren,

On Wednesday, Grandma found a little restaurant online that featured reasonable prices and authentic cuisine. It was in a part of town that requires a bus ride. So at six o’clock, we went to the closest bus stop. A big bunch of people were standing there. A bus came (not our number) and a few people got on and went off to who knows where. We waited. We waited. About 6:35 our bus number came. Completely packed. Not a cubic inch of space was available. Another bus with our number came and we clamored on. It was a long ride to the next bus stop and we thought that we should have gotten off. But we held on to the rails and went to the next stop. We made our way into the small streets of the town and Grandma pulled out a piece of paper with the name of the restaurant and put it in front of a young fellow standing with a bunch of other guys. He didn’t know the place but helpfully walked over to someone who obviously knew the neighborhood because he was selling stuff from a cart. The second fellow pointed to the restaurant which was in the next building. Hooray! We had struck pay dirt. Or so it seemed.

We went in. No AC. The windows were all standing open to let in the moderate breeze. Lesson one. We were shown to a booth of sorts. A styrofoam cup with cigarettes and other goodies stuck in water was leaking onto the table. I pointed to it. The young fellow grabbed a rag of sorts and proceeded to wipe the special water all over the table as if he were cleaning it. Lesson two. Then he brought a menu. We decided what we wanted. The young waiter recommended a dish to be shared by two people. It was not the reasonable price that Grandma had found advertised. But it looked interesting and had a lot of nice items pictured in the menu. So we agreed to order it. Soon another young fellow approached with a couple of moderate sized salads. I thought that for the price we were paying, we each rated a salad. Not so. He set one in front of us and then pulled the other one back and took it to another table. Lesson three. After a fairly long wait, our main course showed up along with the drinks we ordered. They were extra. The main dish was covered by thin shami bread pieces, effectively hiding it. We took off the bread and looked at a collection of grilled meats. The most distinctive characteristic about them was that they were mostly well cooked, so cooked that we had a hard time pulling them off the small sticks that they had been wrapped around and then chewing them. Crunchy, crunchy. We didn’t ask for dessert. We felt we had been snookered.

Much of the week we went off on buses just to see where they would take us. Some seemed promising, at least at first. Our biggest adventure came yesterday. We went off to find IKEA, the Swedish home furnishings giant of a store. We went there with an SV the first Monday in town after getting into our apartment. But he had a rental car which made the trip much easier. Since that day, reaching the store has seemed like a huge impossibility for us. Grandma googled how long it would take to walk to the store from our place and the answer was two hours. By a good stroke, we noticed on Friday that bus no. 63, which runs reasonably close to us, has an electronic sign saying that it goes to Bornova city center. Since IKEA is in Bornova, we thought that the city center couldn't be too far from the store. I mean, how big can a city be? But when we reached the place where bus 63 should have turned right (south) to go to the area of the store, it turned left (north). And then kept going in a mad dash, farther north and then a long way east. I said to Grandma, "I have a funny feeling about this trip." But rather than abandon our enterprise, Grandma said, "Let's just see where this bus goes." We did. And we ended far from IKEA. But the story has a good ending (I'm tipping my hat here).

After we climbed off the bus, Grandma spotted a Metro sign, a very good omen. But where might the Metro go that would be helpful? Grandma's googling had shown the store and a Metro station to be about a mile from one another. But which station? Then, just like that, two young women appeared in front of us walking to the Metro station. I stopped them and said "IKEA." Then I made a gesture to indicate a big place. They were puzzled at first; then, after I repeated the name, they understood. They motioned for us to follow them into the Metro station (it was underground). Naturally, we did. What did you expect? That we would refuse? We sat down on a seat opposite these young women and another young woman who appeared to be with her grandfather spoke to us in English saying that IKEA was at the second stop. At the second stop, we got off. It was as if these young women had been put in those places just for us. But I don't want to claim too much. Now what to do? Upon exiting the place, I spotted three young people looking at their phones. I walked up to them and said (again) "IKEA." One of them spoke pretty good English and led us to the street and then pointed while giving us directions to a traffic circle where we were to turn right. His directions actually worked. We finally found ourselves on a completely deserted street except for a stylishly dressed woman who was the only person whom we could see walking along that street. Again, I said "IKEA." She spoke English. She told us what to do next to reach the store. Sure enough, we soon spotted it. I estimate that we had walked about three quarters of a mile from the Metro to IKEA. But that beats the two hours that Grandma's googling discovered. Naturally, we came home with stuff, riding first the Metro and then, after a short walk, the bus.

While I was in a state of reverie about our triumph in reaching IKEA and about Parker's new assignment, I locked us out of our apartment last evening. But that's another story that Grandma may tell.

I hope and trust that you are well. I pray for you.

Grandpa

#8 Lock Smith (By Grandma)

I know you are all very excited to hear about our Saturday night here.  As I mentioned previously we usually go out to dinner but not until about 8:00.  It is too hot earlier.  So we'd been putting off our hunger pains and finally decided to venture out.  I always carry my purse with keys attached. Dad always puts his in his pocket.  I can tell you already know where this is going.  

So as the door closed we noticed dad didn't have his keys.  We were relieved because trusty me had hers.  So we tried to open the door and it wouldn't open.  We twisted, turned, pushed removed and reinserted the key.  Nothing.  A quick prayer and still nothing.  How can you be locked out of your apartment in Turkey?  And BTW the cell phones were in the apartment.  

We thought of calling the apartment manger but we didn't have her phone number and being Saturday evening she wouldn't be there anyway.

So we went down to the street.  There is shop below us.  We are level 4 and the shop is ground level.  The shop was still open. We tried to explain out plight.  Someone in the shop spoke a little English and thought we just didn't know how to open our apartment.  So he came back upstairs with us and tried.  No luck.  I tried to explain that we needed a locksmith.  After several minutes of baffled looks and trying to understand he put us on a phone to someone who spoke a little more English.....but not much.  I was finally able to type out "lock smith" in google translate and they knew what I needed.  So they made some more phone calls and put a man on the phone who said he'd be there in 1/2 hour.  Then they closed up shop and drove away.

Dad and I sat on the curb wondering if it would be our place of residence until Monday morning.  But along came a locksmith (or criminal) on a bike with a black box.  We led him up to our apartment, he swiped some sort of wedge along the doorframe and it flew open in 2 seconds.  We would have paid him the moon.  He only charged us 50 Lira  which is less than $20.00.  

When we entered the apartment we could see dad's key in the keyhole inside the apt.  That is why my key wouldn't unlock it from the outside.  Our door is pretty safe.  It takes five turns from 2 keys to open it.  But only one swipe from a "locksmith". 

We celebrated by feasting again a Burger King. 

Please thank everyone you know who help provide for the meetings you attend.  We get to do all of it.  Dad and I have to take everything for the Meeting in the hotel.  This means sacrament bread, water, cups, cloth, etc.  in addition we have to print copies of hymns in Turkish and English.  We have to take our electronic devices to play music or conference talks.  And this week we had to take cookies because the members like to be fed.  And we need some paper and pencils and laptop. We carry all this stuff and walk about 1 mile.  And it is hot.

But we are surviving. This week we rode the metro, the buses, a taxi and a ferry.  And we still walked 1,000's of miles.  

Love you all,

Mother

#7 Bringing up the Numbers (By Grandpa

BRINGING UP THE NUMBERS (From Grandpa)

Dear Grandchildren,

In our services yesterday, our numbers jumped to eight. Imagine. A 267% increase from last week’s three attenders. What unit wouldn’t want that kind of spike? One of the persons who came is a forty-four year old woman from Mongolia who has been in the country for the last eight years. She joined in 1988 and could remember singing "I Am a Child of God" when we sang it together today. The YVs in Istanbul thought they had a live contact in her. But she turns out to be a member. When she came to pursue a masters and doctors degrees, she said, she could not find the Church. So she attended a different faith on and off for a year, then switched. Finally, she found us online. She speaks Mongolian and Turkish and understands Russian. We think that she will be a wonderful addition to our numbers.

A fellow brought his two children this morning. The children made Grandma think of her own grandchildren and she became a bit emotional. They are twelve and ten and both speak four languages (Russian, Azerbaijani, Ukrainian, and Turkish). When we blessed the sacrament, the dad knew exactly what to do. He couldn’t find the prayer on the water in Russian, so Grandma found it in Turkish and he was fine.

As you might guess, our service was mostly in English and Turkish. Fortunately, one of the young women in attendance is a church member who is fluent in both Turkish and English. I had called her yesterday to ask her to interpret if needed. Her younger sister is the investigator who is very warm about joining and attended last week.

Actually, we met the two sisters last Wednesday afternoon. They came by the Metro from their uncle’s apartment, where they have been staying, and then walked almost a mile to us in the afternoon heat. We treated them to dinner at a seaside restaurant after our meeting. They had expressed a desire to another SV to learn more about forgiveness and repentance. So we talked, but mostly about forgiveness. I taught them that there are two principles. First, heaven where God lives is a holy place. Second, we as humans are unholy and can do only a limited amount to change that condition. Therefore, we need someone who can create a bridge between us and God. That bridge builder is Jesus whose suffering for our sins and whose resurrection offered forgiveness for sins and overcame death so that we can go back to God.

Before we came here, one of our neighbors—Jeneal Petersen—rang our doorbell twice and forced me out of my stupor or whatever I was in at the moment. She had in hand the name of a woman currently living in Turkey who had lived in Jeneal’s home while she attended school. Jeneal has a hard time getting around these days, so her big effort was not lost on me. The second time she came to the door, she left a couple of papers with information about this woman. I brought them in my carry-on bag and, for a week, had been pushing them from one side of the living room table to the other, promising myself each time I touched the papers that I would call the woman. She teaches at a university somewhat near Istanbul and is nowhere near us. So I saw no urgent reason to call her. But Friday I finally picked up the two papers, found the woman’s mobile phone number, and called. After she said hello, I wasn’t sure a couple of times that she was still with me. When we met later, she said that she thought my call was a joke and wondered whether to hang up. After she connected me in her head to Jeneal, she became very friendly and said that she was in town. That was a happy surprise. In Jeneal’s papers, there was something about an uncle living here. The woman gave me her email address and I said that I would write her. I did so immediately. She also said that she would try to meet us that afternoon. In an email reply, she suggested a café and a time where we might meet. It was not far from our apartment. So out we went into the afternoon sun and found her and her uncle sitting at an outside table (in the shade, of course). I knew the inside of the restaurant was cool but they seemed content to sit outside. So we sat outside. In the heat. And made friends with her and her uncle. She wanted to know as much as possible about Jeneal and her health and so on. As it turned out, she was in town only until the next day when a relative was being married. After that, she was headed for the south coast for a vacation with her mother before returning to work. So we caught her in the one window that came open. Serendipity? Maybe.

We have spent virtually every evening eating in a restaurant. We have learned that some restaurants are good and some not so good. One evening we went across the bay on a ferry for dinner at a place we found a couple of days earlier when we went exploring. That evening we walked all along the city’s main drag only to learn that most of the establishments were pubs and bars. No food places. So we retreated to this little café. We were watching our time because a person can get on a ferry or Metro within 90 minutes of the beginning of the first ride and not have to pay extra for the second ride. We arrived back at the ferry terminal on time, but the next ferry to our part of town was leaving an hour later. So we did what any reasonable people would do. We boarded an earlier ferry and took our chances with a much greater distance to go after landing. After landing (we knew where we were and how far we had to go to return to the apartment), there was a lot of talk between Grandma and me about how to get home at 9:45 at night. I didn’t want to walk. So the key was to find a taxi. We found one after walking about a quarter mile. I had memorized the number of our street in Turkish and repeated it to the cabbie. He seemed to understand. You don’t know how good it felt to sit in a car seat, moving effortlessly a couple of feet above the ground, and not have to walk all that way. The fare was less than three dollars. Happiness.

I love you and pray for each of you.

Grandpa

PS.  Every morning I arise about six and open the windows in our apartment. The inside is still usually pretty warm, so a little outside air typically is good for a slight cool down. Almost never does a breeze blow. The slightly cooler air just seeps slowly into the apartment. Three days ago, a rather stiff breeze was blowing. So I was happy for the movement of the air throughout the apartment. I don't know whether we were cooler, but the moving air made the place more pleasant. Until. Until a gust caught a copy of a painting that was leaning against the wall and sent it crashing to the floor. The painting was not hurt. But on its way to the floor, it caught a vase that was sitting just below it on a small desk and hurled it to the floor. The vase did not survive. The shattered glass seemed to go everywhere. Your mother insisted that I put something on my feet. For the next hour, with your mother's help, I was sweeping and mopping the floor on my hands and knees. Obviously, the whole thing kept me humble. As it should be.

I love you and pray for you.

#6 Censored and Uncensored (By Grandma)

 Hi from our new home.  We are enjoying our morning in our apartment.  It is only 87 degrees inside.  The temperature will rise momentarily and then we will swelter profusely for the rest of the day.

 I was awakened by a big crash coming from the living room.  I didn't even want to know what happened so I took my time venturing into the living room.  It appears that a big heavy vase, or vahze, smashed on the marble floor.  Tiny splinters of glass were scattered near and far.  They even sparkled in the sunlight.  It was a lovely sight!

 It is not proper to wear shoes in Turkish homes.  Julianne would love it.  So the first thing we did was put on shoes to see how we could begin the clean-up of the hazard area.  Dad got a broom, I found some tape to pick up tiny fragments.  The clean-up process took about 1/2 hour... Sweeping, wiping, and vacuuming.  In the process I have a puncture wound that required a bandage.  I would say stitches if that would net me more sympathy, but it was remedied by a bandaid.

 Evidently dad bumped the vase when he was trying to open a window.  We have no idea what the value of the vase is.  It is probably a Ming original.  We are responsible for every item in this rental.  With marble floors the life expectancy of glass items is short.

We seem to have the same delicious breakfast each morning.  Yogurt, a cut-up fruit (banana or peach) with some musli (granola) on top.  We make do for lunch with something and we go out for dinner.  Most dinners are under $10.00 combined for both of us.  We are beginning to get some groceries.  Hamburger is non-existent.  Beef bits are very expensive.  Chicken is the cheapest meat and I bought a chicken yesterday.  But it is too hot to cook it.  And as I've already mentioned we also have to buy water for all our drinking needs.

We appreciate your words of support.  I thought this would be easier.  Your father seems to be a brick and plods forward with optimism.  I haven't caught up with him yet.  But I did help him pick up the glass this morning and I put yogurt in his bowl. So I guess I'm a help-mate.  I love you all!

 Mom