Dreaming of a True Love's Kiss

Life is real, very real. When you set sail with romantic notions, it rarely fails to disappoint you. It involves potholes, torn-up suitcases, complicated cell phone packages, laundry detergents that stain, rusty knives that break skin when chopping scallions, repetitive and monotonous tasks of everyday life such as bathing, tidying up, doing dishes, washing hands over and over and over again.

Yet in the midst of it all, dreams do really come true.

Mom left this afternoon. The kid and I walked to the nearest crosswalk after getting her into a cab for the trip to the airport, took a cab to Barbaros Blvd. and had iced coffee and orange juice with chocolate cake at Starbucks. After four days of exposure, she said her first full Turkish sentence: "Bizim evin orada Starbucks bar." There's a Starbucks by our house. Go figure. When asked about spending her days with me she said, "I think it's marbleous!!!" She got up from her seat, came around the table and gave me the tightest hug, the wettest kiss. I thought that was pretty marbleous.

Blues in the Night

Confession #8: I wasn't one hundred percent sure that I was ready when I said yes to this cross-continent move.

I don't know if I could have ever been ready if given the opportunity to ponder. I lived abroad for almost sixteen years; almost half of my life. The uncomfortable truth is, even though I'm back where I started, I'm no longer from here.

So needless to say, the first day and a half was hard. The goodbyes were hurried, last minutes of packing careless and unfinished. There was no time to reflect, take in the amazing view of the Hudson River, raise a glass to a life well lived, toast friends who became family. The trip was painless, even with thirteen suitcases, the arrival smooth. But somehow it doesn't fit.

I feel very much like an accessory in my own life right now: nice to have but not essential. My husband is happy to have his family with him but continues to live the life he set up for himself in the past year. My mother, who had come to New York to help out, is back home. My daughter is high on daddy's affection and the ability to stay up until midnight without major drama from mama. Mama is singing the blues.

The Witching Hour

The time stamp says it all. Eight suitcases packed, two to go. I have to make my third trip to Century 21 in the morning. I mean in about three hours. I'm sitting on the floor leaning against a wall as I type this. In front of me is an empty living room minus the eight red suitcases lined up like soldiers in front of the window. The kid is sleeping on the smelly couch. She couldn't stay up past ten o'clock tonight. I should have bought her the triple latte at Starbucks instead of the hot chocolate this afternoon. She could have packed a few more toys herself!

The famous walk-in closet once filled with seventy-four boxes is now filled with cast-offs the nanny will probably take home tomorrow. Why would anyone want the smelly pillows from the smelly couch is beyond me.

Tonight is my last night in New York as a New Yorker. Like Z said, from now on we'll be tourists when we visit. At least for a while (I keep telling myself.) Maybe it's only fitting that I stay up all night just once in the city that never sleeps.

A New Hope

It's the last hour of the day. I'm cuddled in bed with my daughter who's watching Star Wars Episode IV on the portable DVD player for the third time since yesterday. As I type, she's telling me how Han and Luke put on Stormtrooper uniforms and went under cover in order to save Leia. I'm pretending to listen. Star Wars bores me to death. I was happily enjoying a pinkalicious motherhood worrying more about how we would get the fragile dollhouse to our new home than learning the difference between a wookie and a droid.

She shouldn't even be up at this hour. Of course I know that. I also know that I shouldn't have told the nanny she could have all our furniture and that it was fine if she took it all before we left. So with five more days to go, we're left with a blow-up mattress on loan from a neighbor and an old smelly couch the nanny doesn't want. The almost-empty apartment feels a lot roomier than it did these past six years. I'm tempted to swear off ever setting foot into a furniture store. The kid likes it too, finding the obstacle-free terrain an excellent practice speedway to test the new scooter. She definitely has the best outlook on life. It doesn't even bother her when the biggest Star Wars fanatic of the gang tells her dad she's smarter than this one because ours doesn't believe that Star Wars is real. When I ask her if the comments bother her, she simply says, "No, her dad just agrees to make her happy. He knows it's not real." Nevertheless, we're watching Princess Leia get rescued for the third time. "I don't know who you are or where you came from. From now on, you do as I tell you. OK?"

Despite the squeeky droid chatter coming from the bed, I'm in awe of the calm that surrounds me. Today was my last day at work. The last swipe at security, the last lunch at the cafeteria (I think I still have three dollars and two cents left on my i.d. card), the last paycheck. They shut off my cell phone service. I turned in my Treo. One last hug, one last kiss, one last elevator ride and I didn't even look back. I meant to get a few pictures today, maybe even a few shots of Times Square and the building. It didn't happen. I'm not surprised, having lived the last two weeks in a hamster wheel. Overscheduling has become as habitual as brushing my teeth over the years; a tightly-knit calendar was essential for a successful balancing act. My TO DO LIST demands that I pencil in "Take photos at work!!" with an empty checkmark box next to it. It's my own damn fault that I didn't. Words will have to suffice: It was an extremely windy yet sunny Spring day in New York. The tourists in Times Square were fooled into jean jackets by the temperature forecasts and froze their butts off, while the natives bundled up in cashmere scarves having listened to the wind advisory. I got a haircut during lunch and picked up my boots from the shoe repair guys on 39th street. At work, we toasted my departure with VC and chocolate-covered strawberries. I left shortly after 6 pm and didn't look back.

Life in the Small

When you start seeing more empty jars of Stridex and Corona Light collect in the shared recycling bin than pricey bottles of red wine, you know it's time to move out.

Confession #7: I was the one who called the cops shortly after 1 am last Saturday.

The neighbors were playing loud music and singing along. Loudly. And they were drunk. And several couples were having the drunken hook-up conversation in our shared hallway, steps from my door. Did I say they were loud? I couldn't sleep. Granted I was happily updating my wish list on Amazon but still. I couldn't sleep. I called my husband in Dubai. I told him I was going to call the cops. He was rushing into a meeting, at ten in the morning his time (they work on Sundays in Dubai,) so hurriedly said, "you should honey." So I did. I called the cops on a newly married couple who had friends over for a Saturday night party.

I remember such a party that we hosted as newlyweds in September 2000. We played loud music. Really loud music. My husband showed unspeakable movies on the television "as background" to the loud music we were playing. I was amazed that we were able to fit more than fifty people into our tiny one bedroom. People had hook-up conversations in the hallways. They invaded the rooftop and released the balloons I had gotten for my birthday. We were drunk; very drunk but had the time of our lives that night. The clean up next day required more than one trip to the shared recycling bin.

So much has changed in seven years, hasn't it? Does it for everyone? Raising a five year-old, I feel like I have been able to maintain my childhood perspective and therefore, am a better mother for it. So how come I can't maintain the perspective of a twentysomething? How come I can't tolerate a bunch of twenty-five year olds who are trying to have fun in the only way they know how to have fun?

One of the dictionary meanings of perspective is the ability to perceive things in their comparative importance. This is exactly the kind of perspective I seem to have lost in the last ten years. And this is exactly the kind of perspective I'll be chasing across the Atlantic and through the twisted, topsy-turvy streets of Istanbul.

As part of an insider compliment, a friend recently called what I write about "life in the small." Aha! That is exactly the kind of life I'm looking for. Comparatively speaking, small is the new big. Don't you think?