The End

Tomorrow I will turn 34. This post will be the last one for this blog. It's 6:30 am. It might take me all day to say the things I want to say before I go.

Or it might just be a five sentence post.

Who am I kidding? It will take me all day, even if it's not a very long post. Even if I don't get to say everything I want to say.

While I let the unknown take over for a little while there, I'm beginning to feel like I'm on my way back to the comforts of a well-designed life. If you had told me a year ago that I would be living outside of Istanbul in an idyllic suburb and working part-time as a preschool teacher and writing in my free time and lining my eyes with black eyeliner and wearing blush almost every day (more makeup than I wore during my days in sales!!), I would look at you with the blank stare I used to give my mother whenever she interrupted a marathon reading session.

So the unknown gave me a life I didn't imagine (I'm still imagining a bookstore in Bodrum where you can drink coffee and red wine, smoke cigarettes and eat chocolate chip/oatmeal bars all day.) Nevertheless, I'm living it and despite the sporadic hairloss, I'm content.

I'll be a novice preschool teacher for a while, a struggling writer, a not-so-Martha Stewart housewife who forgets to season, a not-so-hot wife who hates the gym, a not-so there daughter who doesn't call or a friend who doesn't remember birthdays.

However, while I'm living my not-so-perfect life, I will aim to notice people's eye color, the rhythm of their speech, the fragrance of each morning, the intensity of each raindrop and even whether I rest my wet umbrella to the right or left of my shoes before I enter the apartment.

In Eat Less Cottage Cheese and More Ice Cream, American humorist Erma Bombeck reflects: "If I had my life to live over again I would have talked less and listened more. But mostly, given another shot at life, I would seize every minute of it...look at it and really see it...try it on...live it...really exhaust it...and never give that minute back until there was nothing left of it."

So that's my goal. Whatever crisis life throws my way, the goal is to muddle through it in the same way I tackled this past year: being more aware, more engaged, more in-touch.

The final thought of the day was actually posted by Paulo Cuelho on his blog earlier today:

The Sufi tradition tells the story of a king who was surrounded by wise men. One morning, as they talked, the king was quieter than usual.

"What is wrong, Your Highness?" - asked one of the wise men.

"I’m confused," replied the king. "At times I am overcome by melancholy, and feel powerless to fulfill my duties. At others, I am dizzy with all power I have. I’d like a talisman to help me be at peace with myself."

The wise men - surprised by such a request - spent long months in discussion. In the end, they went to the king with a gift.

"We have engraved magic words on the talisman. Read them out loud whenever you are too confident, or very sad," they said.

The king looked at the object he had ordered. It was a simple silver and gold ring, but with an inscription:

"This will pass."

So it will.

The Evil That is Stress

It's a fairly stress-free Sunday morning. I'm on my third cup of coffee so the energy level is optimum. My brother (who's visiting from Sydney) and the husband are enjoying a mutually-egotistical photo session fueled by the Rolling Stones' Sympathy for the Devil. "Please allow me to introduce myself," he sings as my rock stars, desperately trying to restrain their joyful giggles. Cool guys don't smile, let alone giggle. Each is really happy that he found someone to indulge his individual desire to capture the greatness on camera. I'm thrilled to have been spared the torture. "Yes, husband. You're so hot, husband."

I say stress-free but recently I realized that I have the worst kind of stress. It's the kind that hides from all the self-analysis, the kind that quietly lurks in the frustrations of every day life such as trying to make it somewhere on time or keeping a clean house or cooking a well-balanced meal for the kid. You look at me and you see a laid-back mom, a good wife, a supportive friend, a smart colleague. It's an illusion. I'm a stressed-out control-freak. The proof is in the hair.

For about seven years now I've suffered from alopecia areata, periodically losing my hair in quarter-sized patches. It takes a while but the hair always grows back though in completely white baby strands. The hair loss is possibly an autoimmune reaction, researchers say, and most likely hereditary. The same researchers claim there has been no proven link between stress and alopecia, yet I'm convinced my shedding sessions are closely related to life's little bumps and bruises. I'm having a particularly stubborn attack these days and if you asked me how I'm feeling, I would say "I'm feeling happy with absolutely no real stress in my life!"

(Does the fact that I was interrupted twelve times while writing this post constitute 'real stress'?)

Do Your Ears Hang Low?

Today I met the kids. Nine of the ten two year olds in my class showed up for orientation. Six boys and three girls. We had two criers, two clingers, a biter and two hair pullers. Despite the chaos, it was a pretty good morning. They all went home with a crown they made at school and I came home after lunch completely spent.

So that's the news. I meant to have a relaxing summer and take my time researching what's next. Apparently I was meant to be a preschool teacher.

From Birds Without Wings

"There comes a point in life where each one of us who survives begins to feel like a ghost that has forgotten to die at the right time, and certainly most of us were more amusing when we were young. It seems that age folds the heart in on itself. Some of us walk detached, dreaming on the past, and some of us realise that we have lost the trick of standing in the sun. For many of us the thought of the future is a cause for irritation rather than optimism, as if we have had enough of new things, and wish only for the long sleep that rounds the edges of our lives. I feel this weariness myself."

Well, I don't but this--"It seems that age folds the heart in on itself."-- is so beautifully written that I thought I'd share.

I just started reading Birds Without Wings by Louis de Bernieres. A major love affair is peaking its all-consuming head from behind the first page.

Modern Life

It's a hot summer day in Istanbul and I wish it were a hot summer day in New York. I'm laptopping it on the balcony and The New York Times is killing me! Carefree shopping stories with virgin interior decorators, Bill Cunningham on scarf-wearers in August, "news" of restaurants in Beijing being encouraged to take dog off their menus during the Olympics (not hot dogs but actual dog meat...yuck!). I remember what summers were like in an office -- arriving late, leaving early, looking busy while reading the paper filled with such carefree stories, sneaking out for venti iced coffees with sweaty cups. Arriving home with hours to spare before the sun went down, we would enjoy drinks on the rooftop, walks along the Hudson, ice cream at the gelato place in the WFC.

Yesterday, we watched home videos of the kid when she was two. There was one particular wrestling session at the park that made me nostalgic for what we had there. Then again both the husband and I look like crap in the video (compared with what we look like now) and I remember how tired I always was from running both the job and the household. Losing the afternoon to gems like Modern Love was never an option when we lived in New York.

The husband has been traveling for work to exotic locales like Georgia, Moldova and Kazakhstan so I decided to spend a few days "camping" with his relatives down south. We just got back. Unfortunately there are very few pictures to share as both digital cameras are missing their battery chargers. I did bring back a great tan and five pounds though. That'll hold me off for a while.

Whatever

Today, I got fired for the first time in my life. I'll quote from the four-sentence email: "It seems, in light of our expanding website, that we are letting go of all our freelance writers and have instead hired an additional person in house. Sad." Yes, it was an email. Understandably, my editor wished to save the $5.00 she might have spent on the international phone call in order to pay the in-house writer she hired. I'm guessing this is the reality of a freelance writer and I have no choice but to get used to it.

Considering the day I've had, the news might have been the last straw. Surprisingly, it wasn't. I am able to hold it together.

To a Life Short-Lived

In the headlines today is Radovan Karadzic, former leader of the Bosnian Serbs and president of the Serbian Republic in the early 1990s. He was captured in Belgrade yesterday, having spent 12 years in semi-hiding under a false identity, and is expected to face trial in The Hague. Karadzic was once heard saying the war against the Bosnian Muslims was not "ethnic cleansing" but "an opportunity for them to go live with other Muslims, away from the Serbs."

What's missing from the news, of course, is stories of war-torn families whose lives were forever altered during the war in Bosnia. Whether Muslims or Christians, many have lost their brothers, sisters, fathers, homes, land and other possessions, and still overcame unfathomable obstacles while creating new lives for themselves.

A friend, Katerina Brdjanovic was one such young woman. I met her through a friend while I was at Mount Holyoke and immediately came to think of her as a sister. She was young, beautiful, very smart, very kind, extremely good with children, selfless and truly appreciative of the new opportunities she was being given in her new life. She had lost her brother to the war in Bosnia and her father to diabetes when she arrived in the U.S. to finish high school at the Presentation of Mary Academy in Methuen, Massachusetts. I met her in 1997, her first year in the States, and even drove up from New York to attend her graduation party one night, only to drive back the next morning, not an easy task for me considering how I drive. Such was the love and generosity she inspired in others. She continued her education at Saint Anselm College, with a scholarship of course, and spent her summers working at orphanages in Romania and serving as a translator for Nobody's Children, a non-profit organization responsible for her new and wonderful life in the U.S.

Tomorrow is the eighth anniversary of Katerina's death from a freaky car accident in Croatia at the age of 20. After she died, her host mother gave Katerina's precious teddy bear to me. I don't know why, as I'm pretty sure she wasn't aware of my carefully hidden teddy bear collection or my secret obsession for second-hand toys. She said she wanted to give me something to remember her by. I packed the bear in a closet and moved it three times over the years until it was time to start packing for Turkey. Even with a daughter who's truly obssessed with stuffed animals, I could never bring myself to hold or even look at Katerina's teddy so it stayed in the dark for almost eight years. It just made me too sad to think of the life that was not even a quarter-lived and had such promise.

So the bear found a new home in a Baptist Church Sunday school in Brooklyn shortly before the seventy-four boxes got packed and shipped to Turkey. I thought I would keep it a secret forever, that I couldn't bare to keep it any longer and had to give it away.

Yet here we are, confession #who cares, I'm admitting the atrocities committed against Katerina's teddy bear. (As you can see, I never needed it to keep remembering that amazing young woman.) I hope Radovan Karadzic finds making confessions as purifying as I do so that he's convicted of his crimes and spends the rest of his life in prison.

Tired No More

I logged in to write about the latest confession, the fact that I claim to be a lady of leisure but am secretly "working," writing articles and posts in exchange for money, putting together business plans for soon-to-exist magazines and web sites, helping a documentary filmmaker get seed money for a biographical piece whose script I might actually write. Then I realized, not only did I lose track of which confession # this would be but that noone cares if I work or not. In fact, I don't even care that much anymore about where my head is in this midlife crisis or the completely meaningless search for what's next. The turtle dude said it best in the Kung Fu Panda movie we saw today: "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is mystery, but today is a gift. That's why it's called the present."

Today I truly ENJOYED about forty minutes at the gym -- forty minutes all to myself. I blasted my music (busted the headphones, oh well) and thought about nothing but the pace and the lyrics of KT Tunstall's Hold On:

"...Hold on to what you’ve been given lately
Hold on to what you know you’ve got
Hold on to what you’ve been given lately
Hold on cos the world will turn if you’re ready or not

...I was tired of January
I was tired of June
I felt a change coming
I was tired of January
Tired of June
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming
I felt a change a coming soon..."

Every Great Love Has a Story to Tell

We went car shopping today and test drove a Suzuki, an Opel and a Volvo. I couldn't have imagined that I would care about which car we might get this summer but I actually do. Later in the afternoon, the kid and the husband went to the pool while I enjoyed a writing session on the balcony. I'm finally venturing into fiction, a novel, complete with Microsoft Word manuscript templated formatting, inspired by Simone de Beauvoir's Memoirs of a Dutiful Daughter, which I started reading earlier today. I was hoping for an existential first chapter but so far, the words read like a romance novel. I'm desperately searching for a nom de plume as I cannot possibly publish this cold mush under my own.

After a page and a half, I'm now on my way to the hair salon downstairs to get a blow out.

Every Day is a Saturday

It is perfectly fitting that the go-to bottle of choice should be called Cumartesi (Saturday), with a devilishly entertaining cork featuring caricatures of what I'm assuming are its founders and a web site called Bize Her Gun Cumartesi (Every Day is a Saturday for Us). At this very moment, I'm trying out their white, in preparation for the official start of summer this weekend. The husband and his buddies went to see Hulk and the kid is peacefully sweating out the day's heat in her bed, possibly practicing her jump into the pool in her dreams. I'm alone with my book and a half-full glass enjoying the post-rain breeze on the balcony.

A Tourist in Istanbul

Life Outside the Operating Room

Most of my days are spent in and around the apartment complex we now call home. The kid and I enjoy leisurely breakfasts in front of the tv or on the balcony, squabble over when to go to the pool and which store to frequent for our daily bread. Whenever I can, I steal fifteen-minute increments to read Because I Said So, a collection of essays by thirty-three mothers who confide in me about everything from poverty to poetry. I sprinkle a few mindless household tasks on our lazy days, dream of trips to IKEA and scheme to convince the husband to serve as my chauffeur.

As I write these words, I'm enjoying a breezy morning on the balcony, nestled in the single corner that affords a bit of shade. At 9:24 am, the sun is already burning but I don't complain as I don't wish it to ever go away. Visions of beach towels drying on the railing and yesterday's bathing suits hanging on the backs of chairs remind me of how lucky I am. Any minute now I will be interrupted by the kid wanting breakfast. She's been watching the Disney Channel since we got up about an hour ago and I'm painfully aware of how bad it is for her to be watching so much tv. Yet, I just don't want to give up these few solitary minutes I have managed to log in to write, fueled by the incredible humility I feel every morning.

What's crisis-worthy about this life is that unless I'm reading or writing, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like I need a hobby, a job or a new project to fill in the gaps. Parenting a self-disciplining five-year old is not brain surgery, neither is making the beds in the morning or the massive amounts of laundry I need to tackle weekly. Yet, I need to operate. I always need to be researching, diagnosing, strategizing, operating and curing. What's crisis-worthy is that this life is incredibly disease-free. Or so it seems.

I'm afraid my need to always be solving problems may just create the next big crisis.

In the meantime, we had our first guest from New York, who enjoyed shopping sprees at the Grand Bazaar, antiques in Cukurcuma, a boat tour up the Bosphorus, lazy days by the pool, midnight feasts in Ortakoy, only to crash on a blow-up mattress at the end of the day in a room with no working light fixture. She didn't complain much, even when the kid's squeeky voice echoed in the empty hallways searching for her, as she tried to enjoy a cooling morning shower in a bathtub with no shower curtain. I know it was a good trip. It made me happy to share a part of this life with someone from my past. It made me happy to play host, to fluff up her pillows, place miniature soaps stolen from a Las Vegas hotel on top of the pile of towels I set out for her. Seeing my idyllic life through the eyes of a New Yorker who sells ad space for magazines (just like I used to) made me realize how far I traveled since March. This life is not for everybody. With or without a kid, this life is exactly what I needed during this stage of my life. I'll just have to learn to live disease free.

In the meantime, I'm happy to say I called my father to wish him a Happy Father's Day. A first in sixteen years.

The Battle Within

It's the monthly countdown to you-know-what and once again, my hormones are wreaking havoc in my brain. The emotional baggage, the tears, the heart palpitations, the incredible sadness. Luckily, I made a friend today (so the husband was spared!) who was willing to let it all rage, throughout the day as well as during a 9:30 pm Sex and The City: The Movie screening. (Not a great movie to watch while PMSing but a dreamy escape otherwise.) She told me that dramatic hormonal changes experienced in your thirties could be a sign of early menapouse which reminded me that my mother went through it at the ripe age of 39. Great! One more thing to add to my list of worries during this year of midlife crisis.

Last night, the husband and I overpaid a babysitter to attend a corporately-sponsored screening of Troya, a performance reminiscent of Riverdance, most of which was about the joyous multi-ethnic dancing one did following some of the most legendary battles fought on the shores of the Aegean. As one could only do in 1250 B.C. of course. The only dancing I'll be doing this summer is at a friend's wedding and I doubt this battle within will get resolved by then.

A Literary Tea Party

I put the kettle on and am anxiously waiting for our first real guest. My friend and her daughter are coming over for five o'clock tea. The bakery down the street will deliver spinach pie, su boregi and mini brownies. We'll tour the apartment, marvel at the view from the balcony, admire the brand new bedroom set that was delivered today and possibly exchange some recipes. She's pregnant with her second so I'm sure there'll be some baby talk as well.

The funny thing is, I met her five years ago when I was five months pregnant with mine. She wanted to launch a baby magazine in Turkey and I was the token Turk at the publishing company where I worked (in New York) who helped coordinate the licensing deal. Based on our shared passion for magazines, our friendship grew stronger over the years, always imagining the next big magazine we were going to launch together. Maybe it'll be about cookies and tea.

Open Invitation

This is an open invitation to all of my friends to freely use our place as their own beach resort & spa as long as we live here. You know who you are and where we live. It's truly unbelievable that my life will revolve around sunbathing, swimming, playdates and sangria parties on the terrace all summer. I won't miss the smelly New York summer for sure (though I still miss my friends), the sweaty commute to work every day, arctic conditions of our office, the grind. No more worrying about whether I'm working long and hard enough in order to make my quota for the month. I will instead worry about prickly heat (which I suffer from as we speak) and strawberry season being over too soon. I will make friends with all the Polish nannies and learn a new language. I will swim laps every day and sculpt a kick ass body by the end of the summer boasting a golden tan on a lean body. I will read, read, read and read some more.

The move went pretty smoothly last Thursday. Between all the chores, including shopping for a bedroom set, a washing machine, beds and lights, we've been able to sneak a few hours at the pool every day. My seventy four boxes arrived yesterday and I already unpacked about fifteen. The kid's happy to have her toys back and I my corkscrew. We finally got the DSL connected yesterday so that I can resume playing Scramble and Word Twist on Facebook. (I didn't say this was Roman Holiday! We do, after all, live in 2008!)

The Countdown

This is it. It's 10:48 pm and we just decided we're going to move tomorrow morning. We called the movers and they can  come at 10:30 in the morning. I don't have a single box or suitcase packed. I feel as if my contractions have started and I still have to finish the nursery, wash the layette and pack my suitcase. Luckily I don't have to do any of that. Frankly, I don't care if everything gets moved in garbage bags. All I know is that I will wake up in my new home on Friday morning and go for a swim.

Homage to Cihangir

In addition to being home to many writers, artists and filmmakers, Cihangir , the neighborhood that's been home to us since we arrived in March, is known for its street cats. So much so that there are poems written about them, canvases filled with their images and even lawsuits filed in their name by neighborhood citizens who wish to protect the four-legged residents from the local authorities. Just like any other Cihangir dweller, we have been feeding several cats in our garden since we arrived. About two weeks ago, one of them had six kittens, who now live in a turned-sideways flower pot in which I was hoping to grow geranium this Spring. Oh well.

In just a few short days, we will move out of this apartment and leave Cihangir behind.

Our apartment sits on a slope overlooking the strait as well as the rooftops of Mimar Sinan University. We have to climb 93 steps from where we park the car to get to our door. Our street is known as Ali Kaptan Sokak and leads one to Cihangir Mosque, just a short walk from where we live now, built in 1559 and named after then Sultan Suleyman's 22 year-old son who was killed in war in Aleppo.

The neighborhood rapidly grew and gained popularity during the 17th century but suffered major fires in 1765 and again in 1874. The many mosques and public bath houses of Cihangir seem to have survived all major disasters of the past five centuries and are now surrounded by 50-120 year old apartment buildings where the rich and famous live alongside of the heirs of the original residents.

And wherever you go in Cihangir, you have to climb. Some residents have to tackle over 200 steps on their way home each day. We had our share of the torture over the last two months, with frequent trips to our favorite neighborhood spots like Mavi Kum Bookstore and Kaktus Cafe, whose owner claims to care for about 110 cats in the neighborhood. We can barely handle the six kittens we have!

The Neverending Move

"Mom, check out the little girl standing next to you!"

The kid thinks she's whispering but in fact even the driver can hear on the crowded city bus. (Crowded is an understatement -- this one reminds me of the enormous jar of pickled cucumbers I see in store windows everywhere in Gokturk.) She's loud but luckily, only in English, so noone's offended.

"I know. I saw her before."

"Where?"

"What do you mean?"

"Where did you see her before?" She's showing signs of a near-meltdown -- is it the midday heat or the side effects of this neverending move to Turkey?

"Nowhere. I meant, I saw her before you told me."

"You mean 'I saw her already!'"

"Yes, that's what I mean."

"You should have said 'I saw her already."

"You're right. That's what I should have said."

"If you say 'I saw her before," I will think you saw her before today."

"I understand honey. I should have said 'I saw her already.'"

The frustration in her voice is now routine. If she gets any less sleep than the twelve hours her little body requires, I'm in for it the next day. Unfortunately, with the impending move, we've all had to sacrifice from sleep. So we bicker. Sometimes all day long.

Our relationship has definitely changed in the past two months. I graduated from the fun-loving working mother whose time and love are extremely valuable to the always-there primary caretaker who's almost always responsible for everything that goes wrong in her life. Frankly, I wouldn't have it any other way.

Still, I'm counting the days until summer camp starts!

Meanwhile, I spent twelve hours cleaning the new apartment yesterday and will still have to hire a cleaning lady to make it livable. (I should have kept my day job!)

The crew:

The work:

The piece de resistance (the view from our balcony):

Landing Gear Deployed

It's been a whirlwind week. (Leave it to me to have a whirlwind week the very week I was supposed to take a break from all the craziness that had become my new life.)

I remember a particular midterms week in college when I crash-studied for the exams of the econ classes I barely attended, staying up several nights in a row wired on coffee and NoDoz. At the end of the madness, and after taking the midterms in three-day-old sweatpants, I went to bed with a smile on my face and had the best sleep of my college career. The next morning, I didn't remember a word of what I had read all week and decided to change my major to history. That's one of the reasons I had to take a job in magazines when I graduated, and not in finance.

It's been that kind of a week.

Two full days of looking at apartments in Gokturk (Kemer Country), two school tours, a four-hour job interview at a publishing house, a fancy launch party for LG's new television, a major fight with the dear husband (most probably because I'm getting my period and have become the ultimate bitch), a kid's birthday party, the overworked dh moving offices and leaving for New York for a three-day trip, dinner guests one night and an overnight guest another. Most days, we would leave the house at 8 a.m. and not return until midnight. And finally, after picking up the keys to our new place yesterday, I had one of the best sleeps I've had since I arrived. And this morning, I didn't remember much of the craziness that took place the past week. I'm happily spending my fifth mother's day doing laundry, cooking and tidying up.

Yes, we finally have a home. I signed the contract yesterday and will need this week to get it cleaned, have the locks changed, the electricity and natural gas turned on and the movers arranged. We will hopefully be moved in by next Sunday so I can finally begin my life here. The 74 boxes have arrived and are waiting to be picked up at customs. Luckily the palatial four-bedroom we rented also has a storage unit in the basement so I won't have to unpack all of them at once and can start enjoying my new life right away -- like swimming laps in the Olympic outdoor pool or sweating calories in the fragrant gym.

Here's a quick peek at Kemerlife XXI where we rented a top-floor apartment. Click here.

And here's a link to what we think will be the kid's school. Click here.

And finally, much to my husband's disappointment, where I will NOT be working this summer. Click here or here.

Please Let It Rain!

It's threatening to be a nice day, with the sun peeking out from behind the clouds every fifteen minutes or so. I want it to rain all day instead. With a to do list that reads like a short story, I need to stay in and concentrate to get things done. I know that I said I was just going to let things be but I still have so much to do -- phone calls to make, tidying up to finish, suitcases to unpack (shameful I know!), newspapers to recycle, shirts to iron, dishes to wash and toys to organize. The Virgo in me wants a spotless house and a completed to do list. The sun HAS to stay behind the clouds.

We spent the weekend looking at aparments in Kemer Country, a community that reminds me so much of Battery Park City. It's outside of Istanbul proper, away from the chaos of the city, a designed community devoid of character. However the swimming pools, the fitness centers, the very modern and spacious apartments, the parks and the fresh air completely make up for lack of originality. And yes, there's a Starbucks.

Our favorite so far is Kemerlife, a spa-like dwelling designed by renowned architect Emre Arolat.

...

On the other hand, I don't want you to be fooled by these enthusiastic reports. The indecisiveness is at an all-time high. City or country, private school or public, full-time job or freelance writing, white or whole wheat -- the pressure to choose is still overwhelming. I just have a better attitude about it.