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.

Life in the Small Continued

I'm getting requests that I post more often.

It's not that I don't have time to stop and notice the many things worthy of recording here about our new life in Istanbul. I have plenty of time for it. Every day, lots of times a day, I stop. I sit. Just sit. I think. My head's always filled with words, with conversations. There's plenty to write about. The obscurity of black birds flying into the apartment, neighborhood cats we feed with store-bought cat food, the varying melodies of the Islamic call to prayer (which the kid calls "opera"), and many more observations, realizations, interpretations, some judgements, some allowances.

It's just that what I am living right now can not be understood by many and I'm very much aware of that. After a school interview and a drive through a neighborhood in our consideration set, the hubby had to attend a focus group while Maya and I hung out at a local mini-mall for a couple of hours. When he picked us up three hours later, he admitted that he felt bad for leaving me alone with the kid and thought we'd be bored. The words I used to describe how fulfilling it was to browse a bookstore and sit at a Starbucks to enjoy our purchases and a cup of coffee (with just-for-you warmed milk, mind you!) couldn't adequately decipher what I'm feeling. I feel like I'm living my life in a magical realm. Neither its pains nor its pleasures can be understood by folks consumed with life itself.

These days I'm happy living the life in the small.

---

Of course the mad search for an apartment and a school continue. I took a break from my all-consuming desire to make a decision already and decided to let things be for a week. (Yes, only a week!) Karma is now my middle name and it got us connected to a set of wheels yesterday. We're now the proud owners of a cute BMW 116, even if for a short while.

How do you say good morning in TV?

My baby just woke up and after a brief cuddle session on the couch, the first word out of her mouth was "TV." I know; that's not even a word.

So I couldn't help but think about what I wrote for Kaboose. Oh well.

Guided by Intuition... or Not

I'm slowly getting addicted to Turkish TV. My latest guilty pleasure is a game show where the contestant opens chests to find money throughout the show. There's a lot more detail involved of course but basically, the entire concept is based on intuition and how much risk one is willing to take guided by it. The other night, a bus driver won enough money to pay off his debt, buy himself an apartment and spite his ex-wife who just left him. I had tears in my eyes.

What if your intuition is on vacation? Its cell phone turned off, it has no internet access on the remote island where it's vacationing and you have no desire to schlep all over creation to go looking for it (remember the 93 steps I need to take just to be able to go to the store for our daily bread?)

"A mother, with her intuition, will know just what to do. A mother has a feeling; she pays special attention, if someone is concealing, if someone's playing tricks. She rubs and scrubs and scours the secrets. Until the answer clicks," sings Carly Simon in Piglet's Big Movie. My intuition is most definitely on vacation.

The dictionary says intuition is the act of knowing or sensing without the use of rational processes and  that is exactly why I feel that my intuition has left me at the moment and I'm somewhat paralyzed by this reality. I'm, in fact, consumed by rational processes.

I saw nine apartments in the past few days, in entirely different neighborhoods, mostly on foot, and collapsed in exhaustion last night. I found only one of them tolerable, though very small, because it was the cleanest and in the most central neighborhood, within walking distance to everything I could possibly want to have near the apartment. There were so many things I liked about it and I thought my gut said "This is it!" Now that I'm thinking with a clear head, I know it to be entirely too small for us and lacking most of the things we're really looking for in an apartment.

I think my lack of recent and meaningful history with this city, with these people, with even the act of not working has made me lose my guiding force, my intuition. And knowing that what I think is my gut instinct is fooling me makes me hypothesize, research and test everything I do twice over, which, as you can imagine, is entirely too tiring.

So... it is a blindingly-sunny Spring day in Istanbul with lots of possibilities and all I want to do is join my intuition on vacation.

Mumbling In The Dark

The below post was jotted down on April 22nd:

Note to self: Do not vacation without the laptop ever again!

I'm in Izmir, in the apartment my mother shares with my grandmother, sitting criss-cross-applesauce on the twin bed the kid sleeps in when we come to visit. Normally, this would be my mother's room, her twin bed, her very blue bedspread, rug and curtain set. After the kid was born, a Barbie border replaced the framed prints on the walls and a toy basket the hamper. Such is the love that adorns children here. Such is the love that suffocates.

When I first entered through the front door yesterday, after four high-decibel days at my in-laws, I immediately felt at peace, reuniting with the quiet that I grew up with. But once night fell, the bad lighting, the extremely uncomfortable thrones my mother calls the sofas, and the really bad programming on her satellite-free TV all started to cramp my brain.

I'm working on The Inheritance of Loss by Kiran Desai and can barely read 2-3 pages at a time. This place has always made me feel somewhat lethargic. It's a miracle I graduated from high school!

...

"This really is a lemon tree!" the kid exclaimed pointing at the lemons growing outside this room's second-floor window. Even though her days are filled with fun-loving relatives who spoil her rotten and lots of new experiences, nights make her sad. Last night, right before she drifted off to sleep, she said she really missed New York. She said she's not "feeling well" in Turkey. When I asked her to explain, she said she's not "great" at making friends or at speaking Turkish. My heart aches when she says things like this but I try to stay strong for her as I know, in time, she won't remember how challenging things were in these early days.

...

It turns out she might have the mumps.

Finding Flow Turkish Style

I read Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi's Finding Flow ten years ago at the recommendation of my then boss. He first gave me a worn-out copy of an article his shrink had lent him. The article led me to the book, the book to my husband.

Maybe not literally, but I was in fact practicing the art of social flow when I met him, hoping to stop the over-analytical banter of my mind and truly enjoy the life of a twentysomething in New York. I was into jazz...very much into jazz.

"A good conversation is like a jam session in jazz, where one starts with conventional elements and the introduces spontaneous variations that create an exciting new composition." - M.C.

So imagine my surprise when the husband of almost nine years called our Saturday night outing "akmak" or "flowing." Apparently, going to Istiklal Cad. without any specific plans and ending up at 360 after a bite of tantuni is called flowing, i.e. spontaneous enjoyment of the city that has no rules and is simply ruled by street cats and seagulls.

Getting a babysitter was the best idea I've had since arriving here two weeks ago -- wearing four-inch heels and smoking a pack of fancy Marlboro Lights not so great. Nevertheless, I like jazz again. And Turkish pop and Turkish techno and whatever else this city has in store for me.

A Sunny Day Filled with Hope

I traded in one kind of to do list for another. Now my days are filled with school tours, babysitter interviews, insurance reps, grocery lists and heirloom recipes. Sounds mundane but each and every task is extremely overwhelming considering it still feels pretty strange over here. But when one begins one's day with a view like this, it seems nothing is insurmountable.

Looking for the Diva Inside

I'll admit I'm a bit shallow. If only I didn't keep forgetting how shallow I am. There's nothing that makes me feel better than a trip to a Turkish hair salon. I now know I shouldn't have delayed this bliss until Day 12 of our Istanbul adventure. It was deeply stupid of me!

A quick cab ride away from where we're living in Cihangir is the Ritz Carlton Taksim and inside, a true Turkish hair salon, complete with all-you-can-drink beverages. The haircolor/manicure/pedicure session took three hours out of my day, as well as major cash out of my pocket and some skin off my toes (it's not a Turkish pedicure until you bleed) but I consider it a small price to pay considering how good I look and feel now.

If only we had some friends to hang out with after our beauty pilgrimage. Unfortunately most of my friends work and don't have children, so Maya and I will have to start from scratch. There's a preschool visit and a babysitter interview in the works for this week. I also want to go check out a few neighborhoods on foot continuing my quest to find us a bigger place to live. I'm proud to say though that I've mastered the laundry, online grocery shopping and the 93 stairs one has to climb to get to our building from the street. Whether I can eventually call this place a home or not, at the very least, I'll have a tighter butt.

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?