A grain of salt

Everything is almost always shiny and welcoming when you're a tourist. It's all exciting and beautiful; sure you see the dirty side, the sad and depressing side, but it's almost in passing and you take it like a grain of salt. Walking past the gypsies was almost like walking past the homeless in Philadelphia. The only difference was that the gypsies always had something to do to keep busy, and put a little change in their pocket. That and the use of their children to bully people into giving money and buying tissues. So it's not quite like the homeless in Philadelphia, but the feeling was similar, a horrible circumstance that you wish you could personally put an end to but you know there's nothing you can do about it. It's actually been an ongoing discussion between Emre and I. He thinks that by buying those tissues or whatever those children are selling will only encourage their parents to keep sending them out. My argument is that I doubt it matters much. If there's a bad day, they'll just say tomorrow will be better, and each day will bring more wealth. In fact I think that mindset has been engrained in the lifestyle of the working class here.
Here the minimum wage is almost impossible to live on. Currently minimum wage stands at TL799.5 ($443). Minimum wage workers were only recently exempt from wages, which have fallen to the responsibility of the employer; a worker working for minimum wage actually costs his employer TL1,110. This means that there are far more unaccounted workers than anyone cares to admit. And on top of that, many employers do not pay for health insurance, at least not until a worker has given several years service. Istanbul is an expensive city to live in. Rent is not cheap, and neither is transportation. Both of which are essential. How anybody lives on minimum wage is beyond me.

It sort of makes it difficult to enjoy all the great parts of Istanbul, like when suddenly the sea is flooded with jellyfish that they thickly cover the entire area all along the coast.

And then there's always crossing the Bosphorus, which is an incredible journey every time, except when you're too mentally exhausted to care.

The most incredible part in all of this, is that so many people endure. Many don't complain, and simply thank Allah for what they have. In such a society I can understand how easy it is to get stuck in a place without any sign of a way out, the risk seems almost too great. It's a repressive system, one in which it's almost impossible to save enough to move on to something worthwhile. Which brings me to my next point: self worth. The conditions and and boss-worker relations completely break down a person's character, to the point where he no longer feels he can move on to anything else, further convincing him that he is stuck. Mobility is limited.





photographs ©Megan LaMon

Unexpected Unintended

Istanbul is a big city. It is really more like several cities that are all interconnected that share a name for the large area they span. To give some perspective, look at the comparison between Istanbul and New York City: you can fit almost seven New York cities inside of Istanbul, and Istanbul bursts with about 5.2 million more people.

So then tell me, how small are the odds that Emre might run into an old friend of mine on the street on his way to pick me up from work?

They walked passed each other in front of the tram stop in Sultanahmet, both thinking to themselves that the person they were passing looked strangely familiar. And then they both paused. Feeling this mutual connection of recognition, they stopped and turned to each other, finally realizing who the other was. 

Naturally, we had her stay with us. Who needs a hostel or couchsurfing, when there's a perfectly good place to stay with friends? Even if it is way on the other side in the middle of nowhere, and kind of a pain in the ass to get anywhere.

The next morning we took a tiny boat to Emirgan for khavalti which means breakfast in Turkish, the literal translation is before coffee.

The best part about khavalti is always kaymuk and honey. Kaymuk is kind of like clotted cream. Just as bad for you, but so delicious.

We were so stuffed by the end of it.

It's a good thing autumn lasts forever here. We were still able to walk by the seaside without winter coats. There was almost no breeze, leaving the temperature perfect for walking from Emirgan to Ortakoy, which took over an hour.

It was probably the best Sunday I've spent in a while.

our nation was raped

It seems the newspapers rarely bring good news, or at least all of the good news is completely overshadowed by the bad. Aside from world news, home is looking pretty grim at the moment. West Nile Virus is all over the place, with over 41 deaths counted, some from my own hometown. Wildfires have destroyed our country's beauty. Violence ensues:  Police are proving themselves incompetent. Conversation concerning Julian Assange surges forward. Politics are never out of the news, especially with the upcoming election. It seems that the attacks on Planned Parenthood, recently brought to the forefront in 2011, have inspired discussions about ligitimate rape, abortion, and birth control again.

I have just finished applying for my absentee ballot. I expected an eruption of pride and excitement, but all I feel is apathy. I don't care to vote for Obama or Romney. At the tender age of 18 I was so filled with hope for change and revolution when I nervously cast my first vote. I really believed that I could make a difference, that our president could make a difference. Now I see that I have to be the change I wish to see. My president isn't going to do that for me.  At the impressionable age of 18, I believed that my president could actually make change for the better. I guess I never paid much attention to US history, too busy daydreaming. Sure, change happens gradually, but rarely in a drastic direction or one of serious reformation.

I can't help but revert back to that youthful 18 year old. It may only be 6 years later, but those six years have brought many revelations, changes, and alterations. I can't say that I resemble that skinny 18 year old in the slightest. Yet, I still hang on to some kind of hope, even if it is a little less naive. Occupy may not be the movement it intended, but it reminded us that revolution can be possible. We can have our own American Spring. At least there is clear proof that some people still have a fight, a drive, a sense of urgency. Life is too short to fall to the wayside, to sit on the sideline and watch the main players call the shots, to form a queue and follow the person ahead of you. You have to cut your own path.

Sweet Successful Disasters

This adventure into apple butter making was really an eventful experience. After the battle with the worms there was an encounter with a pressure cooker. Now I've used a pressure cooker before, but only the kind that only requires the press of a button and presto all you have to do is wait. This one is not electronic, therefore, immediately more terrifying. For those of you who are not acquainted with pressure cookers, I will give a small background. They are a kind of pot that allows you to cook under extreme pressure, which allows food to cook faster. Ok. Now if you decide to take the top off BEFORE the pressure is release, you will discover that the lid has suddenly turned into a flying torpedo. Luckily the pot I was using had a lid that is wider than the circumference of the pot opening, and there was a safety valve and a quick pressure release. All the same, still a little intimidating. Long story short I really couldn't tell when the apples had reached maximum pressure and just kind of winged it. The apples were indeed thoroughly cooked, and extremely mushy. Perfect for squeezing through the sieve.

I set to adding spices and sugar and started the two hour simmering process, stirring occasionally.  I realize now that I was supposed to be stirring the whole time. I'm not sure if that is why the consistency is a bit more like apple sauce or if it's really just the size of the holes in my sieve. In the end I excitedly pulled it off the heat and tested. Too sugary. And too lemony. Well at least it would be good for cakes and bread. Right?

Actually everyone who tried it said it wasn't too sweet at all, and fine to eat. So some of it will find it's way into Aşure Ekmeği which is just a kind of sweet bread with nuts and fruit (YUM). The rest will hopefully be eaten at breakfast.


Now for the second batch. Everything started wonderfully perfect, and aside from adding just a tad too much clove, the taste was perfect (I decided to test-taste before adding the sugar and adjust accordingly). Then I made the very grave mistake of simultaneously having a skype conversation and boiling the apple butter. Which resulted in a burnt bottom. Ok salvageable. But then I went even further and put it into a jar that was too cold (which was room temperature, but I guess the butter was too hot) and proceeded to break the jar. Lovely. Now the second batch has a slightly burnt flavor.

An Accidental Massacre

It was really quite unavoidable. And for that matter, completely unintentional. Well, that is to say, that I was aware of my actions after a certain point, but if I could have avoided it, I would have. But when you are slicing an apple in half, or slicing any part of the apple, really, it is not possible to foresee that your knife is in direct line with a worm. So it is with a very heavy heart that I must admit that I have murdered many many apple worms.

At least I can say that it was all for a good cause. The poor apple tree is completely infested. Most of the apples fall off the tree before they have reached ripeness. August is too early for apples. The apples that manage to cling to the branches are, for the most part, left waiting until they can cling no more. In an effort not to waste such a bounty source of food, we attempt to eat some of them, but there are only so many unripe apples a person can handle. Not to mention that if you eat too many you will most likely get stomach cramps.

The unfortunate pest-ridden tree is facing the death penalty because its fruit is unfit to eat; threats have been made to chop it down. In an effort to save its life, I have set out on a quest to find a use for the apples. My main objective is to avoid as much waste as possible, therefore, I decided the best place to start is with the fallen apples that could be saved. I set about collecting several kilos, soaked them in apple cider vinegar and water, rinsed, chopped, discarded the messy wormy parts, and finally stuffed them in the pressure cooker and set them on the stove. The wonderful smell of apples is beginning to fill the kitchen as my pressure cooker is reaching full pressure. Soon I will have a lovely batch of cooked apples for apple butter!

Jam out

In an attempt to pull myself back up, I decided to take the phrase literally is probably a good start. With Emre's help I have begun to attempt pull ups. This in itself is hilarious. Seeing as I can not do a single pull up, let alone reach the bar (and it's too high to jump and grab), I need help. Every morning and night I make an attempt at one, with Emre giving me a little push, and then I slowly release myself from the bar. This is a good routine that is helping build up my otherwise scrawny arms. One day I will be able to do it all by myself.

In addition, I decided it's best to keep myself busy and stay away from the computer as much as possible. Today happened to revolve mostly around the computer, and I allowed myself a small 20 minute nap, as it was much needed. But, this time I actually got up feeling refreshed and I really must attribute it to the past two very productive days. Which mostly consisted of making jam.

There is a tree on the other side of the garden wall so laden with plums that a branch the size of my arm actually snapped. There are several more heavy branches hanging over the wall onto our side. Sick of seeing all the over ripen plums splattered all over the ground I set to work collecting several kilos of plums. They are very small, unlike any plums I've ever encountered in the states.

Not wanting to waste all the plums in case my first ever batch of jam turned out less than exquisite, I decided to start with only one kilo of plums. Luckily Emre's mother is a really great cook and gave me a good recipe.

In the end it came out beautiful. Just the right texture and firmness, and the color was perfect. A lovely red-orange. It is a tart jam, as the plums are rather tart, but I tend to prefer tart to sweet so it's perfect for me.

Not wanting to lose momentum, or waste the plums, I set out to make a second batch the very next day, this time adding equal parts sugar to plums (the first time I only added 800g sugar to 1kg plums) in an attempt to make it a bit sweeter. No dice. It's just as tart. I can only hope I can find enough people who like tart jams to give away my excess. There really is too much. And I still have another kilo of plums sitting on the kitchen table and several more waiting to be picked from the tree....

Awesome People

Sometimes you just have to remember how awesome the people are in your life. Or at least the majority of the people. Even if it takes a glass of Rakı or two. There is always good conversation available at dinner. And rationale, reasonable, really good friends are only a short email away. Sometimes you are lucky enough to catch them on skype. I really have been blessed (I mean that in a really non -religious way, maybe spiritual but not necessarily religious) with the people who surround me.

Step one: admiting you have a problem

My last post was really rather depressive. But I've found that, this feeling is really quite normal. While I was in Izmir last week, I discovered surge of energy, totally ready to really take hold of this new situation and come at it full force, hoping that some of the energy I felt on my first visit would return. Unfortunately these feelings were fleeting and disappeared almost as soon as they appeared. At least I can find comfort in knowing that many new expatriates find the transition hard, and even depressing. Although I have to admit, I don't really find it all that comforting to hear that, for many, these feelings can last for several months. As one expat said, the first step is admitting that you have a problem. Sort of like having an addiction. Unfortunately I'd really rather not admit to having a problem to certain parties. For one, Emre's parents are very supportive and eager to see us succeed. I don't have to worry about feeding myself, or buying everyday necessities. Sometimes I joke and say I'm living like a queen. Then there are my own parents, who are already depressed themselves, as they can't understand why I'd want to move abroad, and are really have a tough time with my absence (they honestly think I'm never coming back). And of course there's Emre, who has somewhat of an idea of what I'm going through (he did move to the US when he was 16, and it was really as tough as it gets. You'll just have to take my word on that, the story is far too involved to get into). Yet, he doesn't really quite understand.

Ok so step one: I've admitted these feelings to one person. Good it's a start. But, as I sit here, I think about my brother and how much I miss him and the relationship we once had. My moving has nothing to do with the change in our relationship. I'm not really sure what happened. Sometimes I think it was just getting older and we invested much more of our personal thoughts into our significant others. Distance didn't used to be a problem. Or maybe the distance just took time. I can't really be sure. But regardless of how much we lost touch or lost our ability to really talk about things, he never lost his ability to read my emotions and overall state of mind. It would bring me to tears when he would say things that were so spot on, it was like he could read me like a book. I thought I was doing all right, and that no one really knew how depressed I was feeling, or how hard it was to handle the situation at home before I left, but he always knew. I don't know how he even had time to notice anything. He worked three jobs and was always exhausted.

I think the hardest part is wondering who my support system is. Most people would first list their families. My parents certainly don't support my move, and really don't want to try to understand it. At least my brother and sister were somewhat supportive, even if they didn't quite understand it.


So in light of my current mood, here is a picture of the mindset I wish I had at the moment, a carefree, and beautiful spirit:

hüzün

I know I should turn this loneliness into hüzün, the kind that Orhan Pamuk speaks of. A kind of melancholy that revels in loneliness, or rather, oneness. It is an alone that is not so lonely. It seems I lost myself so long ago. It's been a hard and painful process to find my way back. And that's just it. I've been lost for so long, I somehow lost the way to find my way back. Logic dictates that I create a new path to a new self. It is my inability to let go of the past that inhibits me from doing this. And then I find myself asking myself, "how can I find a new self when I can't really remember my old self in the first place? Was I ever really a self? Or just a chameleon, blending in where I could? Or a fox scavenging on whatever I could find, the leftovers from everyone else?"

It embarrasses me and pains me to find myself so hopeless.

While I was staying at my parents house I found myself falling deep into depression, the same kind of depression that I see so many of me fellow graduates sinking into. I fell so deep I couldn't emerge even after I made the voyage to reunite with my love to the city that I have fallen in love with, much in the same fashion that I fell in love with my lover. I could see the opening to the hole I had dug myself into, but I still couldn't seem to even cling to the edge, still stuck ten feet below, looking up into the fresh air.

It has become increasingly more and more important that I be able to take care of myself, or what I mean is to stand on my own, to really exude strength, especially as I've grown older. Somehow I feel more frail than ever, so unsure of myself. Perhaps it's the language barrier that is what has the true hold on me. I can't really be sure. Instead I will play pretend and show (almost) everyone that everything is great and that this is really such a great experience. I am more than positive that this is really going to prove to be one of  (I hope one of many) the best experiences of my life, but perhaps the first transition is the hardest. It also helps to have a network of friends and family to reach out to when you feel lonely and just need someone to talk to. I've certainly been neglecting my own network, afraid to burden them. But a good friend has answered my call in the best way she can. Sometimes, all you need is to know there's someone out there who understands you, and knows that what you're doing is hard and painful, but it's what makes you who you are, and that you will come out stronger and a better person, and after all, this is what makes you you. She would never tell me to walk away because it's hard, or out of selfishness, to call me back to where I was, where it is easier to maintain a relationship, or where it might feel more real. Which is exactly the reason she is one of the so very few close friends that I have.

Stupid Cats

There are 9 cats in the garden. NINE. Really it's too much. There are 2 more that come and go as well, which brings our tally up to 11 if you decide that they count. If you missed how there came to be 9 cats in the garden, you can read the whole cat story within my arrival post. Otherwise, onward.

To start with, I am too much of an animal lover for my own good. This is little problematic in a city that is overrun with stray dogs and cats. I wish I could scoop them all up, give them a proper washing and proper meal, and relief from the horrible lives they lead. As this is impractical and can never actually happen, I can only give my love and care to the garden cats, and really 9 is still too much and impractical, but I'm not about to shoo any of them away.

 I always thought that cats were very smart. Since I am such a sucker, I can never walk into the flat without feeding them if I know they are all waiting by the front door, hoping that I will come out with food. This was the case the other night, and they were all very hungry and began meowing at my feet as soon as I opened the door. The kittens have taken to scooting inside as soon as the door cracks open, and since there are four of them and there is usually a bag of food in my hand, I have given up trying to bring them back out before feeding them. I found that they usually just follow when they realize that everyone has run back out into the garden to eat. Right on cue, they all scooted inside when I opened the door, and I left it open as I went into the garden. Well, they obviously were not quite as hungry as I thought, although the two mothers began to chow down as soon as I had set down some food (honestly they are always hungry, which doesn't surprise me as they are both still nursing). The kittens were still interested in the entrance way, and, as it was, so was Tek Göz. By the time I realized this, she was already making her way up the stairs. Now this is really unusual, since only the kittens come inside. I thought she would come out on her own, so i didn't panic, until I realized she had gone all the way up to the attic and began to meow because she must have felt trapped. I went up several times to try to convince her to come down, and to show the way. She must have felt stuck, or maybe afraid of me, I'm not really sure. She doesn't quite trust me yet (although we have graduated to the occasional pet as she is eating). Anyway, I wasn't about to follow her into the attic, out of fear that she would go deeper and then really lose her way, or that she might be so scared and attack me. I should also mention that it was at least 12:45 at night, and I was really afraid that someone might wake up from this noise, especially since Galip had to be awake at 5am to catch a flight to Trabzon!

Finally I decided that she would come out on her own when she felt it was safe enough, and I waited in the garden, but the kittens were too curious and kept going inside since the door was open. If they made it up to the attic, I knew I would never sleep that night, so I scooped up the two who are most mischievous and locked them in the flat with me, leaving the front door wide open and my eyes fixed on the entrance way from the window. Boncuk ventured in to coax Tek Göz back into the garden (she at least is the only smart cat in the garden). I began to wonder what was taking so long, and began to panic that they were both stuck up there, but when I opened the door to my flat, they all went scurrying out the front door. Clearly they were just worried about the two kittens I was holding hostage. I shut the door behind them and hurried back into the flat, letting the kittens out through the window. I wasn't about to take any more chances in the entrance way. As I began to pull down the exterior shades, Kikirik jumped up onto the window sill and stood on his hind legs, pushing his head between the shades and the glass, as if to stay, "no, no don't leave me, I want to come and sleep with you." He always does this, often scurrying after me as I attempt to come inside. It breaks my heart every time.

even when I'm outside he wants to go in.

foreign foreinger

I generally like being mistaken for something that I'm not, granted that I'm not being mistaken for a stereotype, or something super trendy or expected. It's exciting when I discover that I have unintentionally fooled someone.

The other day while I was walking in the old city, a man called out to Ayten and me, attempting to lure us to the restaurant, a common occurrence in the touristy areas. He says, "Excusez-moi..." but that was as far as he got, as neither of us turned our heads. He was really calling out to me, Ayten can not be confused with a foreigner. They just know here. My ego swelled a bit when I heard him calling out in French. Not because I want to be French, but it's always a compliment to be thought of as a French woman. They are so strong and confident in themselves and have an air of stability and control.

Today I met someone new while visiting some friends of the family. He introduced himself in Turkish and said it was nice to meet me (in Turkish). I replied in Turkish since I have at least mastered the introductions. Later as I was helping prepare dinner in the kitchen, the woman we were visiting asked me to do something (in English, of course). My new acquaintance happened to overhear, and he asked, "why are you speaking in English?" Ah, but of course, because I am from America! He obviously didn't realize that I was a yabancı (foreigner). Later he said that I didn't seem American at all, but maybe German or Polish. Honestly I don't really know what makes someone seem American, or Polish, French, German, Russian, other than accent. I just get some small entertainment from accidentally misleading people in this sense.

sigh of relief

Today we took Karamük to the vet. Luckily there are vets that will see the street dogs and cats for free. She had this lump on her neck that looked like it was the size of a small walnut. I saw it had been weeping every now and again, but it started to turn a dark purple color so we finally brought her in. (I was really hoping it would go away on its own) It turned out to be nothing to worry about, just some kind of infection. The vet said it would have cleared up, he just made it faster by draining it. By draining it, he really just popped it like a pimple. I can't erase the image from my mind.....Then he gave her some shots (antibiotics and vitamins). She was so happy to be back in the garden.

she's the black one that is nursing

Misadventures with Banking

I am really almost convinced that I should just withdraw all of my money and find a safe place to keep it. Even if I have to put it in my underpants. I can just keep it in really large bills until I need to access it. Seriously. Banks are just far too complicated and always trying to steal your money. I first realized this when my new bank (last year) decided that even though they told me my banking would be free from fees, they would start charging me $10 a month. $10 a month? That is really just outrageous. Who pays $10 a month to bank? What happened to free banking. I was told that they could only reverse half of these fees, even though they told me there would be no fees, and there was also no notice that I would be receiving such fees. Ok so it was dealt with and I moved on. It was a relatively easy fix, even if it was slightly annoying. Who ever heard of having to transfer $75 from savings to checking and back again monthly just to avoid a $10 "service" charge. The only service they seem to be doing me is to cause annoyance.

It should also be noted that when you pay your bills online through their online "bill pay service" it takes at least 3-5 business days for the transaction to be complete, despite the fact that the transaction is from account to account (therefore it should really be immediate). Don't be fooled. What they are really doing is taking your money, placing it in their own account and making interest before they finally surrender it to the place you intended it to go.

When I decided to move out of the country, I realized that it would really be impossible to avoid this dreaded $10 monthly "service" fee. So the logical course of action is to find a bank with no fees. Easier said than done.

Ok. I finally found a bank. A small credit union through my dad's work. Easy enough. Except that now I find that the account I thought I closed two weeks ago is $-4. How can this be? Wells Fargo tells me that there was some transactions "pending" at the time when I closed the account. This may be true, but the money had already been taken from my account, so I don't see how there is any problem. All this means is that the bank hadn't made the final transaction (they were really just still holding on to my money before giving it up to where it was due), and also the banker who closed my account miscalculated by $4.

I don't know if you've ever tried to argue with a bank before but it's really impossible. At least it is only over four dollars and easily fixed. I still hate banks and think we should all resort to the old piggy bank. At least it is more reliable, even if it is more susceptible to theft.

My story about my loans with Citibank will have to wait for another night. It's too late to go into detail about that. Bottom line, the banks don't care about how much money you have, they just want your money.

Istanbul, I have arrived.

Ten days have passed since my arrival in Istanbul. In some ways it feels as if no time has passed, in some ways it feels so much longer than that. I have to admit I was not particularly prepared for such a difficult transition. I expected difficulty and hardship, but I thought the excitement would seriously outweigh those thoughts. Every task seems to take much longer than I had expected. For example, I still do not have a cell phone. I have a usable SIM card with plenty of minutes and texts, but no actual phone to insert the SIM into. I brought a phone from the states, but apparently you can't just insert and move on. There are PINs and passwords and unlock codes. Nobody seems to be able to tell me what a SIM password is, or where it came from. Samsung, AT&T and Turkcell are all flabbergasted by this.

In addition to the phone issue, obtaining a long-term visa is a long and extremely drawn out process, and requires many color copies of several documents, you know, just in case they lose four copies.

To add to my woes, UArts decided to conveniently drop me from the network connect, meaning that I can no longer access their really awesome softwares such as Photoshop and Indesign and Illustrator. Perfect, just in time for me to finish those photos that I have to send home for that job I did before I left. But not to worry I found a way to get Photoshop. This explains why there are no images to accompany my post. :(

My living situation is extremely convenient, yet inconvenient. It is convenient in that we are staying with Emre's family, so there is always someone to call on if I need help (and they speak English), and his mother is a really wonderul cook and always makes very fresh, delicious, healthy meals. All of the traditional Turkish foods that I love. Unfortunately they live on the Asian side, a little removed from everything. I guess you could say it's the suburbs, but nothing like the American idea of suburbs. This really just means that there is quite a bit of transportation involved to get anywhere, including a cafe. So any outing is at least a 3 hour round trip, unless I stay on the Asian side.

BUT there are 9 kittens living in the garden. Yes, 9. There is the mother from last summer (her name is Boncuk, bohn-juhk meaning bead, a common cat name here) and her 3 kittens (which are now grown since they were kittens last summer). Two of them are girls. There is Nazlı, nahz-luh meaning coy, and Tek Göz, meaning single eye. She had an eye infection as a kitten, and consequently is blind in one eye. The last one is a boy, but we don't see him very often, as he is constantly on the prowl for new girl cats. His name is Cingöz, ging-guhz, which means clever. He really only comes around when he is really hungry, so I don't really count him in with the 9. None of them are friendly enough to allow us to pet them, but Cingöz will rub against my legs. Both of the girls had their first litter about two months ago, but Tek Göz abandoned her kittens. She was successfully caught and spayed. Boncuk and Nazlı  both gave birth to four kittens a piece. So there were eight kittens, but one from Nazlı's litter disappeared and another one was killed. So the experienced mom still has all four kittens. They are a bit scrawnier than the others because they are all sharing milk. Also Nazlı is much healthier than Boncuk, so I am assuming her milk is better. We feed them every day, it's always a treat when they get chicken liver. Otherwise it's usually just cookies (that's our joke, what we call the dry cat food).

Now on to studying Turkish an preparing for my first assignment!

The begininng of the end

We seem to be in a world of blogs. So why not join the bandwagon? Even if no one reads it, maybe the blog is supposed to act as some sort of release? The current generation is described as self-interested, maybe even self-obsessed; the "coddled" generation. Everyone seems to think their life is more complete if they've reached some kind of stardom, or some kind of fame. Maybe I'm just hoping I will reach an inner peace and that some poor soul may benefit from my mistakes and misfortunes and (hopefully) successes and victories. I used to want to be a famous artist, but more than anything I really just want my life to have meaning. I want it to be full and robust.

Moving wasn't exactly a difficult decision. It's not like leaving the US was a particularly foreign idea; it was something I'd been dreaming about through most of high school and college. It wasn't until my sophomore year that I began to seriously fantasize about trotting the globe, moving from place to place; never really settling, just exploring. I always fancied myself a nomad, having never really gone anywhere. My first plane ride wasn't until I was 19, traveling to Disney World. Christine and I dreamed of an expedition to Alaska all through college. And then I met Emre. We finally made it to Turkey where we began filming "Wind Sand and Stars," a film still in production. I knew immediately that I could make a home there. Something like when I met Emre. I knew we would never part sides.

Then came the problem of telling my parents. How do you tell anyone you want to move very far away for an unknown period of time? Especially my parents. My mom wanted me to live at home for college and then settle somewhere within short driving distance of their home. How can anyone break someone's heart like that? All she ever wanted was a close-knit family, and here I am, breaking away, trying to move across the globe.
My conscience argues back that this has been my dream. After all, wasn't it your same mother who used to joke that she had a vague idea of what her other two children would be doing, but I would be the one off living in Paris, or some other place? That same little girl who thought it would be funny to hide underneath the clothes rack in Strawbridges.

I stare at the panoramic etching of the Bosphorus hanging on my wall. I smell köfte and hear the bustle of the city. I watch the ferries pass by, feel the spray of the sea. I really fell in love. I miss the call to prayer. Even if I am not religious, there was always something so peaceful and predictable about the call to prayer.

So here I am. Caught in between the love of my life, who awaits me in Istanbul, my family, my heart, my dreams, my life. It's easier to make moves in a game of chess, when at the end you can shake hands and move on, and then maybe go out for a drink together. 

The best part about spring is that you can literally watch the grass grow. Everyday brings forth new light as the flowers have been fighting their way out of the soil and new foliage bursts forth from the branches. It's a rebirth of life and brings hope of what is to come. More than ever it reminds me of new beginnings, especially as I embark on my own new beginning.