Photo: Tressler.
Thetrain from Ankara to Istanbul takes about four hours. It’s always asmooth journey, first traversing the broad, rolling tablelands ofAnatolia, passing through a series of tunnels as you enter themountains, emerging onto verdant green hills. Suddenly the seaappears, running alongside the route, waving like an old friend, asnostalgic and familiar as children’s voices at sunset.
Mymother-in-law Nefise (“Anne,” or mama) and I were meeting apotential buyer for our apartment in Istanbul. We’ve had theapartment on the market a few months, and this buyer promised to meetour listed offer and pay in cash – in this market, an offer toogood to sit on. So there we were – in separate cars, a slightinconvenience caused by last-minute online ticket purchase – on aMonday morning, when most people were stuck at work, bound forIstanbul by train. I enjoyed my role as the husband entrusted withthis important mission, accompanying Anne to meet the buyers in thegreat city. We even brought along a suitcase in the event that theypaid literally in cash. The morning took on the aspect of a caper –a Monday morning caper at that! – as I imagined clutching thesuitcase stuffed with millions of liras, glancing nervously from sideto side, wary of sudden ambush.
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ActuallyI had mixed feelings about the journey, for in fact the sale hadabout it an air of finality.
Ourlife in the great city was finally coming to an end. For 15 years,the city had been home and in that time the thought of livinganywhere else had never occurred to me. The sweep and majesty of thecity by the Bosphorus, the imperial past and megalopolitan presentseemed tailor-made for me, and was the inspiration for a decade ofstories. It was where I had met my wife and where our son had beenborn.
Butlast year’s catastrophic earthquake, which claimed more than 50,000lives in Turkiye, was the final straw for my wife Özge. The factthat Istanbul itself was not affected by the earthquake was noreassurance. The 1999 Istanbul earthquake killed tens of thousands,and experts warn that another deadly quake, The Big One, could hitany time. And a neighbor had our building checked by themunicipality, which listed our building as unsafe in the event of anearthquake. The decision was made to relocate to Ankara, the safestpart of the country in terms of seismic matters.
Overthe past year, I’ve slowly adjusted to our new life. Ankara, thenation’s capital, is about as far from Istanbul as you can get. Itis a land-locked city, surrounded by the lonely plains of theinterior. Forget the sea, which surrounds and breathes throughIstanbul – in Ankara, not even the whisper of a river passesthrough it. It is a city of spanking new skyscrapers, politicalstructures, universities and shopping centers. The culture, like theair itself, is decidedly dry, political and academic. Of course,Ankara is not without certain charms: people are friendly as peopleare friendly in a typical American Midwestern town, the young peoplehealthy and attractive, and there are many parks, trees, and in thecentral neighborhood of Tunus sit several streets lined with decentbars.
Welive on the campus of the university where I work as a teacher. Thatis also a benefit, for the lojman is quiet and comfortable,sequestered by groves of tree-lined streets, and we need not worryabout our boy Leo going out on his own to play in the nearby parkwith the other children. The nights are deep and tranquil, and oursleep untroubled by sirens and the other ceaseless din of Istanbullife. We look forward to Leo starting kindergarten at the schoollocated conveniently across the street from the universitypreparatory building where I teach. I could walk my son to schooleach morning and pick him up in the afternoons. “A great place toraise a family,” if you will (a phrase I’ve always feltprovincial folk employ as a euphemism for “dull.”).
Ichide myself, remembering that the move was a practical one, thedecision lined with benefits on all sides, especially for our son,his future. And yet, as the train approached Istanbul, I feltwistful, the old excitement stirring. The air as moist, fragrant, thesunlight groomed by the faint mist looming over the sails of theships offshore. There was that feeling of weighing security versusexcitement, with excitement winning every time, at least in theimagination. And arriving in Istanbul itself, feeling as one does inall great cities, from New York to Paris to Rome, why would one wantto live anywhere else? A curious despair hovered: were we really,finally, trading it all in? And for what, a bit of security in somedust-blown provincial town? Where was the mystery in that? Thefrailty of life, the misgivings of romance, the chaotic nature ofurban philosophy as transient as a silent street, the marketplace ofpeople and ideas? The city I had fallen in love with … But we werenot on holiday, I reminded myself as the train came to a stop at theSolutlucesme stop. We were there on family business and for one dayonly. We needed to complete all the matters related to the sale andbe back on the train to Ankara by six p.m. Not much time to even seethe city, let alone be sentimental about it.
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Theemlak, or estate agent, was a woman named Gül. She was a peopleperson, greeting us outside her office with blousy familiarity, as ifshe had known us for years. While we waited for the buyers to arrive,Gül invited us to have Turkish coffee at a table outside the office,chatting in Turkish with my mother-in-law about the apartment, aboutthe sale details, the couple buying the place, about Istanbul,Ankara, about me and my new job, etc, our new life.
Presently,a car pulled up, and we were introduced to Hakan, a young man, earlythirties, thin, amiable. He spoke English and offered to give us alla lift to the bank. He and Gül both had made jokes about thesuitcase Anne and I were lugging around. Realizing that thetransaction was going to be done online, Anne and I both felt a bitsilly, and the empty suitcase was left in Gül’s office while wewent to the bank. The transaction itself was quick, and we were inand out of the bank in less than half an hour, the bank app on myphone suddenly registering a sum of money I never thought I wouldever see in my life.
Bythis time Hakan’s wife, Meltem, had joined us. She was anattractive, bright-eyed woman, a physician at a nearby hospital. Sheand her Hakan had that eager excitement of a young married couplelooking to score the home in which they hoped to settle down andstart a family. On the drive to the deed registry office, we talkedabout the apartment. I told them about the neighborhood, recommendingcertain restaurants, cafes. We talked about how great, how convenienteverything was, with the metro and the Bosphorus and Kadıköy closeby. I felt happy for the young couple, knowing that they would behappy in the apartment as we had been happy, but also bittersweet,remembering when we had first moved there in summer 2022, and I hadlooked from the balcony out to the sea and felt that we had found ourhome. It was like those Russian priests mentioned in “Tender is theNight,” the ones who always went to their retreat on theMediterranean coast each summer prior to the First World War. “’Seeyou next summer,’” they said. But this was premature, for theywere never coming back anymore.”
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By3 o’clock, the deal was done. Hakan and Meltem received the keys,and we watched as they took a joyous selfie, sent immediately onWhatsApp to anxious family and friends. We all thanked Gül formaking the day so efficient and hassle-free. We all wished each otherwell and parted. Anne and I went up the street for a late lunch. We’dbeen on the road since half past four in the morning and werestarved, so we greedily snapped up the Adana kebab served at therestaurant we used to visit so often. Afterward, we still had acouple hours left. Anne understood that I wished to have a beer inKadıköy, while she wanted to have a coffee and rest in a nearbypark. We arranged to meet at the train station.
Onthe short walk to Kadıköy, I reflected on how comfortable I felt onthese streets. All those years ago, it was Kadıköy that had takenme in. The neighborhood was called Yeldeğirmeni,or “Windmill,” and it was there I had lived for several yearsbefore meeting Özge. I passed the bakery, the liquor store, or“tekel,” owned by two Kurdish brothers who used to give me beerand cigarettes on credit before payday. The markets and small shopsthat I used to pass every day on my way to get a bus to the school.The narrow, cobbled streets alive now as they were then, the youngmen hauling the garbage wagons on their shoulders, the young people,the young women with a faint perspiration making their skin glistenin the late afternoon.
Ihad beer at the small tavern where I’d always gone on a spareafternoon, when the work was done and Anne was looking after Leo. Thebar owner expressed no big surprise at not having seen me in a longwhile. I mentioned that we had moved to Ankara, but he just placedthe cold bottle of Tuborg in front of me and retired to the bar,leaving me to my thoughts. It was still quiet, the place would getbusy in the evening, after people got off work and the Erasmusstudents were done with their classes.
Drinkingthe beer, looking out at the streets, I thought about how the day hadstarted off as a “Monday morning caper,” and had ended up asthis, a reflection on the city, on the life we’d had, and how thatlife was now over. But at least our balance ended up in the plus. Ihad another beer, and another, and soon it was time to get to thestation. I paid and wished the barman well. “See you next time,”I said.
Itwas only a five-minute walk. I felt good, knowing exactly where I washeaded despite the crowded streets and busy hour. There would alwaysbe Kadıköy, and Istanbul, it wasn’t going to float away. And westill had our summer house down on the coast, ready for our return inthe summer holidays, so we still had the sea in our lives.
Alongthe way to the station, looking out at the Fenerbahçe stadiumsilhouetted by the approach of evening, I stopped and got Leo thelocal team’s famous gold and blue football jersey from a streetvendor. When I arrived at the station passengers were beginning toboard the train. Anne was already there and we stood together withthe empty suitcase, relieved of duty, both of us tired from a verylong and eventful day. It was time to get back to Ankara, where mywife and son, and our new lives, were waiting.
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JamesTressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher nowliving in Ankara.
