Category Archives: Only Expats

Beauty is . . .

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It does not matter where you live in the world, the expectation and actualisation of beauty remains the same.  Us women suffer for our beauty.

Many of my personal friends are well aware that Daughter suffers from Alopecia Areata.  For those of you who do not know Alopecia Areata is a condition in which hair is lost from some or all areas of the body.  For Daughter it was her scalp. At one point she rocked a great punk-ish style but for most of the time there was a lot of tears, many trips to various doctors and failed treatments.  Finally I located a Chinese herb supplement which worked wonders and now nearly three years on her hair has, in my opinion, grown back quite well although she continues to take the hated herb supplement on a daily basis (I brought a year’s supply with me to Turkey).  It is still quite thin and gappy but I think we should be thankful that she has her father’s genes because otherwise she would probably be bald right now.

My last trip to the hairdresser resulted in my walking out with blonde hair.  Well after some tears it was brown hair with a lot of blonde highlights.  Now 5 weeks later I find that I am quite used to the blonde, in fact I kind of like it.  It still has its brown elements but coming into summer I like the lighter colour with my tan, and it hides my grey hair a little more than my brown hair did.

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Speaking of tans I am going to a wedding tomorrow night.  I have a gorgeous 1950’s inspired dress with a bolero jacket and shoes to match.  Very cute.  But.  My legs are the colour of freshly fallen snow.  They are white.  Beyaz.  They have not seen the sunlight for nearly a year now (seeing we arrived here in Mersin at the end of an Australian winter and went straight into a Turkish winter).  I tried going into an eczame (pharmacy) to purchase fake tan.  The words “fake tan” just do not compute in a country where everyone is naturally bronze.  While out with Alana last weekend (who incidentally is her very own shade of beyaz as she is Irish) we tried to explain fake tan or bronzer to a lady at a beautician’s shop near Alana’s house.  The woman was confused and perhaps wondered if we were a little deli (crazy).  She did tell Alana that she was cok beyaz (very, very white).  Nice.  Don’t hold back your thoughts love.  Finally I was with Daughter at Sephora and found fake tan but then decided I wanted to wear something different.  Hours of grief and I, of course, change my mind at the last minute.

Back to my original story.  I went for a cut today at the same hairdresser’s who blonded me.  Aziz is his name.  He recognised me immediately.  He was probably quaking in his boots.  “Crap it’s that bloody yabanci again.” He immediately settled me into his chair and got to work.  He has obviously been practicing his English because he was ready for me today.  “Cut yes?  No colour?  OK.  Tamam.  I do it good today.”  In the meantime the ladies in the shop were busy trying to convince me to have a manicure or a pedicure (10TL) and I even had one lady try to convince me that my “beard” needed to be epilated.  Thank you very much. I was very happy with the result.  The best part was the price 30TL (AU$15).  I arrived back home to lots of oohhs and aaahhs and then was informed that I paid too much.  You know how people tell you that you have done the wrong thing and then give you that pitied look.  That’s what I got today from the fam bam.  “Yes you paid too much. The lady across the street would do it for 10TL”.  I will just repeat that sentence – the lady across the street would do it for 10TL.  Yes the lady across the street is a beautician. It is not a shop, it is her spare bedroom.  Realistically 30TL is money well spent because it is in a shop – commercial premises with outgoings.  Incidentally the lady across the street does a great job threading (known as ip) on my eyebrows and my lip (which is a pain that I can only liken to child birth and no I am not being overdramatic).  She does Daughter’s eyebrow and lip as well but Daughter has it waxed not threaded – she can’t stand the pain but for whatever reason I don’t get an option, I am threaded.   Yes I am happy to let the woman across the street do my eyebrows but seriously my hair?  I am pretty sure the $15 I spend is well worth it.  I am pretty sure that I am not going to go broke going to the hairdresser in Carsi every eight weeks for a wash, a head massage (thank you God) and a blow dry for $15.

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I have melded into Turkish life pretty well.  I am becoming the epitome of a Turkish Housewife – this afternoon I made Dolma, blog to follow – but please let me have a few little luxuries, a few of the little things that remind me of just what it is to be a lady of leisure.  That head massage was the most divine head massage of my life.  It went for about 15 minutes and Aziz crooned away in Turkish as he did it.

Çok güzel!

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Sampiyon Fenerbahçe

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In the 1970’s I was a child on the beautiful Northern Beaches of Sydney, Australia.  My childhood was full of sunshine, fun times and forever memories.  Another thing my childhood was full of was rugby league.  My family supported the Mighty Sea Eagles and I learnt the love the brutish, forceful art that is the footy.

Living in Turkey and being a good Turkish housewife I support The Turk’s forever team of Fenerbahce.  I have previously hung my head in shame and disclosed to you that The Turk is a futbol hooligan and quite the embarrassment when his team is winning.  He is even more of an embarrassment if his team should, God forbid, lose.

Last night Fenerbahce clinched their 19th Turkish league title with a 0-0 draw against Caykur Rizespor.  The match itself was a bore.  To me a 0-0 draw means that nothing feking happened.  It means that there were grown mean running up and down the field chasing a little ball and no one found the goal.  It also means that these grown men got to behave like little girls – a lot – by throwing themselves on the ground and crying foul on the other team, cursing each other and basically acting like a bunch of toddlers at every opportunity.  To prove my point that they are a bunch of girly girls there were in fact no male supporters allowed at the match yesterday evening – the biggest match of the year had no men in the stadium!  It seems that Fenerbahce was being punished for bad behaviour at an earlier match and male supporters were suspended from the crowd.  This is just surreal.  I cannot imagine someone telling my brother or his mates “Sorry guys you can’t go and watch the Eagles today as they are being punished”.  Pffttt!

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Anyway Fenerbahce are the 2013/2014 Champions and The Turk and his friends went wild, running out of the house whooping and yelling before disappearing into the night.  When he returned this morning he smelt like a brewery but, despite his obvious hangover, he was still celebrating his team’s victory.

“This is a historical moment in our lives,” The Turk said to me over his kahvalti (breakfast) of two headache tablets and coffee.  “A great victory and we are blessed to be a part of it”.

Now this is football

Now this is football

Honestly I just don’t get it.  I want to see these “Champions” survive just one game of rugby league.  See how you would cry then, ya big babies!

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Good as Gold

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When I was pregnant with Daughter I attended at the local free hospital in Mersin for some blood work and a check up.  It was a dark, extremely dirty hospital where lines of people waited in various stages of injury or sickness.  I could not compare this hospital to anything I had ever experienced and I was so traumatized by the visit I left the country.  Yes I literally returned to Australia to have Daughter determined to never return to a Turkish hospital again.

Those who know me know my love of self-diagnosing ailments and self-medicating.  I hurt my back last week in the garden (I am getting old) and went upstairs to look through my various pills to find something to take away the ache.  As I rummaged through the plastic bottles and packages, some purchased here and others brought with us from Australia, I found some of The Turk’s pain medication that he used after an operation a year or so back.  Strong pain relief.  Still in date.  Let’s do it!  I took two pills and promptly passed out.  They were crazy strong.  I learned a valuable lesson that day.  Always be sitting down when self-medicating.  Nooooo! 

I did need to go to the doctor though has I had run out of my blood pressure tablets.  Again terror ran through my veins at the thought of going to a Turkish hospital but it had to be done.  Thankfully The Turk chose a ozel hastanasi (private hospital) which was not quite as frightening as my first foray into Turkish hospitals nor my most recent attendance at the local village hospital (another story in itself).  The doctor spoke English which was a bonus and happily told me my blood pressure was spot on.  Yah me!  The doctor also gave me a speech about “White Coat Syndrome”.  I laughed and told him every doctor I have ever met has given me the same speech.  The Turk mentioned me passing out to the Doctor who suggested that perhaps I shouldn’t self-medicate.  Seems like a good idea. 

Now it was Daughter’s turn.  In Australia I would take Daughter to the dentist every three months.  She would have a cleaning and a check-up.  It’s called preventative dental care people.  Preventative dental care.  Daughter has been complaining about a tooth for a couple of weeks and finally after my constant hounding The Turk arranged an appointment for yesterday afternoon.  Oh.  My.  God!

We walked into the dental hospital and I knew immediately that this was a mistake.  The building was dilapidated, not old actually dilapidated.  No paint, holes in the walls, dirty floors.  This is not what a dental hospital should look like.  There must have been 200 people waiting to be seen.  Daughter clung to me and whispered that she would probably end up with a highly contagious disease and started sprouting off various diseases that can be transmitted by unclean instruments.  I smiled and told her to relax but to be honest she was absolutely right. 

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On the bright side and despite the sheer volume of people there our appointment was on time.  Daughter entered the consultation room.  The Turk tried to come with her but was told to wait outside.  Less than one minute later the door opened and Daughter emerged.  What happened?

“She asked me to open my mouth.  I did.  She looked in and said there was nothing wrong with me.  She told me I was wasting her time.  So I left.”

No instruments.  No nothing just as cursory examination before sending her on her way.  The Turk blew a gasket at the doctor and she told him that you don’t come to a dentist unless you are in pain.  She said it was unnecessary to do a cleaning.  The doctor then suggested that if Daughter’s teeth seemed unclean we should buy a toothbrush.  Such an excellent suggestion!  Capital idea!  The Turk ushered Daughter out the door and threw some expletives at the doctor as we went.

But he made it up to her.  When she came home from school today he told her to get changed and meet him downstairs.

After spending a moment being loved up by Stanley and his sore leg she ran downstairs to find – a new bike!

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When The Turk asked Daughter how she was her reply to him was, “Good as gold Dad.  Good as gold!”

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God I miss bacon

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Seriously.  I was sitting at my desk this morning writing an email and I swear I could smell bacon.  Thinking about bacon right now is making me drool.  Literally drool.  God I miss bacon.

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Bacon is without doubt the best food on earth.  There are not many foods that can evoke this type of enthusiasm from me this early in the morning but bacon definitely takes this prize.  So versatile that it can be used for breakfast, lunch and dinner.  It can be eaten on its own or adding it to anything else will only enhance the original dishes flavour.  Salad?  Yep throw in some bacon.  Roasts?  Spread bacon across that bad boy sizzling away.  Sandwiches?  Burgers?  Omelettes?  What can’t bacon improve?  God I miss bacon.

I don’t miss pork.  Never a big fan.  I do love crackling though.  God I miss bacon.

Ham.  I miss ham.  I miss The Turk’s pizza.  His pizza was seriously the best pizza in Sydney.  I miss ham and God I miss bacon.

I thought I had tracked down some ham at Migros a couple of days back.  They were selling Jambon which means ham in English.  Nearly wet myself.  After examining the packet I still thought it was ham.  I got it home.  I was wrong.  It was beef ham?  WTF??  God I miss ham and God I miss bacon.

There is a piggery in Antalya I could go to.  Antalya is, I think, a 6 hour drive from here (but 30 minutes on a plane).  Would that seem excessive?  To jump on a plane to purchase bacon?  Would I bring it back as hand luggage?  Would they even let me bring it on the plane?  God I miss bacon.

I hate bacon jokes.   I hate bacon meme’s.  They are cruel.  They are everywhere.  Every time I open any social media a joke or a photo of bacon appears.  It is akin to torture for a person in my peril.  God I miss bacon.

The Turk tells me I am being overly dramatic.  Yes, yes I am.  God I miss bacon.

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Contradictions (and a bit of a recap)

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I wrote this a little over a week ago but due to some personal issues with my father in law as well as the current tensions in Turkey I felt it more appropriate to not post this at that time.  Turkey is in upheaval, yet again, and although tension is high I feel completely safe here in Mersin although there have been recent protests.  With elections looming all parties are throwing heated comments at each other and with the recent death of 15 year old Berkin Elvan it has become a travesty to bear witness to.

Officially it has been six months since we uprooted our lives and moved to Mersin.  Since I first met The Turk we would fantasise about moving to Turkey, whether it is for one year or forever but that fantasy was always put on the backburner as real life would interfere with our dream.  When my beautiful Dad passed away from that evil bastard that is cancer the dream of moving to Turkey was put back on the table but this time it was Daughter’s idea.  Having just lost her Granddad she wanted to spend as much time as possible with her other grandparents before they were taken from her too.  Her thoughts were, understandably, a little morbid but on reflection perfectly timed and we were all grateful to have had time with her grandmother, my mother in law, before she passed away in January.

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As an expat Turkey is a country of contradictions.  We live in a luxurious apartment with every modern convenience (just don’t mention toilet paper to me) but right next door my sister in law and her family make their bread over an open flame. Contradictions.

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We shop at Zara and TopShop, we get our coffee from Starbucks and we eat in nice restaurants.  We are surrounded by all our electronics to make life easier too from flat screen televisions, iPods and iPads meanwhile from my balcony I can watch the local women working on the farm across the lane for 30TL a day or witness children begging in the streets.  Contradictions.

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I smile at the faces of people around me.  These people are my family now but there are times I want to throw a brick at the shopkeepers who are so unhelpful as I am a yabanci or to the strangers who watch me as I walk by in my western clothes.  Yes I wear jeans and a t-shirt; no I am not a whore.  No I do not wear a head scarf; yes I have the utmost respect for your religion although I wonder do you have any respect for mine?  Before you ask, no I do not want to pay twice as much because I am a yabanci and just for the record I am not your ATM machine.  Contradictions.

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Adjustments were made by all of us over the past six months.  I think I have had it the easiest (well if you put aside the fact that I had no Turkish and now six months later I have little Turkish).  I had no expectations.  I know that things will not work the way that they did in Sydney and I was ready to accept this although I do get mighty peeved when the rubbish internet dies.  I think it has been The Turk who has had the most difficulty in adjusting – or should I say re-adjusting – to life in Turkey.  Having had the luxury of living in Sydney with its first world conveniences the littlest molehill can quickly escalate to the largest mountain.  I cannot tell you the number of times The Turk has said he wants to go back “home” to Sydney.  I guarantee before this day is over I will hear it yet again.  Cry me a river mate.

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Daughter is very content.  She has made some good friends, she has quickly learnt conversational Turkish (although apparently has a funny accent).  She is getting by at school and although she now has a nemesis she considers this means she is truly accepted by her class mates.  Her adjustments were mostly first world problems too.  Disappointments when things don’t go according to plan and realising just how damn lucky she is compared to so many.  Contradictions.

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Last Friday I had to return to the Emniyet yet again but I won’t bore you with that story today.  Anyway, while we were waiting to be interviewed I watched group after group of Syrian refugees lining up to speak to officials, to update their living arrangements or to ask for assistance.  I was shocked by the sheer volume of refugees coming through the door but The Turk has little sympathy for them.  I recently watched on the haber that there have been a few instances of racism against refugees in Turkey with most of Turkish society considering the refugees “temporary” in that they will return to their own country in due course.  There are in fact a few Syrian families that have settled into the village however The Turk does not interact with them in any way.  Recently a Syrian mother came to our door asking for a small donation and The Turk sent her on her way without a kurus.  Why?  What’s a few lira?  “If you give them an inch they will take a mile”.  His behaviour completely floored me firstly because he used one of my mother’s favourite sayings (a saying I have used on Daughter many, many times) and secondly because usually The Turk is the most generous person I know.  Contradictions.

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Turkey can be, and should be, extremely confronting, full of contradictions.  I have difficulties in accepting these contradictions at times and I guess this is a good thing.  I should never accept these differences.  I should ensure that Daughter never accepts these differences because once you have acceptance then you will never help change what is to come.

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40 days

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Yesterday marked 40 days since the death of my mother in law.  Another tough couple of days with tears flowing freely for Refika.  She was truly a remarkable woman and loved by so many people.

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Having never attended a Turkish funeral I really had no idea what was going to happen and due to the speed in which a funeral happens here (same day) I did not even have time to gather my thoughts or ask what to expect.

Refika had been feeling under the weather for some time.  She had had heart surgery 2 years earlier however the surgery was not a success and she had never really recovered.  She was still her welcoming and wonderful self to us when we arrived although it was obvious that she was not doing as well as she could have been.  Her death, however, was a complete shock.  I certainly did not anticipate it and when The Turk received a call from the hospital at 5 am requesting that the family attend I knew, as did he, that it was not going to be good news.

By 7 am two trucks arrived with chairs, apparently this funeral was going to be attended by hundreds of aile (family) and also her many friends that she had made over the years.  I am not exaggerating when I say there was over 400 chairs delivered and set up on the street.  A portable morgue, of sorts, was then delivered and set up in the driveway.  I was told that this was where Refika would be washed by a hodja (female washer) and prepared for her journey to paradise.

At this point I started to freak out a little as people were arriving in their droves and clearly I had no idea what was going on or what was expected of me.  Those who know me know that I am not really one to show emotion but the crying, nay wailing, that had already begun was the most awful thing I think I had ever heard in my life.  Of course I had been to funerals before.  My beloved parents, extended family members and also to support my friends in their time of grief.  I have not, however, been to anything like this.

When Refika was brought home absolute bedlam broke out.  There was a lot of screaming and wailing, a lot of tears.  The grief was almost too much for me to bear and I tried to keep out of everyone’s way but before I knew it Daughter and I were brought into the portable morgue to say goodbye.  Daughter was distraught – although I let her come to my father’s funeral two years ago that was a western funeral and quite sedate in comparison – in my mind I kept wishing she had gone to school that morning as her cousins had done to protect her from the emotion and grief.

After Refika had been washed and prepared for burial the imam (leader of Islamic community) arrived and gave a prayer.  The men then took her body and placed it in a casket where it was then settled onto the back of a truck and taken to the mezarlik (cemetery) for burial.  Interestingly women are not invited to attend at the burial.  They will attend the next morning to pay their respect.

There was a constant stream of family members attending over the next seven days.  From early morning through late in the evening there was visitors coming to pay their respects.  The mourning areas were separated – one for the men and one for the ladies.  This annoyed me as the men got to sit in the sunshine while us ladies were segregated to the rear of the property in the shade (and you wonder why people kept getting sick).  Cay was constantly being served and meals were delivered by neighbours for next seven days which is the first part of the mourning period.  By this stage I began to hide as between the tears and the stress of attending on a daily basis was beginning to take its toll on me.

On the seventh day the iman re-attended at our home and gave another prayer for Refika.  This was also the day that a sheep was sacrificed and meals were prepared for all of our neighbours and fellow mourners.  This now marked the end of the official seven days of mourning.

The next date of commemoration will be the 52nd day although again I am unsure exactly what this will entail.

I am glad that we were in Turkey before Refika passed away.  I am glad that Daughter spent at least some time every day with her.  I am glad that The Turk was able to be with her in the end and I am glad that I had met and loved this wonderful women.  She will be missed by me and missed by anyone who ever met her.

Başiniz sağ olsun (Let health be on your head)

No Touching Please – I’m Australian

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I have never been a big fan over overfamiliarity.  No unnecessary hugging or kissing or . . . look just get out of my dance space okay?

Here in Turkey it is in fact unusual to not be overly familiar with people.  A “gunaydin” (“Good morning”) is usually accompanied with a kiss on both cheeks and a hug for good measure.  The first time it happened I stiffened like a board but now I have come to accept (albeit reluctantly) that friends or strangers alike they will come at you whether you want them to or not.

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It is also absolutely acceptable to give a kiss or a hug to a stranger’s child, which would not only be be unheard of back in Australia., you would probably be arrested for it!

The first time I took Daughter to Turkey she was 10 weeks old.  The Turk did not yet have a visa and so I was taking her to meet her father.  It was a 27 hour flight from whoa to go – Sydney/Bangkok/Istanbul/Bodrum.  By the time I reached Istanbul I was haggard.  Travelling as a single mother was extremely challenging particularly with the precious little package that I had with me.  Arriving in Istanbul I had a 4 hour wait for my connection to Bodrum.  I sat with Daughter in my arms on a chair and promptly passed out from exhaustion.  When I awoke Daughter was no longer in my arms.  She had been kidnapped by the elderly Turkish lady sitting next to me who kept her for the whole flight and at one point I wondered if she was ever going to give her back.  Luckily The Turk was waiting and she reluctantly handed Daughter over to him but not before she kissed, cuddled and thoroughly examined her.

Daughter also has her own issue with the overfamiliarity.  It seems that not only do her friends in the village school greet each other every morning with kisses and hugs it is also not unusual for a teacher to hug or kiss a student – certainly not what this Aussie kid is used to and it made me say “Yikes” when I found out!

Over the past week I have probably kissed and hugged over 1000 people which, putting aside my non-touching issues also brings up my germaphobe issues.  People – keep your hands and lips to yourself.  It’s the flu season.  I have run out of my Dettol hand sanitizer and I am now having a general melt down.  The Turk is sick, Daughter sounds like she is hocking up a lung and I am running around with my Eucalyptus spray wiping down every hard surface that they touch.

The Week That Was

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There were still two things missing in our home in Mersin.  One was The Turk but he was arriving on Pazar (Sunday).  The other was our cargo and I was starting to think that it was never going to arrive.  The belief that it is available has been hanging in the air since the first week of October but between then and now we have had public holidays, a mountain load of paperwork and numerous other issues with customs so when my brother in law called me to come downstairs with my passport early on Monday morning, well, frankly I thought it was going to be another wasted day before I would return home angry and empty handed.

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Arriving at the Free Trade Zone (Mersin Harbour) to collect the cargo my brother in law was advised that I was unable to enter the area (presumably because I do not have a penis) so I waited outside the gate in a small metal cage a-la Berlin Wall pre-1989 while my brother in law disappeared behind the fence (the promised land?) to collect the cargo on my behalf.   The hot Turkish sun beat down on my brow . . . wait really?  Yes really!  I sat in this cell for two hours in the sun (the security guards did thoughtfully bring me a chair) waiting for my brother in law to return but when he did it was with a huge smile on his face.  We had our cargo!  The back of his truck was filled with boxes and suddenly my dehydration dissipated – we had our cargo!

The hard part was over – or so I thought.

I stared at the boxes on Monday afternoon but perhaps exhaustion (and heat stroke) got the better of me and I just could not face the daunting task of unpacking.  I would get it done on Tuesday.

Tuesday came a little too quickly and I felt my nemesis better known as procrastination tapping on my shoulder.  *Sigh*

Wednesday.  I opened the boxes – I know I am running out of time and The Turk will be here soon.  I have got to put everything away today!  My sister in law Songul offered to come and help me but I chased her out the door.  No, this is my job and I will get it done today!

I do not want to talk about Thursday.

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Today is Friday and Songul just could not take any more!  She and her sisters arrived and within an hour all 26 boxes were unpacked to the sounds of laughter and chatter.  It seems all I needed to get this done was a little motivation and a little help from my friends.  Eğer bayanlar teşekkür ederim (thank you ladies).

My kitchen cupboards are full.  Daughter has her clothes and games.  Hurley has his bed and Kedi is playing in the boxes.  So now the only thing missing is The Turk.

Bring on Sunday!!!

Sunshine and the Old City

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The Festival of Kurban Bayran is finally coming to a close.  It has been a great couple of days visiting with family, lots of scrumptious banquets (I am pretty sure I have put back on the weight that I have lost over the past few weeks) and generally spending quality time with Daughter which has been lacking since we have arrived (mainly because she is zigging left with her cousins and new friends and I am zagging right attending Government offices and chasing down documents).

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So today we decided to travel by dolmus into the city of Mersin itself and spend the day exploring our new surrounds.  I have done this a few times while Daughter has been at school so I proudly asserted that I could find my way around without a map and that I would “NOT” get us lost!

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Mersin is sometimes known as the Pearl of the Mediterranean” (Akdeniz’in İncisi) although I would never call it that.  I have always been overwhelmed by Mersin with its noisy streets feeling somewhat claustrophobic with chaotic traffic and even more chaotic people rushing around to get to where they want to be but today, being the last day of Kurban Bayram, the city gave off a completely new vibe with most of the shops and businesses closed for the 4 day holiday.  I must say that I drank in the peace wandering through the alleys in the old city, passing through secret doors leading to cobbled passageways away from the main caddesi.  Unfortunately for me (and for my pride) it became quite apparent to Daughter that we were completely lost and, despite my objections to the contrary, she laughed loudly before pulling out her mobile and saving the day with Google maps!

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Even though many of the shops were closed the restaurants were all open for business so we stopped for chai before making our way to Ataturk Parki to soak up the sunshine and watch the endless parade of people passing by.  From men fishing, families picnicking and young lovers walking hand in hand it reminded me just a little of Manly Beach on a Sunday morning.  I felt a little bit homesick right then (or maybe I was hungry) so we crossed back near the mosque and found a small tantuni shop open for business with the waiters more than happy to practice their English on us both.

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Content with our day we returned home ready to spend the late afternoon on the couch, maybe dozing with a cat on my lap but as soon as we arrived Daughter was called to visit friends (zig) and I was called down to my mother in laws for cay and to chat about my day (zag).

I could definitely get used to this life!

Life is a roller coaster, live it, be happy, enjoy life

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Our family has been riding an emotional rollercoaster for some time now.  As many of you know my beautiful Dad passed away last year and the heartbreak and loss that I have felt has dragged me down into an abyss of forlorn.  A few of you have pulled me aside and questioned the decision to go to Turkey was merely me running from the pain that I felt but after some soul searching I realised that I am not running away I am in fact coming home.  The Village is my home, at least it will be for now.

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So over the past few weeks I have strapped myself in and held on for the rollercoaster ride of a lifetime!

Like most rollercoaster rides it starts off pretty painlessly, and I found packing up our lives was actually the easy part (although the two box allowance blew out to about 10 boxes each!), however before too long the rollercoaster started to gain momentum and my life began to spiral out of control.  From changing schools to exporting live animals each morning brought me a new set of problems that had to be solved (and after I solved the problem it then had to be translated into Turkish). Family arguments have been of global proportions and on more than one occasion I have contemplated leaving both The Turk and my daughter in Sydney and escaping to Turkey (or anywhere) alone.  I have spent countless days running between the Turkish Consulate and various Australian departments in the puerile attempt to secure a Turkish passport for my daughter however this appears to be more elusive than a “hippogriff” and I am pretty sure that I will never see one of those either!

But rollercoasters are supposed to be fun aren’t they?  So rather than dwell on the crazy of the ride I celebrate the memories that I have created over the past few weeks.

I drank to my last day working in the best office in the world (although I imagine a few of you would not agree with that statement).  I have sung (yelled) Cold Chisel at the pub, visited my favourite haunts on the Northern Beaches and have even driven past my childhood home in Cromer bringing tears to my eyes with the memories.  I have had many farewell lunches and many more farewell evenings with wonderful friends that I will miss more than I can say.  And yes I know there are many more that I did not get to hug that one last time but I have not forgotten you and will write to each of you until we can have our next hug.

And in the blink of an eye the rollercoaster has come to a halt and it is time to leave Sydney.  Time to leave this beautiful city to begin again in the Village.

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