A storm is coming.
The smoky clouds are gathering speed as they roll in over the mountains tops. I know, now, how quickly a storm descends on Grape Village. One minute the sun is beaming happily over the land; the next, lightening feels like it’s going to split the house in two. The wind has already blown one of our window shutters off its hinges. During these storms, Django trembles until his teeth are chattering.
I know, now, to take him in my arms and cuddle him before the thunder begins, although his little body still leaps when he hears the rain start to beat against the roof. I know to cancel plans involving internet or the oven. I don’t exactly live in a tent, but I feel more connected to nature here than I have anywhere I’ve lived before.
Every morning, these days, more flowers are exploding out of the corners of houses and fields. Roses, poppies, white-petalled beauties, yellow daffodil-cousins (yes, that’s their Latin name). We recently befriended a lady, Oya Abla (“abla” means sister and is a term of respect in Turkiye), who sells eggs from her chickens who live in her yard. Driving home one night, we spotted her outside her house and asked if she had any.
“What are you doing out at this hour?” she demanded, laughing.
We apologized and would come the next day.
“Hang on,” she said. “Do you have eggs at home?”
No, we said. We did not.
“Then wait here.”
She went upstairs and came back with a bag full of them, still covered in dirt and chicken shit. Now, she leaves them for us at the top of her stairs and we leave her cash stuffed in a plastic men’s slipper.
The Turkish elections, now just a day away, are so fraught they’ve made the cover of The Economist. Suffice it to say, it’s not likely to be a smooth event.
It could, in fact, be very un-smooth. Words have been used that have never applied to any country I’ve lived in. Prices have soared and dropped in the last couple of weeks. Our rental house is getting sold and we have to move, but we’ve stopped looking for a new place until at least after the first set of elections. The poet scans the news each day, devouring videoed debates and podcasts that postulate on what will happen if. He’s made me promise repeatedly that if it gets bad around these parts, I’ll go to Canada. As a Turkish citizen, he doesn’t get the same privilege.
More life things I only ever thought about as happening to other people.
The opposition party has set up an office here in Grape Village. One day, I spotted campaigners with leaflets stopping people in the streets. This stone building next to a vegetable stand and a barber shop, now covered in posters and campaign photos, seemed so out of place I laughed out loud. Two of the campaigners strode eagerly towards me, then stopped, turned around and walked away. I looked down and realized what they’d probably thought:
“That woman has a dog on a rope.”
I am not their target demographic.
In this country, the majority of dogs run free—even some of the ones in shelters. A local dog rescue organization has built an outdoor shelter in a forest down the road from the village, and I’ve started helping out there once a week. After only 3 visits, the residents have started to feel like family. The race up to the car when we arrive, and some of them, despite being retriever-sized, like to climb into our laps for cuddles. They’re all up for adoption, but taking in a stray dog and caring for it is not so commonly practiced here.
Django has befriended two free range dogs live down the road from us. We named them Danny and Isaac because of their strong physical and spiritual resemblance to two Ted Lasso characters. Every day, Django begs to go visit them. I unhook him from his leash when he sees them and he speeds towards them, tail wagging but mouth growling, which they respond to by turning onto their backs in submission, and then playing with him patiently until he calms down.
Some days, I feel so grateful for this place: its people; its nature; its beauty; its barefaced, crumbling old houses. Other days, the sense of isolation feels like gravity, pulling me into the earth. There aren’t a lot of people I can speak to, and, because of the way I feel about small talk, even fewer than there could be.
I think about leaving more often than I care to mention. Now, with the possibility of actually having to leave, I have the urge to tie myself to a tree. I’ve had an escape plan for my whole adult life, until now. “Somewhere to Go That is Better Than Here.” Lately, though, I’ve been wondering if my reason for not finding this place is not because I haven’t looked hard enough.
Yesterday morning was bright and summery. Django and I visited Danny and Isaac, then we joined the poet and walked to the weekly market. We bought strawberries and goat’s cheese, bitter greens and dried figs juicier than you could dream of. The poet, as always, bought something from each vendor, chatting with all the old ladies, taking things home we didn’t really need just to put a few lira in their pockets.
Later, I walked to the office of my one friend here, an architect we met on our first visit to Grape Village, so she and I could work side by side for a few hours.
As I left the house, I saw storm clouds rolling in over the mountain again.
But it never did rain.
What a beautiful story you have woven Natalie. Storm clouds and free ranging animals and longing and amazing local color. Thank you for this lovely snapshot of your life in Turkiye
Thank you for your usual beautiful writing. As the mother of a daughter who is planning to move, at least temporarily, to Türkiye next year with her Turkish partner, I too am watching the election as is her partner’s entire family no doubt. Prayers for things not to get too brutal whatever happens.