After Denizli, the end of summer, some daytrips and all the initial adjusting, Turkey slowly started to change its texture. November and December arrived almost unnoticed, bringing with them a feeling I wasn’t fully prepared for: the sense of being at home — or at least something dangerously close to it. İzmir stopped being a backdrop and turned into routine. Streets no longer require constant vigilance, public transportation doesn’t feel like a daily survival challenge, and the city’s chaos has developed its own internal logic — one that I now accept without too many follow-up questions.
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Feeling at home also began to show up in very specific, slightly concerning ways. Eating bomba is still part of my routine, and at this point it’s no longer a phase — it’s a lifestyle. And without any official announcement, çay started tasting like home. Not exotic, not interesting, not “something I learned to appreciate” — just familiar. Which is probably how you know you’re in trouble.
Then Istanbul happened. Not Constantinople (we’re not doing that today), but Istanbul — loud, chaotic,
overwhelming, and somehow perfectly balanced in its contradictions. Easily the best trip I’ve had in Turkey so far. The Basilica Cistern, the Blue Mosque, Hagia Sophia… all of it hit differently. Less “wow, what a beautiful landmark” and more “wow, this is my actual life now”. Istanbul doesn’t really want to be understood — it demands to be felt. And, inconveniently, I felt everything.
Back in İzmir, life kept unfolding. New workshops appeared, especially the one at the Women Center, which brought the kind of conversations that stick with you — thoughtful,
necessary, and occasionally uncomfortable in the best possible way. Shortly after, I started doing office work with the humanitarian aid team, slowly transitioning from “observing
politely” to “actually being useful”, which felt like a personal achievement. And then December arrived, uninvited but inevitable.
Christmas showed up looking slightly lost, unsure whether it belonged there. Being far from my family hurt — it was, undeniably, a bittersweet Christmas. But it was also unexpectedly lovely. In Karşıyaka, with my colleagues, we managed to recreate a Christmas atmosphere entirely from scratch: improvised, warm, mildly chaotic, and held together by affection and shared snacks. It wasn’t my Christmas — but it was real, and that turned out to be enough..
Now, things feel settled. I’ve moved beyond merhaba and teşekkürler — my Turkish is still very much under construction, but there’s effort, intention, and the occasional successful sentence. There’s communication. There’s belonging, even if it arrives in small, quiet moments.
Winter has fully arrived. The cold is real. And yes, this is the part where I admit something slightly embarrassing: despite everything, our hearts stay warm. If at the beginning everything felt new and overwhelming, now it feels familiar. If I once floated around the edges, now I live inside it. İzmir no longer tests me daily — it simply exists with me, in its honest, chaotic way.
So here I am. Living, learning, making small mistakes, celebrating small wins. Not a tourist. Not really a newcomer anymore. Just someone who slowly — and slightly against her own expectations — found a place somewhere in between.
