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Paris, You Are Everything & More

Published on by jesuisjatonLeave a comment

By JaTon Kılınç

On a recent trip to the Netherlands to visit family, we thought it would be a great idea to spend a few days in Paris. Oddly enough, I’ve been to Europe multiple times, visited countries bordering France, and even run a blog with a French title—but I had never actually been to France.

If you’ve read any of my other articles, you already know that I studied French and have an ongoing love affair with the language. While I’ve long been obsessed with the idea of visiting southern France, I wasn’t particularly interested in Paris for several reasons.

I’d heard mixed reviews about the City of Love, and most weren’t exactly glowing. Even my husband said Parisians were horrible to him and his Dutch buddies when they visited in their early twenties. Beyond the reputation of the “rude Parisian,” I’d also heard the city was tiny, dirty, and smelled. (To be fair, all Americans call European cities tiny.) But even some Europeans warned me to be wary of Parisians.

Despite the grumblings of travelers before me, I decided to give Paris a fair shot. So, we loaded up the SUV—probably our first mistake, considering we were driving into Paris with luggage—and made the six-hour trek from the Netherlands through Belgium into France.

When I finally saw the Bienvenue en France sign, I was elated. It felt like I was finally meeting an online lover I’d known for years but never experienced in person. Armed with my high-school French grammar, a pocket phrasebook, and a translation app for backup, I was ready to meet Monsieur France.

Well… I didn’t meet him immediately, but I did encounter a grumpy old French woman at a border-town gas station who made fun of me when I asked, in French, if she spoke English. She was already irritated—by the British gentleman ahead of me, the long fuel lines, and all the non-French people she had to deal with.

At first, I hesitated to speak in my broken French, thinking it would only make things worse. But mes amies, let me tell you—the French have endless patience if you speak to them in their own language. I quickly switched to French, told her our pump number, how much we wanted to pay, and even bid her an au revoir on the way out.

TAKE THAT, mean old French lady!

My husband, who can’t speak a lick of French, stayed silent through the entire ordeal but patted me on the back on the way out. “Good job, honey,” he said.

When we finally reached Paris, I knew exactly what to do: speak exclusively in French and wait for Parisians to switch to English. It worked like a charm.

To my surprise, I found Paris charming—not in a warm and fuzzy way, but in a New-Yorker-with-a-French-air kind of way. Parisians have a hard exterior. They’re busy, blunt, and rarely smiling on the streets. If I’m honest, there’s a subtle battle of the alphas energy in the air. Add a language barrier, and things can feel intense and overwhelming. But for me, the challenge was refreshing and exhilarating.

Every French person I interacted with greeted me with poise, calm, and respect. (According to my husband, some even flirted—but that’s still up for debate. I insist they were just being nice.) I was even told that my French accent was great—and I’m still giddy in an ooh-la-la way after hearing that.

If only my high-school French teacher could have witnessed that monumental moment! She would have had no choice but to call me Jacqueline—the French name I had chosen in ninth grade. But she refused, insisting that I already had a beautiful French name and didn’t need another one like the other students. I was furious! I mean, Jason became Jean, Erin became Élise, Amy became Amélie… so why couldn’t I be Jacqueline?

Okay, I digress. Old wounds, mes amies—old wounds. 😆

Anyway, let’s just say I handled Paris like a champ. I ordered food in French, spoke to a boulangerie manager in French when my husband lost his wallet, and even asked for help at the grocery store—in French—when I needed to buy tampons.

Ah yes… the tampon story. Let’s rip that bandage off now.

We had just left the boulangerie—not the one where my husband lost his wallet, but another one (you’ll go to a lot of bakeries in France, trust me). If you ever make it to Paris, check out Leonie—no one, and I mean no one, makes pastries like the French.

But I digress again. Back to the humiliation.

My husband’s hands were full of bags, and since he doesn’t speak French, he didn’t want to enter another store carrying goods from elsewhere, afraid he’d be scolded. I assured him my limited French could handle any disagreement, but he insisted I go into Carrefour alone.

So I did.

I grabbed my tampons—and that’s when everything started going sideways. First, I couldn’t find the checkout line. When I finally did, I realized it was self-checkout. Not the simple kind we have in the U.S., but a full-blown French operation: ten lanes, a floor attendant barking directions, and assistants helping other customers navigate the process.

I started sweating. I remembered that in Turkey’s Carrefour, you needed a value card before paying. “Oh God,” I thought, “do I have to fill out an application just to buy tampons?”

I considered leaving the line to ask someone but didn’t want to lose my spot. As I inched forward, panic set in again. The man in front of me looked intimidating—like a mean New Yorker with a French aura. I probably stared at the back of his head for ten minutes, and I swear he could feel my eyes burning into him.

So I turned around to ask the “woman” behind me for help—only to realize it was a young Frenchman. There I stood, tampons in hand, staring at him until I finally asked, in French, whether I needed a Carrefour card.

He misunderstood and said yes. My heart dropped. Then he laughed and switched to perfect English. Oh, thank God, I said—possibly in French. Turns out, I had asked if they accepted credit cards, not store cards.

We both burst out laughing and ended up chatting about everything under the sun. When it was finally my turn to check out, I asked Monsieur French if he’d come with me to the register—because, let’s be real, my French isn’t that good. Who knew what kind of questions the machine might throw at me about coupons or loyalty points?

He happily helped me, and after I paid, I thanked him profusely and bid him farewell.

So, mes amies, the moral of the story is this: Parisians are actually very kind—if you remember to say “Bonjour,” don’t assume they speak English, and make an effort to speak French.

The next time someone tells you the French are mean, don’t believe it. I have a box of tampons to prove otherwise. 🩷

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon

Finding My Roots

Published on by jesuisjaton5 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Attending 28th National Association of Yoruba Descendants in North America

Mes amies, today I’d like to shift the tone a little and talk about something more serious than my usual articles—something that’s been on my heart: connecting with our roots.

I believe we’re all searching for truth, purpose, and meaning—to understand where we come from. Of course, that search often leads to deeper discoveries and even bigger questions about why we’re here. But before those questions ever form, I think most of us want to know, at least on a surface level, where we’re from.

For Americans, this curiosity feels especially real since, aside from the Indigenous people, we’re all imports. I’ve had friends of European descent question their roots or swear they belonged to a certain heritage, only to discover through DNA testing that they were British instead of German—despite generations of family stories saying otherwise.

I even had an adopted Asian friend tell me she struggled with identity growing up in America because she didn’t know where she came from.

Now, I can’t speak for all African diasporans, but I’ve always felt like I was clinging to something that wasn’t entirely mine. Personally, I believe much of this stems from the American system—but that’s a story for another day. There’s a deep yearning among many African Americans to understand where we come from.

Growing up as a person of color in the United States, there was always a lingering sense of not fully belonging. I’m not even sure those are the right words, but it’s the closest I can get to describing the feeling. American society has subtle ways of showing you that you’re “different”—through advertising, the school system, toys, media, and now social media. It’s hard to feel 100% American when those signals are everywhere, and that creates a kind of lifelong longing to belong—to fit in—a longing that never fully goes away, even in adulthood.

And yet, despite all of that, in many ways I am very American. One trip across the pond will show anyone that American culture permeates everything about us. But on a deeper level, there’s still a disconnect.

For starters, I’ve often been told I have a “non-American face.” Honestly, I don’t even know what that means—though I’ve always considered myself more of an international girl. Once, an Ethiopian man asked me where I was from. When I told him I was American, he asked where my parents were from. I explained that my parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents were all born and raised in the United States. Then he asked what tribe I was from.

No matter what I said, he kept pressing for a background I didn’t have. I didn’t even know how to respond. Do I explain that I’m essentially a mutt? Do I get into the painful details of the slave trade? It’s such a complicated history that I didn’t want to unpack in that moment. Eventually, he realized that my family had been in America for so long that we no longer knew where our ancestors originated. He could barely fathom that idea.

Finally, I mentioned that I’d taken a DNA test, which showed my ancestry scattered across different regions. He nodded thoughtfully and then said, with confidence, “Well, you could be Ethiopian.”

Of course, I didn’t believe him—I’d never seen an Ethiopian who looked like me—but he assured me that in his country, there were people who did. I’d never been to the African continent, so I couldn’t argue. But his words got my wheels turning and ignited an insatiable desire to learn more about my roots.

I started researching—and, if I’m honest, became a bit obsessed—with Africa and its people. Up to that point, I’d only taken the Ancestry.com test, but it left me feeling somewhat empty. My DNA was spread across the map, and I didn’t feel any true connection to one place.

Still, knowing I was about 80% of African descent, it made sense to start there. I mean, come on—can you imagine me showing up in Ireland with my chocolate skin saying, “Guys, I’m home”?

I once had a boss who jokingly called me his “little jihadist” because of the small percentage of Middle Eastern DNA I carried. DNA is tricky—and let’s face it, we live in a world where what’s on top of the skin matters far more than what’s beneath.

So, I decided my best chance at connecting the dots was to use a company called African Ancestry. I had two options: to test my maternal or paternal line. Knowing the paternal side only had about a 60% success rate, I chose the maternal test, which offered a 90% chance of results.

Mes amies, when I tell you I was antsy and desperate—I mean desperate. I checked my email constantly after submitting my sample, even though they told me it would take six to eight weeks. I thought, surely, I’d be that special case who got her results early, right?

After weeks of (impatiently) waiting, the results finally arrived—connecting me to the Yoruba people of Nigeria. I was ecstatic. I’m not sure what I would have done if the test had come back inconclusive—I might’ve curled up in the fetal position and called off work to “find myself,” lol.

Armed with this new information, I immediately declared myself a long-lost Yoruban princess. I joined Nigerian forums, read about Yoruba culture and history, bought a Nigerian face mask, and told anyone who’d listen that I was a princess (let’s face it, I am). I began listening to popular Nigerian artists and added the Yoruban language to my ever-growing list of languages (check out my article on “flirting with languages“).

Mes amies, one thing to know about me is this: when I set my heart on something, I go all in. I’m not a half-measure kind of girl—it’s all or nothing.

Even while living in Turkey, I stayed connected to the Yoruba community. And I’m proud to say that I was recently invited to my first Nigerian Gala in honor of the Yoruba People of North America. I attended with my beautiful daughter, and it was an incredible experience—to feel truly embraced by a group of people who welcomed us as their own.

There were no questions, no stares—just oneness. The Nigerian Consul General attended, along with other esteemed guests. We tasted traditional Nigerian dishes and connected on a deeper, soulful level.

As I sat among the Yorubas, I couldn’t help but feel a quiet sense of accomplishment, as if somewhere out there, my ancestors were smiling. My people lost so much on that transatlantic journey—many never survived or made it home. They lost their culture, their language, their land, and their families.

But through me… they are one step closer to returning home.

Now, my dear mes amies, let’s start a dialogue.

Are you living in an adopted country? What has that experience been like for you?
Can you relate to what I’ve shared here?
Have you recently reconnected with your mother’s or father’s people in a land far from your birthplace?

I’m always curious about my readers’ experiences, so feel free to drop me a line or two.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon

What Life is Like Returning Home From Overseas.

Published on by jesuisjaton2 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Mes amies, I’m back in the U.S. after spending half a year overseas in Turkey—and here’s what I’ve learned.

It’s much easier to romanticize a place when you’re only there for a week or two on vacation. Being a tourist is an entirely different experience than relocating or trying to build a life in a foreign country. Things you find charming as a traveler can drive you absolutely crazy once you become a local.

Now, I believe wholeheartedly that I know what it takes to make an international move successful—or at the very least, to give yourself a fighting chance at surviving it. I’m not saying my time in Turkey wasn’t successful. In many ways, it was a huge learning curve—a trial run of sorts. But to be fair to Turkey, I had one foot in my home country and one foot overseas. While I desperately wanted to experience life beyond the States, I wasn’t entirely ready to leave it all behind.

So, let’s start from the beginning.

When I first arrived back in the U.S., I was thrilled to be on American soil. Everything felt exciting for a moment. I even welcomed the over-the-top, slightly superficial smiles in grocery stores and Target. Ah, there’s that customer service I missed, I thought. I offered a genuine smile in return and gladly whipped out my wallet.

After using lira for months, it felt good to handle American dollars again—and not have to carry wads of cash like I was robbing a bank just to buy a roll of tissue. (Okay, mes amies, I’m exaggerating… but only slightly.)

My excitement didn’t stop there. I was so happy to hear English spoken on the streets, to watch television without subtitles, and to walk into a store and have a conversation that went beyond polite greetings. Believe it or not, I was even happy to return to work—not just to be around other Americans, but to feel like a productive contributor to society again.

When you’re living abroad on a residency visa without a work visa, after a while you start questioning your purpose—but that’s a conversation for another day.

Then, after the honeymoon phase of being home wore off, I started to miss Turkey.

I missed the warmth of the Turkish people. There’s a coldness in American society that many immigrants mention, and now I understand it more clearly after being on the other side. (I’ll write more about that one day—how travel deepens empathy.)

I missed the fresh food, the ability to walk to the grocery store, and the simple rhythm of life. In the U.S., everything is supersized—including, dare I say, the egos—so there’s more distance between you, your neighbors, and your local stores. But the space doesn’t stop there; there’s also this invisible distance between people themselves. Everyone minds their own business, and no one particularly cares to know you either.

I began to feel like I was living in an organized concrete jungle in my own home country.

I missed the Mediterranean—the big open sky that greeted me each morning and kissed me goodnight with breathtaking sunsets. I missed sitting by the harbor with a friend, sipping tea, and having meaningful conversations in the middle of the afternoon.

In the U.S., people greet you with a casual “What’s up?” but rarely mean it. No one truly wants to know how you’re doing or to grab that coffee “sometime next week.” It’s just a figure of speech—because everyone’s too busy.

During my time in Turkey, I forgot about America’s political tensions, its endless labels, and the subtle ways people are categorized. As if the hectic work-life balance wasn’t enough to drive you insane, the social divisions only make it heavier.

While I love my job and my coworkers, I’m constantly tired here—because in the U.S., you’re always on the move, going from one box (your house) to another box (your car) to yet another box (your job). Things I once accepted without question now stand out more clearly. We really do live in a matrix of boxes.

But mes amies, before a tear slips down your cheek, let me assure you—it’s not all doom and gloom.

There are conveniences in the West I’m not quite ready to give up. Still, I miss the laid-back rhythm of life in what felt like the center of the world. Life was simpler there, less complicated.

Okay, I’ll admit, I did occasionally have morbid thoughts about ending up in a foreign hospital—but that was just my overactive imagination at work.

One day, mes amies, I’ll find the balance between the laid-back structure of the East and the conveniences of the West. And when I do, you’ll be the first to know.

Until then, I’ll keep adventuring in America—and I promise not to go months without keeping you, my dear reader friends, in the loop.

So tell me—have any of you experienced the blues of resettling into your home country? If so, drop me a line or two. I’d love to hear your stories.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon

What I Discovered After Living a Life of Leisure

Published on by jesuisjaton8 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

I woke up every day to an amazing view of the sea. I watched beautiful sunsets, drank wine at three in the afternoon—sometimes two if I’m honest (hey, who needs five o’clock when time is your own, right?)—sipped Turkish tea at random hours of the night, and never set an alarm because I didn’t have a job to check into.

In fact, mes amies, the only things I did with any real consistency were brushing my teeth, making the bed, and enjoying a hot cup of coffee around the same time each morning. Alright, I confess—I meditated too, though even that had no schedule.

For instance: if someone at the grocery store made me angry—meditation time. If an irate driver yelled at me in Turkish—meditation time. Basically, any time I was having “a moment,” it was time to light the sage, strike a Buddha pose, and connect with my higher self.

Okay, I’m half-kidding… and getting off track.

When I left my job in the States, the goal was simple: enjoy myself first, then get down to business. We’d traveled overseas with a comfortable cushion, so I didn’t have to worry about bills or food. And thanks to my Turkish husband, residency wasn’t a problem—no need to dodge immigration officers (though I like to think my old high-school track legs could still give them a run for their money).

But slowly, I began to realize something: after so many years in the workforce, I struggled with personal time management and structure.

I don’t mean I couldn’t manage time—I mean I couldn’t manage myself. Give me a project with deadlines and I’ll crush it. In fact, that was always one of my strongest assets at work—I often finished early. (Okay, part of that came from my competitive streak. I like to win.)

When I began this new chapter, I thought having nothing to do would feel amazing. Honestly, I didn’t even remember what that felt like. The last time I could just frolic around the house, I was probably seven.

I’ve always been a free spirit—never one to thrive under rigid structure or the time constraints most corporate jobs demand. The roles I loved most had flexible start times or were fully remote. Yet when I finally had all the time in the world, I didn’t know what to do with it. Not in the dreamy “life-of-leisure” way most of us imagine, anyway.

It had been years since I’d had months off. Years since I’d played an instrument, taken a ballet class, painted, sketched, or even written a novel. There was just no time—between work, motherhood, and now, marriage.

So there I was, surrounded by endless time… and completely lost. I had forgotten what it felt like to do the things I loved. It was like trying to reprogram a brain that had been on autopilot for decades.

Years of schooling and the workforce had trained even a free spirit like me to fall in line with the rest of the herd. When I was working, I lived for the weekends—and by Sunday, I was already miserable knowing I’d have to give up my freedom again on Monday.

So why, now that every day felt like Friday, was I not happy?

I remember telling my daughter I felt like I was trapped in that movie Groundhog Day—living the same day over and over. I might have even flipped off the Mediterranean Sea once in frustration (kidding… mostly). If I did, consider this my official apology to nature.

Eventually, my critical thinking kicked in. I started asking myself, What’s really the problem?

Sure, there were days when I explored—visiting Roman ruins, channeling my inner Indiana Jones—but every day can’t be an adventure. Try telling the one-year-ago version of me that I’d ever get tired of staring at the same ocean—I would have laughed. I would have traded my day job for that life of leisure in a heartbeat. And I bet most of you would, too.

But little by little, the old programmed version of me began to chip away.

I changed my perspective on life. I created my own meaning—one not tied to someone else’s dream. I started doing things that made me happy. I rediscovered the things I loved. I even started to love Mondays.

Mondays became exciting—the start of a new week, the day I might discover something new or rediscover something old.

Before leaving my home country, I’d focused mostly on the financial side of moving abroad. But there’s so much more to it than that. I used to wonder how someone with billions could possibly be bored—but now I understand.

I once heard Kim Kiyosaki say that “money is important because it affects everything that is,” and she’s 100% right. I love money—it’s extremely important—but there’s another side to that coin that must be nourished, too.

Mes amies, the novelty of everything eventually wears off. Don’t believe me? Go to Italy and watch the locals walk past the statues tourists are drooling over. I even experienced it in Turkey: there I was, frantically taking photos, while locals looked on with that bored “another foreigner” expression.

The crystal-clear waters, the sunsets, the rolling hills, the ancient ruins—they all exist to enhance our human experience. But the road can’t stop there, because as humans we must keep growing, expanding, creating.

Now I understand: a life of leisure only works when it’s paired with a life of purpose.

Mes amies, take a moment to reflect—what do you think your life’s purpose is? (I hope that’s not too deep; I might’ve just finished one of those meditation sessions I was telling you about. Hehe.)

P.S.
Stay tuned—because I’ll be traveling to Istanbul soon, and I’m sure something comical will happen. It usually does whenever I’m wandering around Turkey.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true,
Je suis JaTon

Foreword to the Quill…

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Mes amies, I decided to mix things up a little.

But first, let me share a little secret: I’m a published author now and a travel blogger for fun—but before all that, I was once a poet. Poetry was my first love… even before Mr. French, if you can believe that.

Sometimes in life, we’re told to keep moving forward and not look back. But every now and then, I think it’s good to return—to spend time with long-lost friends.

When I was a child, writing was that friend. It accompanied me in my happiness, my boredom, my loneliness, and my tears.

Today, I’m paying tribute to that dear old friend.

I’m a little rusty—poetry feels very different from novel writing. If I sit long enough with a book, the inspiration flows. But picking up the pen to write a poem is like brushing up on piano playing: if you don’t press the keys just right, they make no sound.

Then you remember—ah, right. I forgot that part.

The keys might be dusty. They might need a little tuning. But the notes are still buried inside.
The notes are still there.
The music… is still inside.

So mes amies, I hope you enjoy “I was once a poet.”

And if any of you have left your quill somewhere in the past, I hope this inspires you to go back and search for it. Pick it up, embrace it like an old friend, and tell it you’ve missed it. Then grab a sheet of paper and take it for a ride in the wind.

Let the wind carry you both to a world unknown.

Stay young, stay curious & stay true
Je suis JaTon

I Was Once a Poet

Published on by jesuisjaton3 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Born, on a winters day…

Clinging, to my mother’s breath…

I found the light, I found the way…

Lungs were presented instead of death…

This is how, the lyrics were formed,

How life created, my first poem…

…

I learned to cry, and how to walk…

To be brave, in a world lacking peace…

Examining the trees, I learned they speak…

The wind the sand, the entire land…

Becomes the subject, of the poet

…

I used to see sunsets, and blue calm…

Now its blistering stars, accompanying moët…

Where am I and where is my song?

Not long ago, I was once a poet…

Until next time my friends,

Stay young, stay curious & stay true

Je suis JaTon

I’m Feminine But Not a Feminist

Published on by jesuisjaton4 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

The lioness isn’t trying to take down the lion. She allows him to be king of the desert, yet she stays by his side as his companion. I believe there’s an order to nature that shouldn’t be disturbed — because once it is, chaos, disorder, and confusion follow.

Mes amies, let me explain.

I once proudly considered myself a feminist. I loved the idea of the independent woman. Like many girls growing up in the United States in the ’90s, I strived to be her. I bellowed my liberal views and defended them like the female warrior I believed I was.

I read books and watched films about strong heroines — but I also loved the damsel in distress. Not because she was weak, but because there was something soft and kind about her that you rarely find in the Xenas and Amazonian warriors. Those women, powerful as they were, often seemed angry, lonely, or hard to relate to — and rarely found love in their stories.

But what I’ve learned is this: it’s exhausting trying to carry a masculine persona. It’s a fight that can never truly be won.

I can’t speak for the entire Western world, but America is filled with modern feminists who want to be treated like women while simultaneously taking on the role of men — when it’s convenient.

Now, before anyone sharpens their keyboard, hear me out. I’m not saying women shouldn’t have equal rights. I absolutely believe everyone deserves equal pay for equal work, equal voting rights, and full control over their own finances and property. I don’t believe men should control, demean, or abuse women in any form. No one should be treated as a second-class citizen.

Men and women bring equal value to the table — just in different ways.

I’m not talking about petty household matters like who washes the dishes or pays the bills; that’s between two people. What I’m referring to is the cultural pressure on American women to embody masculinity — a sort of collective identity crisis.

Secretly, most women love when their partners can fully provide, even if they themselves are contributing. Women appreciate having the opportunity to take time off after having a baby, rather than rushing back to work, and deep down, most men enjoy providing when they can. People simply want to feel appreciated.

But appreciation is hard when there’s a constant battle for power.

Men admire women who know their worth and speak their minds — but who do so with grace, not aggression. I don’t believe the early feminists, who fought for basic rights, ever envisioned things going this far — women demanding to be on the front lines of battlefields, shouting over men instead of speaking beside them.

They wanted fairness. They wanted options.

I think the endless tug-of-war between masculine and feminine energy has thrown things off balance. In some Western households, men now sit back while women become breadwinners and caretakers — where’s the balance in that?

And don’t get me started on the “Who pays for dinner?” debate or the constant tit-for-tat about household chores. These are just surface-level symptoms of a deeper issue: the erosion of feminine energy.

Some women demand chivalry — doors opened, chairs pulled out — while simultaneously rejecting the idea of needing a man at all. Mes amies, it’s silly.

Of course, there are exceptions. Some women wear masculinity effortlessly and unapologetically — and for them, I say: do what makes you happy. But even then, it’s a mental and physical battle, because we can never out-muscle our counterparts. And isn’t masculinity, at its core, rooted in strength and competition?

Unchecked masculinity breeds conflict — that’s why there must be balance. Most wars were fought by men: for land, resources, and power. Women, meanwhile, weren’t ripping off their corsets to join the fight; they were tending gardens, caring for children, baking bread, or praying for their husbands to return safely.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I’m not saying women should be doormats or bow to every whim of their partners. Far from it.

But I’ve heard something said often in Western circles — that “men are intimidated by strong, educated women.” Honestly? I find that idea exhausting. Either the man is incredibly insecure, or the woman is projecting so much masculine energy that he doesn’t know how to respond.

Many of these “strong, independent women who don’t need a man” are, deep down, unfulfilled. They may dominate the boardroom, but they struggle to find peace at home. When the natural balance between the feminine and the masculine is disrupted, everyone suffers.

And if we’re being honest, the American woman — particularly the African American woman — has paid a heavy price. Many grew up in households where women had to play both mother and father. They’ve been unfairly labeled as overly masculine, and media often reinforces that stereotype.

Meanwhile, I’ve noticed that successful men across cultures tend to be drawn to deeply feminine women — not submissive, but soft, radiant, and self-assured.

In Turkey, for example, I’ve observed a beautiful coexistence between husband and wife. I’ve spent time in both modern and traditional Turkish homes and rarely saw the power struggles I see in America. The wives are softly submissive but still powerful, still vocal. Most either stay home while their husbands provide or work jobs that allow them to bring their children along. It’s harmonious — not hierarchical.

I’ll admit, money brings power, and I do believe every woman should be financially literate. But what I didn’t see were the mentally and physically burned-out women that have become so common in the West.

Nor did I see men fighting over who holds the spatula in the kitchen. (Now, don’t get me wrong — I love a man who can cook, but please put the pot back where it belongs and let me have fun decorating. Okay, maybe I’m only partly kidding… about the pot.)

But mes amies, what I’m truly saying is this:

I believe modern women can be both strong and soft.
We can have our own minds, make our points eloquently, and still radiate femininity. Whether we choose to raise babies, run a company, or create art, we can do all those things while keeping our feminine aura intact.

I believe our little girls can be taught to be both princesses and bosses.
I believe men and women can find balance again, and I believe we can respect and admire each other simultaneously — because the truth is, we are not the same, but we are equal.

For these reasons, I’ve retired my feminist cape and traded it for an Audrey Hepburn scarf.

Besides, I’d much rather be home writing and drinking wine than screaming in the streets anyway. 😊

Until next time my friends,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true
Je suis JaTon

The Cage

Published on by jesuisjaton6 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

After pacing back and forth in the little metal box, I grew tired and weary. Walking to the edge of the cage, I grabbed the bars tightly. They were cold to the touch, but I held on. Frustrated and bored, I shook them — not too hard, but enough — and that was when I realized it was not even locked.

The gate creaked softly as I pushed it open. Glancing across the hall, I saw a friend staring back at me from behind their own bars. I nudged the gate a little farther, but did not step out. Instead, I looked up at my friend, waiting for some kind of explanation. They only shrugged but did not move.

Peeking my head out, I looked down the hall and saw others in their cages too — some hacking away on computers, others sharing coffee breaks with their neighbors, all within their little boxes. No one noticed that I had opened my gate.

It was then that I decided to step out. My feet touched the cold floor, and it felt strange, uncomfortable even. My cage, despite its bars, had soft, plush flooring inside. After a few hesitant steps, I realized I was free — out of the cage.

I turned around and stood in front of my friend’s cage. “Try your gate,” I said. He shook his head. My eyes welled with tears. We were not the closest of friends, but we had grown to like each other, and I felt guilty leaving him behind. Yet he was too afraid. So I turned and began to walk.

As he realized I was not coming back, he shouted after me.
“JaTon, what are you doing?”
“Uhh… I’m getting out of here, and if you were smart, you’d do the same thing.”

He had often complained about his aches, pains, and workload, but he was too scared to move. I recalled a speech he had once given me about the importance of playing it safe. So I left him sitting in his cage.

A few family members and friends glanced at me through their bars in amazement, yet none dared to test their own gates. I just kept going. The momentum had built, and there was no turning back.

Mes amies—this is what it feels like to leave the “nine-to-five, let-me-pay-bills” drudgery. Many of us go through life never even bothering to see if the door is unlocked.

All right, I admit my little analogy may be far-fetched, but it is exactly how it feels. When I stepped off that plane and landed in the Middle East, a part of me thought, Oh sh&! I actually did it.* To be honest, it was not that hard. It only required some planning.

Too often, I read travel forums and watch YouTube videos where people—usually Westerners, I’m sorry to say—want to know the “secret” to living life on their own terms. They ask how much to save, what jobs to apply for, who to contact in a new country—or even just in a city a few states away.

Where are the critical thinking skills we spent decades developing? Did we all endure over twenty years of schooling, not to mention four-year degrees, only to forget how to think for ourselves?

Do we really need the strict hours of a job dictating each day—telling us when to eat, when to rest, when to take a break? Must we be told when to get up, go to bed, and take a day off?

I confess that I, too, once lived that way. But the truth is, there is no magic formula. Everyone’s path is different.

Many will not want to hear this—I certainly did not—but the reality is this: it is all about mindset. It is a mind shift. A change in perspective. A decision. Let me repeat that—it is just a decision.

It took getting away from the chaos and noise for me to have that “aha moment.” There are, of course, steps you can take to make the transition easier. I will be the first to say that networking makes everything smoother, both during the planning stages and once you are on the ground.

Most of us who packed our bags and tried something new were not millionaires. We did not have massive savings. The boldest among us did not even have jobs waiting. Some of us had structured plans; others were more fluid. What we all had in common was that we decided to break out of the self-contained cage and live on our own terms.

We got fed up.

Somehow, the universe rewards that kind of courage. Things start to align. Answers reveal themselves.

I will admit that there are moments when I tell myself that my back-up, back-up, back-up plan is to return to my old life if I ever grow restless. Yet a small voice inside reminds me that I never will—because I could never go back to trading time for money.

When I scroll through social media and see ex-colleagues posting photos of cubicles or joking about their “small prison breaks,” I cringe. It is impossible to go backward once you have tasted freedom.

I am not talking about a two-week vacation. I have taken that ten-day break before, and yes—it feels incredible for the first few days. Yet by day six or seven, your mind starts shifting back to work—the emails piling up, the unfinished projects waiting for you. You only truly enjoy a handful of days, because you know you are the only one on that “cell block” (a.k.a. job) assigned to scrub that metaphorical pot or mop that figurative floor.

All right, mes amies, I know—I am exaggerating again. I would never clean anyone’s toilet but my own (and I hate that too). Yet you understand my point. It is a metaphor for the job no one wants but someone must do, because you were hired to do it.

No one else wants to take the blame if it is not done right. I blame that partly on our education system. We are not trained to be collaborators; we are trained to be competitors. We are taught to mildly tolerate one another’s presence—but not to truly work together.

Je suis désolé, mes amies (I told you I cannot stay away from Mr. French, lol). Anyway, I am rambling again. Perhaps I have revealed too much—now you know what my expat friends and I discuss over countless glasses of wine in the afternoons.

It is oddly therapeutic to vent about our old work nightmares: mean bosses, cutthroat colleagues, nonexistent sick days, catty coworkers, entitled executives, those infamous “look-busy” afternoons—the list goes on. I think a few tears were shed during those conversations. Mine certainly watered just writing this.

Who needs therapy when you have friends like us? (Kidding… mostly.)

The truth is, I rarely think about those office days anymore, except when I see an occasional post or when I feel inspired to write about my past life on a sunny afternoon like this. It feels like something that happened in another lifetime.

I am literally too busy enjoying paradise.

Still, I cannot believe I just pushed that gate open and walked out.

If any of you have broken free from your own cages, drop me a line or two. I would love to hear your stories—and who knows, if yours is compelling enough, I might just invite you to one of our late-night expat wine sessions. Hehehe.

Until next time my friends,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true
Je suis JaTon

Please Tell Me…Why the “BLEEP” Am I Studying French in Turkey…

Published on by jesuisjaton16 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

The first and most obvious reason is simple: I’m crazy, lol.

The other night, just as I was winding down for bed, I could not remember how to say “I’m sorry” in Turkish. It was right on the tip of my tongue, yet the only thing that came out was Je suis désolé—“I’m sorry” in French. Panic set in immediately. How could this be? I had just told the immigration officer how sorry I was for being a few minutes late to my residency appointment, and only the other day I had apologized to my husband—aka “teddy bear”—after he had a rough day at the office. Surely, I had memorized that phrase.

I was convinced it was as solid in my brain as the number nineteen in French, which, thanks to my ninth-grade classmates, I have never forgotten. A few of the boys in class decided to turn dix-neuf into “these nuts” whenever the teacher made us count aloud. Because the words sounded similar, the teacher never caught on, but the entire class laughed every single time. My American readers will likely understand what I mean by this. To this day, whenever I count in French, I can still hear those mischievous voices echoing in my head.

Mes amies, I had to immediately kick “Mr. French” out of my mental bed and go chasing after my Turkish lover in the recesses of my mind. My fingers itched to grab one of my phrase books or my translator, but I refused to give in. I knew that if I tried hard enough, I could remember. After all, a girl should never forget how to ask for help, apologize, or—dare I say—beg in a foreign language. Those are some of the most important tools in the linguistic toolbox.

Finally, the phrase came rushing back to me like a freight train, and relief washed over me. Looking back, it is ridiculous how paranoid I was about “losing my touch” with Turkish.

When I packed my luggage, I thought nothing of bringing nearly every French book I owned. I even subscribed to weekly emails from Frédéric at Talk in French to study both languages simultaneously. (He is wonderful, by the way. This is not a paid advertisement—just genuine appreciation for great content.)

However, the problem is clear: these two languages could not be more different. They belong to entirely different language families and are structured worlds apart. Both use the Latin alphabet, but each conjures a completely distinct atmosphere—one evokes flour fights and bidets, while the other calls to mind dervish dancers and mosques. Although now that I live in Turkey, I see a few similarities. Both remind me of fresh bread and rich cuisine.

Mes amies, I will tell you this: that night I fell asleep with my Turkish companion close beside me, begging him never to scare me like that again—only after apologizing to “Mr. French” for discarding him so abruptly. I even told Frenchie to stay near; after all, we could always have a quick rendezvous in the morning before coffee.

The real question remains: Why the “bleep” am I studying French in Turkey in the first place, when I should be focusing on mastering Turkish?

It is a fair question. I could not even tell my new spa girl to give me a moment to breathe during my Brazilian wax (ladies, a warning: wax jobs in Turkey are very different from those in America). I literally had to remind myself, “JaTon, woman up—you’ve had a child, for heaven’s sake. You can and will survive this hair removal session.”

Anyway, back to the point. The first and most honest answer is simple: I love French. The second is that I am competitive—extremely competitive, even with myself. I once read that it is possible to learn two languages at once, as long as they are not from the same language family. The author also mentioned that it was not necessarily recommended, but if you give me an inch, I will take a mile. So let us kindly forget that part.

Being an optimist by nature, I decided to go for it.

I can personally attest to why similar languages can cause confusion. During my time in Italy, I kept replying to people in Portuguese, and while visiting my husband’s family in the Netherlands, I once mistook the cartoon characters’ Dutch dialogue for English until my ear caught the familiar guttural sound. Even my husband sometimes slips into Dutch mid-sentence without realizing it.

The third reason I continue studying French is simple: hearing it soothes me. When I hear French on television, it feels like a long-lost friend has joined me in Turkey. When my ears grow tired from the challenge of Turkish, I switch the channel, and I no longer feel like such an outsider. I may not understand every word, but the familiarity comforts me.

It might not be the same as watching Neil deGrasse Tyson explain the solar system on British television at ten o’clock at night, but it still brings me joy. And yes, I admit it—I watched a show on quantum physics with a glass of wine in hand. Let us call that adulting 101.

They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, but I am not so sure that applies to language lovers. Languages can be fickle companions, running off with another the moment your brain gets distracted.

I do not know how long we will stay in Turkey, which is precisely why staying connected to French makes sense. Unlike Turkish, which is primarily useful only within Turkey, French is spoken around the world. Of course, since I am married to a Turk, Turkish is equally essential. How else would I gossip with my mother-in-law? (Just kidding—love you, teddy bear.) Actually, I usually talk about him right in front of her and then ask him to translate what I said, lol.

As I close this week’s post, I would love to hear from you. Have any of you tried juggling more than one language at a time? What tactics do you use to keep both fresh in your mind? Drop me a line or two below. I would love to know how you manage to stay loyal to one language while still keeping the other alive—because, truthfully, I feel like I am on the verge of a linguistic divorce every other day.

Until next time mes amies,
Stay young, stay curious & stay true
–Je suis JaTon

Embrace Your Inner Child

Published on by jesuisjaton2 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

I have observed that those who take life too seriously are often the most miserable, while those who still embrace their inner child live happier, freer lives. Of course, there are exceptions to every rule, but look at some of the world’s best-selling authors—J.K. Rowling, Stephen King, and J.R.R. Tolkien. Each invoked the creative imagination of their inner child to craft extraordinary worlds.

Consider the athletes who have found a way to play their favorite games for a living. Even Elon Musk, one could argue, is still playing with cars—albeit on a much larger scale—channeling his childlike curiosity into innovation. Jeff Bezos once dreamed of going to space, and now he has entered the arena of space exploration.

I remember when I was in college working at a law firm. One of the attorneys spent his spare time—well, nearly all his time—playing video games while his paralegal did the heavy lifting. But that, mes amies, is a story for another day.

What I have noticed is that many of us, myself included, have misunderstood adulthood. We have traded in our childlike creativity for a lifetime of busyness and hard work. In much of the Western world, self-worth is tied to career climbing rather than joy.

In Turkey, I have seen something different. Turks seem to weave enjoyment naturally into their daily lives. Shop owners and employees do not feel compelled to fill their hours with pointless “busy work.” They sit on terraces between customers, enjoying the moment. When shopping for furniture, it is customary to be offered a cup of tea before making a final decision.

In every city and village I have visited, there are coffeehouses—essentially “men’s clubs”—where locals gather to play games, drink tea, and chat late into the evening. For a lone woman, it can feel intimidating to walk by, as the men sometimes stare or call out, but it is mostly harmless fun. Men of all ages frequent these cafés, though they are predominantly middle-aged or older. Too old for soccer fields, they instead gather here to enjoy camaraderie.

Some might ask why such spaces do not exist for women. The answer lies in tradition. Turkey remains relatively conservative, and in many traditional cultures, the home is the woman’s gathering place. I can appreciate this balance. These men are not tucked away in dark corners of vice; they are in the open air, under sunlight, sipping tea, laughing, and living.

Turks understand that life is meant to be savored. It is meant to move at a slow, steady rhythm, with time to enjoy simple pleasures—to feel the sun on your face, watch the sunset, gaze at the moon, breathe in the fresh air, and talk with friends about something other than work. I have noticed that Turks are never too busy to stop what they are doing for tea.

Now, I may be considered the rude American since I have yet to invite anyone over for tea—mostly because I have not mastered Turkish tea making. Fortunately, Turks are incredibly kind, and I still receive invitations. But, hey—I bought the kettle set. It’s a start. No judgment, please.

Mes amies, what I am truly saying is that Turks have held onto a kind of childlike spirit that whispers, “Do not take life too seriously.”

Think back to your childhood—how nothing felt too serious and how each day brimmed with adventure. Remember waking up excited for the day ahead, reluctant to go to bed for fear of missing out on life.

Try to awaken that feeling again. Wake up full of life. Wake up full of joy. Whether you were a child who raced outside to explore or one who preferred to dwell in the world of imagination, both require creativity, openness, and a willingness to live.

To live means you are not merely existing. It means you are observing, appreciating, and feeling.

That is what Turkey reminds me of. And now, I am reminding you:
Find your inner child. He or she may be napping, but that is all right. Wake them gently, because there is an entire world out there waiting to play.

Live Your Life Like a Bird

Published on by jesuisjaton6 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

One morning, I looked out at the open sky as I often do, until a few birds perched on a nearby power line caught my attention. I stopped gazing at the Aegean Sea and watched them instead. They sat high above the ground, unafraid of the height.

It was not the first time I had seen them there. They appear every morning without fail. Yet, for some reason, this time felt different. I observed them with curiosity. I studied their movements and peculiar behavior. They never looked down—only ahead or to the side. Occasionally, they fought over the best view, and to be fair, the views here are indeed spectacular.

What struck me was their confidence. They did not seem to ponder what would happen if they lost their footing as I might have done. Their hearts were not racing from fear of falling. When they had finished peacefully enjoying the morning, they simply spread their wings and flew off into the distance.

Mes amies, I have watched those birds countless times before, but that morning I saw them differently. I saw them as a reflection of life—perhaps even my own.

When I left the United States, I did not wonder if I would fail. I simply decided, and I followed through. Life, I realized, should always be this way: never afraid, never uncertain when it comes to your dreams.

There will be moments when you crave the old and resist the new, but life truly begins when you move beyond your comfort zone.

Here, I have found peace. Admittedly, the internet is sometimes spotty, and the power occasionally cuts off without warning. I stumble over Turkish words and may have once accidentally told someone to “piss off” instead of asking for help. The wind howls like a werewolf during a full moon. Yet despite these quirks, there is a calm here that I never had before.

I like to think it is the slower pace of life that allows me to reflect. I love that when I go for a ride, my Turkish friends shout for me to stop and join them for tea in the middle of the afternoon. I have time to enjoy the sunsets and to sit quietly, staring at the moon.

I cannot quite explain how this land—where East meets West—has managed to restore my balance, but it has. Perhaps it is the hypnotic call to prayer, the beauty of the sea, or the energy of the people, for every place carries its own vibration.

Someone once told me that their college years in Ireland were like “a bomb going off in their heart.” I laughed when I remembered that story. The rain, the gloom, and the cultural contrast made life difficult for them. They were used to basking under the Spanish sun.

I have never been to Ireland, so I cannot speak for their experience. What I can say is that some of my fondest memories were spent in the company of the Irish back home—traveling, laughing, and living freely.

But I digress. What I am truly saying, mes amies, is this: find your bliss—wherever that may be. If you are unhappy with your life, change it. Do not be afraid to live. Do not regret, and do not look back. Spread your wings, keep your eyes ahead, and fly.

Will I stay in Turkey forever? I do not know. I like it here, so perhaps I will keep a small “nest” as a landing pad. While I love to travel, I am not a nomad; I enjoy having a home base.

What I do know is that I love exploring, I love culture, and above all, I love people. My heart may carry me to Romania, to Africa, back to Portugal, or even to France.

No matter where I go, I will continue to spread my wings and let the wind carry me to the place that warms my heart. Above all, I will stay free—free like those birds.

How I Became a Unicorn

Published on by jesuisjaton10 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

By now, it is probably clear that I live on the Mediterranean, in a beautiful little coastal town. If not, please see “My life in Kuşadası.” I have the most wonderful neighbors any woman could hope for—well, except for one who nearly ran my daughter over in the grocery store’s meat department. He now bows his head in shame whenever we cross paths, though I might have given him the “God doesn’t like ugly” look. But that, mes amies, is a story for another day.

Most of my neighbors are Turks, some are British, and a few Americans live up on the fifth floor. Next door, I have an Irish gentleman who is always ready with conversation and tea. Yet something rather strange has happened in Turkey. I had a glimpse of it while living in Fethiye, but now that I am settled in Kuşadası, the picture is clearer.

Apparently, in Turkey, I am something between a unicorn and an ethereal alien from Saturn.

Why Saturn, you ask? Because it is the most mysterious planet, surrounded by shimmering rings.

I should begin by admitting that I was somewhat naïve before coming here. Despite all my research, there were things I could not understand until I experienced them. With Turkey straddling continents and standing only a stone’s throw from Africa, I assumed it had seen centuries of visitors from Russia, Europe, Africa, and the Far East. To be fair, Istanbul is indeed a melting pot of everything under the sun.

However, being the adventurer that I am, I ventured far beyond the city—to villages and towns along the Turquoise Coast. Turks, I soon learned, are accustomed to British visitors, who have been coming here for decades. They are also familiar with the Russians, who are plentiful along the southern coast. Many Turkish women even visit salons to emulate the “Russian look.” I have yet to meet a natural blonde Turk.

But a Black American woman from across the Atlantic? That was another story entirely—and one for which I was not prepared.

It began on our drive to Fethiye. About six hours in, we stopped at a scenic spot to stretch our legs. Almost immediately, car after car honked, and men shouted out of their windows. My daughter grew anxious and begged me to leave. I doubted they were simply excited to see a “chocolate and caramel” duo, but it was unnerving all the same. Still, my legs were aching too much from driving to care.

At the time, I blamed the attention on our flashy BMW and our Western clothes, which were admittedly a bit revealing that day. Do not judge me—after flying for nearly twenty-four hours, I would have agreed to a “lease-to-own” deal for my left cheek (you can decide which one, hehe) just to get out of the airport.

But I was wrong. It had nothing to do with the car—perhaps the clothes only slightly. The truth is that no matter how I dress, I stand out.

On a normal day, with my hair pulled back, I am simply a unicorn—a baby one whose horn is just beginning to sparkle. Not an Edward Cullen kind of sparkle, but enough for locals to know I am different. On those days, I get the friendly “nice foreigner” treatment.

Yet when I wear my hair in its full glory, everything changes. I transform from the quiet unicorn into the “Oh, wow!” spectacle—the real Black girl in town. Suddenly, I am offered free fruit by handsome Turkish men, complimented endlessly by others (some even while holding hands with their partners), and occasionally chased by sailors along the harbor.

One man once asked if my hair was real. When I confirmed that it was, he asked if he could borrow it until Monday.

Mes amies, I am no different from any other woman who appreciates a compliment. At first, it was flattering. But after a while, it became exhausting. Should I say Teşekkür ederim to every passerby? Smile and respond to every remark?

It is lovely to be admired for simply being yourself, yet it can start to feel like you have become an exhibit. Still, I am grateful that here my hair is called “curly” instead of “kinky.” My curls are thick, soft, and beautiful.

In America, it can be difficult to embrace what is natural in a culture obsessed with weaves, wigs, lashes, and extensions—a society where “plastic” is the norm. So for now, I choose to love myself as I am, to wear my curls proudly.

Next time I stroll down to the harbor without my husband or a male friend, I might wear a fashionable burqa. I am open to almost anything once. There must be one with a bit of bling on it, though that might defeat the purpose. Perhaps I will choose a bohemian “flower-child” burqa instead. And if I am feeling especially bold, I may let one curl dangle for all to see. Who knows? It might even help with haggling. I did spot something shiny I would not mind buying.

Before I prance off to the harbor again, I want to encourage around the world—to be brave. Travel to places that are unfamiliar. Go where everything looks and feels new. Explore valleys where the language is foreign, and the food makes your nose dance.

Above all, to my Black sisters everywhere: rock your natural hair. Embrace your curls. Step into the world and experience the sheer joy of being a unicorn for a day.

Yavaş, Ungodly Creatures and the best Damn RAID you’ll ever find.

Published on by jesuisjaton4 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Mes amies, after missing our flight from Istanbul to Fethiye, we decided it would be a great idea to rent a car and tackle the nine-hour drive down to Turkey’s Turquoise Coast. That way, we would already have a rental car and the chance to see more of the country. It was a brilliant idea—until I tried navigating Istanbul’s chaotic traffic.

Mind you, I am not a novice driver. I have experienced my fair share of gridlock in the United States, but Istanbulians are in a league of their own. I watched in awe as Turks transformed a two-lane road into four, merging fearlessly into one, without road rage or a single accident. I was impressed. I quickly caught on to how the system worked and joined in—cutting people off, zipping ahead, and riding in the imaginary third lane. It took nearly an hour to reach my hotel from the freeway, though it was only ten minutes away.

The next morning, after sleeping in and missing the continental breakfast we paid for, we withdrew some Turkish lira from the ATM, hopped into the SUV, and hit the road for Fethiye. I was well rested, energized, and eager for adventure.

The drive began peacefully—until the Turks’ driving habits once again caught me off guard. I had always thought the autobahn was exclusive to Germany, but apparently Turkey has its own version. Cars were flying past me at what seemed like two hundred miles per hour. I could not be sure, since their speedometers read in kilometers and I am still struggling with metric conversions—thank you, U.S. school system, for refusing to join the rest of the world.

Anyway, I quickly learned that everyone driving slower than an oncoming vehicle must move to the right. It is an unspoken rule, and everyone follows it. What baffled me was the lack of posted speed limits, except when climbing or descending dangerously steep mountains or curving around cliffside turns.

It did not take long to figure out that “yavaş” meant “slow” or “caution.” However, since Turks seemed to speed through everything, I began to question whether it meant the opposite. No one ever needed to tell me to slow down on a mountain; if anything, the Turks honked at me to move aside.

Despite the nerve-wracking drive, there were many memorable moments. For one, I discovered I actually enjoyed driving in Turkey—mostly because I never had to pump my own gas. The attendants filled the tank, washed the windows, and even checked the engine if asked. It reminded me of small-town America in the 1980s, back when gas stations were not self-serve.

But the most interesting discovery came halfway between Istanbul and Fethiye: a RAID factory, sitting just outside a dusty little town. My first thought was, Oh S&%^, is that RAID? I had never even seen a RAID factory in the United States. Still, I shrugged it off—everyone has to make a living somehow. I made a mental note to grab a can, just in case any scarafaggio (cockroach, in Italian) dared to appear in our Airbnb.

If you are as terrified of bugs as I am, you will understand—I use RAID for everything: little bugs, big bugs, creepy bugs, lazy bugs, theatrical bugs, even ladybugs if they flap their wings too wildly. Sorry, ladybugs—just do not scare me, and you will live to see another day.

A week into our stay in Fethiye, I was completely comfortable. The thick walls of the apartment and our high-floor location meant not even a fly could find its way inside. I did have to eliminate a few tiny jumping spiders, but the RAID worked instantly.

Then one afternoon, while stepping off the elevator with my daughter, I learned why the RAID factory existed—and why it was built in the desert.

I exited the elevator first, and what I saw stopped me cold. There, right in front of us, was a massive spider—spotted, striped, and larger than a grown man’s hand. I froze.

I quickly backed into the elevator and told my daughter to keep her eyes on me and walk past it quickly. We could not leave the building without doing so. When she saw it, she burst into tears and ran back inside.

I had to pass the monstrous creature again to get to her. Once we were both safely inside, she began frantically pressing every elevator button as though Freddy Krueger himself were chasing her. I had never seen her so distraught.

I knew she had a spider phobia, but this was beyond anything I had seen. She refused to go back downstairs. I told her we could not hide in the apartment all day and promised to get help.

Luckily, a few bachelor neighbors lived across the hall. Using my translator app, I explained our problem. They immediately grabbed their shoes, followed my directions, and disappeared down the corridor. I heard one of them mention “büyük örümcek” (giant spider) in Turkish, which reassured me they understood the situation.

A few minutes later, they returned and motioned for us to come down the stairwell. I assumed they had killed it. However, as we descended, I realized they had simply cornered it and created a barrier so we could exit safely. What happened afterward remains a mystery—the ungodly creature was gone when we returned.

That, mes amies, was my first true experience with Turkish hospitality.

Before I let you go, I must share what I eventually learned about the word “yavaş.”

One day, while driving to IKEA in Kuşadası with my husband’s cousin, she began shouting, “Yavaş! Yavaş! Yavaş!” I had no idea why. She explained that the little devices along the highway record your speed, and signs with “Yavaş” warn drivers to slow down. If you exceed the limit, the camera issues an automatic fine of three hundred Turkish lira.

Moments later, she told me I was going too fast. I thought she was exaggerating; I was only going about seventy miles per hour—much slower than the Turks speeding past me. I assumed “Yavaş” was merely a suggestion.

It turns out she was right. When I returned the rental car, the agent informed me that one of those devices had caught me driving fifteen miles over the limit. I was fined three hundred lira on the spot.

So, you see, I learned two valuable lessons:
RAID in Turkey is far more powerful than in the States—and Yavaş is most definitely not a suggestion.

A Day in A Life in Kuşadası, Turkey

Published on by jesuisjaton4 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

I live on the Aegean Sea, in a resort town built along the cliffs. It’s a bustling yet charming small city with a thriving local community and a steady flow of permanent expats—mainly from Europe, or so I’ve noticed thus far.

There is, however, an American couple who live part-time here, two floors above me. They’ve been coming to Turkey every year for the past eight years. I won’t even tell you how I reacted when I discovered that a fellow American—from Texas, no less—was in my building. Let’s just say it was the emotional equivalent of watching Jesus rise from the dead. Tears filled my eyes, my hands involuntarily formed a prayer, and my knees buckled as I fell to the floor in thanks to the heavens.

Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little—but I was thrilled to finally speak English to someone outside my household without getting the “deer in headlights” look after saying “hello.”

But I digress—let’s get back on track, shall we? I wake up every morning to a stunning view of the sea. Once the mist drifts upward, I can even see Greece from my balcony. My mornings are very different now than they were four months ago—and so are my days.

I still begin with a 10–15 minute meditation session, but instead of dragging my feet to get ready for a desk job, I get to decide how I want to spend my day. Let me give you a glimpse by describing today.

Around noon, I took a walk. There are two grocery stores less than a block from my apartment, so I stopped by one to pick up some food on the way back. The shopkeepers are beginning to remember us and grow friendlier each time we visit. The butcher handed me freshly ground beef and said the Turkish equivalent of “bon appétit.” The cashier gave me a small wink and a warm smile as he returned my change.

My daughter has taken a liking to one kitten in particular, so we bought cat food and helped a kind Turkish woman feed the neighborhood strays. It felt good—almost like a small act of community service. When we finished, the woman thanked us both for helping.

Before our walk, one of our neighbors—a sweet seventy-five-year-old man—offered us tea and refreshments at his home. When we politely declined, he handed us fresh fruit instead.

The rest of my day was simple and lovely. I worked on the sequel to my novel, made fresh pasta and sauce from scratch, and ended the afternoon watching the sun sink into the Aegean Sea. My days often begin and end with the sea.

It’s not a glamorous life, but it’s not a hectic one either. No more hour-long commutes in traffic and no more road rage. No more fast food because I was too exhausted to cook. No more filling my mind with political chaos, racial conflict, or celebrity nonsense that adds nothing to my human experience. So, is there anything I miss about home? Of course.

I miss my family and friends.
I miss certain foods.
I miss the ease and convenience that America offers.
I miss hearing English on television without needing subtitles.
I miss American music and being effortlessly understood.
I miss calling home without calculating the seven- or eight-hour time difference, depending on daylight savings.

But overall, my life here is more peaceful.

Here, neighbors speak to me.
Here, people go out of their way to help.
Here, food tastes fresher.
I had almost forgotten what a grape with seeds actually tastes like.

I also love the year-round Mediterranean warmth. Here, I’ve learned to appreciate the simple things—to find joy in both what I’ve gained and what I left behind.

There’s less background noise, which gives me more time to think, reflect, and create. In America, my days were filled with constant noise. I was always rushing, barely finding time to think, let alone pursue my passions.

Weekends were spent cramming in everything I couldn’t finish during the week. My husband and I have been married for less than two years—still newlyweds, really—and yet we barely saw each other back then. We were both too busy surviving the never-ending hamster wheel, that infamous “rat race.”

Now, I have nothing but time.

It’s not perfect—I do get lonely sometimes (check out my article “Lonely in Paradise“)—but it’s life for now, and it’s an experience I wouldn’t trade for the world.

Lonely in Paradise

Published on by jesuisjaton2 Comments

By: JaTon Kılınç

Almost one year ago, I sat in the bedroom of the condo I share with my husband and made a list — the pros and cons of living in Turkey versus the Netherlands. I was restless, tired of putting my dreams on hold, yearning to finally experience life outside the United States.

I was weary of waking up each day to a job that no longer fulfilled me. Though I enjoyed the people I worked with and the industry I worked for, I wanted my life to mean more.

When the opportunity finally presented itself, we left.

Now, nearly a year later, I find myself writing another list — this time armed with the real-life experience of living abroad. And this time, the pros lean more heavily toward the Dutch.

I’m learning that ancient ruins and breathtaking sunsets over the Aegean Sea can’t entirely fill a void. I feel the same restlessness that once haunted me back in the States — except now, I can’t blame it on the monotony of work. I have freedom. I have time. And yet, something is still missing.

Maybe I can blame it on the lack of a car to drive down the steep cliffs I live on. Maybe it’s the absence of English speakers to chat with. Or maybe it’s the simple truth that one can’t visit ancient ruins every day. Even Indiana Jones didn’t spend every day on an expedition. Life, after all, happens in the spaces between adventures.

I do love the people of Turkey. Their warmth and hospitality are both refreshing and endearing — especially after a lifetime in the States, where acts of kindness are often met with suspicion.

But there’s a loneliness that comes with relocating, especially for chatty extroverts like myself.

The occasional balcony chat with my elderly neighbor — who swears I speak fluent Turkish — doesn’t quite count. I still speak with my daughter and my husband, who is back home selling our condo now that we’ve decided to build a life abroad. But even with those connections, I’ve realized something profound:

You can change your location, but everywhere you go, you still end up with you.

So, mes amies, I can tell you truthfully — you can indeed be lonely in paradise.

Beautiful sunsets, warm smiles, and ancient ruins can only fill so much of the heart.