Tag: Life on the Mediterranean

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

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

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.