Tag: Turkey

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 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

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.

Flirting With Languages

Published on by jesuisjaton14 Comments

Since this is my first entry here, I should probably introduce myself, but there will be plenty of time for that. On the other hand, I think this article will give you a small glimpse of who I am. It might even explain why I currently find myself in Turkey exploring and learning about what I consider a land of many wonders. I’ll begin by saying I’ve dibbled and dabbed in a lot of languages over the course of 27 years; all having some sort of significance as to why. I don’t speak any of them fluently but enough to sound cool and basic enough to put elementary proficiency on resumes and to fumble my way through foreign lands as I did when I visited Portugal and Italy and as I find myself now doing in Turkey. Let’s start with Portuguese shall we. When I was eighteen my mom moved the entire family to Atlanta, Georgia and to my mom’s horror or shall I say dislike I ended up becoming quite good friends with our Brazilian neighbors whom were about 13 years my senior. Mind you there was a nephew or cousin living there around my age who also attended school with me but I never spoke to him—he was boring. Before I knew it, I was engulfed in all things Portuguese. This eventually led me with an urge to be able to converse with the growing Brazilian population. So, I ended up studying the language at the university level off and on for the next 4-6 years. Toward the latter years of my twenties while I was wrapping up college (don’t judge me I had a late start) I started studying Italian because of my long term Italian friend that lives in a valley near Milan. This was purely by chance because I was looking for a dance partner and he was on the website. Fast forward to my thirties I messed around with Chinese and even learned how to pronounce the different sounds because I thought it would be cool to teach English in China. Of course, I never moved to China and soon lost interest in the language altogether. Then, just around the time when I laid Chinese to rest, in my mid-thirties I put all languages on hold while I was engaged to a Greek American to learn Greek. I was tired of attending real life “My Big Fat Greek” events where I was not just the only chocolate drop but the only person that couldn’t understand the Greek jokes at the dinner table. But…I’m getting ahead of myself. A couple years before I met “Prince Charming” I studied Romanian while I was writing a book that took place in Romania during the 16th century and fell even more in-love with the language during a summer fling with a real-life descendant of Vlad Tepes aka Dracula (just kidding). He WAS however a Romanian from Moldova. Then I bought a Persian dictionary because of yet another book I wrote (check out “Flight America”) that takes place in Afghanistan but couldn’t understand the script so it just collects dust on my bookshelf. Let’s pause here while I catch my breath because I’m sure by now you’re thinking this chick really has an obsession with languages. Well, you’re right and I admit it. They say the first stage to recovery is admitting you have a problem. Well…I am a language addict, and I don’t want to recover, and it probably has a lot more to do with books than just languages themselves. But moving along and revisiting the past yet again before I zip you back to the present. I dabbled with Spanish in my early twenties maybe a year after I gave birth to the most beautiful little girl that ever-stepped foot on planet Earth—and before you interject, she truly is. I even took a semester of Spanish because, one its super easy and second because my daughter’s father is from Puerto Rico. Of course, that didn’t last and neither did my relationship to Mr. Boricua; we officially called it quits when my daughter was four. But who has time to sulk when their life is as colorful as mine. I learned how to say “hello” in Japanese and only because of curiosity and its geographical proximity to China. I’m not entirely sure but I think I was researching Japanese culture at the same time that I wanted to teach English in China. I’m very easily distracted as you can probably see by now. Currently, I am learning Turkish so I can speak to my Turkish mother-in-law. I know what you’re thinking, “what happened to Prince Charming?” Well, that was the title my daughter gave him partially as a joke and partially because he did propose and included her in the process. But let’s stay focused on the guy I actually married not the one I was engaged to for two years. Speaking of my husband and his family that reminds me of the Dutch. At one time we fancied the idea of moving back to his home in the Netherlands but eventually decided that Turkey would be a cooler place to live so now all of my Dutch culture and language books are now collecting dust as well right alongside the Persian dictionary. But that’s not all. I spent three years working alongside Russians right after high school as an AutoCAD drafter so of course this led me to be fascinated by the Russian language, culture and people so I did what I know how to do best. I bought even more language books. I probably should have mentioned this first but since this isn’t in any sort of chronological order and I’m mostly just rambling let’s talk about honesty. If I’m honest the real reason I purchased the Russian book was because of a dear Russian friend who is also my dental hygienist and sort of adopted mother. I say this because after all those years I spent working around Russians; laughing with them, complaining about our shitty work schedules and discussing life, not once did I buy a Russian language book until my dear friend Irina. But wait–there’s more. My favorite uncle on my father’s side moved to Germany and never moved back when I was about six. So, from that moment on I was curious about this strange country of tall men that spoke rough and guttural. If you look on my bookshelf, you’ll find at least three books about the German language that I use every so often to converse with my German pen pal who can also speak Portuguese. Yet, after everything the language that truly stole my heart is none of the fore mentioned ones. My first love of languages the one I keep going back to…is French. I even get a little warm and fuzzy inside just thinking about it. Some might say it was a coincidence or even destiny the way the two of us collided. But growing up in South Florida where more than half of the population speaks Spanish, I just wasn’t excited or even thrilled to learn Spanish when fifteen-year-old me was given the choice. Plus, at that time two of my best friends already spoke Spanish and the third was from Vietnam with family in French Canada so it was a no brainer. We would all take French and speak to each other for practice. So that “Mes Amies” is how it all began. No matter how many times I stray or cheat on my French lover I always find my way back to Francais. Sometimes I’m knee deep involved with Italian, and I’ll hear a French commercial. Other times I’ll pass a French restaurant and smell fresh croissants or French onion soup and the longing would take me back to my teenage years and I’ll quickly remember how badly I still want to master the language. But as quickly as I come back, I often swiftly leave over simple frustrations like not being able to find cool French music but instead preferring the beats of Spanish tunes so, like a pissed off lover I’ll go rendezvousing with salsa. However, Spanish can never hold my attention longer than it takes for a quick spin on the dance floor because inevitably I’ll find my French language lover standing in the dark, waiting just where I last left him, luring me back in and of course I follow. But it’s not just the romantic words. I enjoy French culture and French people. The French makes me laugh the way no other culture can do with their over-the-top nationalism, peculiar facial expressions, obsession over flour and even their own love for their mother tongue. I can enjoy their frankness and if I’m being honest yet again, they’re quite bougie and I like it. Maybe I am too. Maybe deep down inside there is a lot of French in me. I always said maybe in another lifetime I was French—to be exact a tall regal Senegalese lady living amongst the French in all her glory.