Peace and Peril

I was twenty-nine the first time I landed at Istanbul's largest airport in Türkiye. I returned after a horrible situation with my ex (a story I probably won’t tell here) to pack up my belongings and move permanently back to the States from Izmir.

It was a strange experience. Given the circumstances, I was frightened at what I would find in my apartment and afraid of being an American alone in a country where I’d only stayed for six months. I still didn’t know the language, and there was so much I needed to get resolved.

At that time, Istanbul’s airport was the Atatürk airport on the Sea of Marmara. It boasted a newer international building beside an old, crumbling domestic building. I stepped off the plane and entered the long hallway leading to passport control, trying to find the transit passenger door. Even breathing in the pervasive smell of coal used for heating (in 1990), I stopped at one of the large windows and watched the falling snow.

I was instantly at home.

A guard checked to see if I needed help. Shaking my head, I relaxed and wound through the convoluted route from the international terminal to the ancient domestic building for a flight to get me south.

Why was this instantly “home?” I have no idea, but it’s been that way since 1990. This is not your idyllic, romanticized version of moving overseas that Americans have of countries such as Italy or France. This is Türkiye, with its differing religions, very different cultures, and unexpected challenges around every corner.

Our farm is in rural western Türkiye in a chain of mountains stretching the country's length. I’ve always believed that your “home is where your heart is,” and mine is with my spousal unit and children, no matter what physical location that might be. But now that the kids are on their own, home has previously taken on a different meaning.

It's a place where I can find peace.

It is by no means perfect here. This is a new working farm with chickens (yeah, that smell) and puppies that chew anything not nailed down, with anticipated horses, goats, and probably a cow. (No hubs; you cannot have a water buffalo.) We have grape vines to be trellised, a new barn, and a caretaker’s house. Even though this is a small place, I am grateful for the family and other villagers over the hill and the help and knowledge they provide.

We are off-grid. Our water comes straight from the mountains above us, and our electricity comes from the solar panels on the roof. The hot water is also solar; on cloudy days, we have a backup system that I’m excited about being installed soon. (No, I’m too first-world American to have too many cold showers, especially now that the weather has turned.)

Every day, we collect eggs and learn how to live with chickens. While I grew up on a farm, we had no chickens, so this is on-the-job training. Our rooster, Harvey, is quite polite, only crowing twice daily at about 5 a.m. unless there is a problem. Then, he is a significant warning system, and for that, I’m very thankful. The chickens are a bit silly. They follow my spousal unit around like dogs.

Speaking of dogs, these guys are three months old. Sorry for the photo taken from such a distance. They are usually in silly puppy mode, and this is the only photo of them genuinely looking like the almost adults they are. Their breed is Akbash, and they are currently the size of a labrador. They will be gigantic protectors of the farm and the animals, but right now, they are soft fuzz balls that play, nap, and love treats. They practice herding with the chickens, but this young, they don’t do a very good job. The hawks overhead laugh at them as they buzz the chickens.

We practice leash training in the mornings before breakfast. I have to get them somewhat obedient before they reach 150 pounds. Some days, they are muddy messes, and I’ve learned that wet concrete is dangerous for dogs when they lick their paws after parading through the wet horse stall floor. Now I know that when Murph gives me that mournful eye-roll, he’s eaten something he shouldn’t.

During the day, they nap under the window outside the office where I write. It’s been years since we’ve had dogs, and knowing they are there is a nice feeling.

I spend the cold nights with a fire, ready for the in-floor heating system they are working on this weekend. Right now, I’m out of firewood and starter inside the house, so it’s time to layer up, face the wind, and bring it in.

’s Passages on Substack discusses her landing at their Osprey Nest and finding the next home that is safe and secure. I felt right beside her with all those feelings of where to land next. She worries about fires and floods in California and has every right to be. My only worry in Türkiye is earthquakes. Those fears are somewhat subdued with a steel-framed house and ridiculously reinforced concrete.

Yet, it’s not all fun and games. This weekend, I learned what safe and secure means. My husband was away, and I was here for several days alone. There were workers daily, but only me, the chickens, and the dogs in the evenings. Our farm is surrounded by a national forest on three sides and a park service on the other. We routinely see jackals, coyotes, foxes, bobcats, gangs of hunting dogs, roaming herds of cows and dogs, and the folks over the hill tell me there are also boars and bears. Although I haven’t seen or heard bears, I routinely hear the boars.

Yep. The puppies and I stay inside the fence.

I settled down with another Gabrial Allon book from Daniel Silva (I am addicted to spy books) and was deep into it when the garage door below me banged loudly as if someone had grabbed the iron handles and was shaking both doors, checking to see if they were locked. These doors are enormous and heavy, something a wind gust won’t move.

Then I heard a cough just off the deck. Given how sound travels from the valley up the side of the mountain, the cough worried me less than the banging garage doors. The dogs had been barking at voices bouncing around the mountain all evening, but I could not see anyone even though I could hear them. Nervous, I looked at the shotgun resting on the dining table for emergencies, mostly to scare the bears and the boars.

In this country, I’ve never been worried about the people. Not in over thirty years. I called the spousal unit, who was forty-five minutes away, and our property manager and one of the guys from the village arrived within minutes. I felt better when the village’s resident badass immediately believed me. I think my face was white, and although I wasn’t shaking, he knew I didn’t scare easily.

Of course, they found no one and no scary animals. The dogs were all wiggly fuzz balls again (traitors), begging for scratches. The guys found the men up the mountain who had camped out for the evening, but they were locals, no one with ill intentions. Even though I felt a little idiotic, I knew what I heard. And I felt better knowing they could be here quickly if I needed help again.

Was it the wind? I don’t think so. But even places of peace sometimes have peril.