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It was all so easy when I was a little kid. I could address anyone the way I wanted. Yet, now it is all a big mystery!

I used to address cab drivers in Turkey with the title “ağabey” or in short “abi” in written Turkish slang (big brother), but now that I am older it all seems wrong. Why would I call someone “big brother” when we are both the same age and have no family affiliations?  It is also a slang word that does not go well with the way I talk. Using “şoför bey” is another option but sounds way too proper and stuck-up.

I now believe that there will never be a right or wrong in the world of Turkish titles. I feel like the best will be to avoid any title (if I can manage to do it). I have been observing other friends in this area and saw that they are also clueless. Aydın insists on using “şef” (chef) to address any employee he would like to call on (which I think is completely absurd). Görkem struggles to stick with “pardon”.

The same dilemma is apparent in the area of friends’ mothers. Some like “(first name) abla”  or “(first name) teyze” combination and others consider it a big humiliation. Mothers happily married for years are usually happy to hear such titles. Yet there are unexpected cases that can slap your hypothesis in the face like the divorced still-hot-bar-hopping energized socialite mum with cool kids. How dare you address her who spent a fortune on plastic surgery to disguise her age with “abla” or “teyze”! It is only logical to yell out “hey beautiful how you doin?”

How about for an acquaintance/friend/buddy 10-12 years older than you? Do you then use “abi” or “abla”? It seems so wrong, but there has been times when I couldn’t avoid using the terms and I drown in regret. For example a few years back I went to an interview for an internship position and I met with the owner of the company who was a family friend (whom I never met before). I used “abi”. Since then we became friends and he married a girl my age. What the heck do I do? I can’t use “abi” when the wife addresses him with the first name. Yet, I can’t just get rid of the bloody title as I have used it several times before. Total disaster of a dilemma!

It is not any better at work. I try to use “(first name) bey” (Mr. (first name)) or “(first name) hanım” (Miss (first name)) with clients, but I face a problem in that area too. Some request I use “abla” or “abi” although I believe such titles are too unprofessional for the work environment.

Maybe some of you have better terms to save a man in distress. If so please do not hesitate to share! Looking forward to comments…

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I remember the days when I would drive her crazy. Her hair cut short, her tiny sneakers on, her cheeks peach red she would run into the living room her eyes sparkling with the grandeur of the Christmas tree. “Sinan are you decorating the tree!” she would yell her voice trembling with her tiny heart pounding with excitement. She would come back her hands washed and stand next to my feet waiting for an order to hang an ornament on the pine tree. Annoyed by her tiny presence, careless of her excitement I would pick a tiny damaged red ball from a bunch of huge ones and ask her to put it in a place where no one can see. I was an immature brother too selfish to observe his sister’s incredible spirit and blossom.

Even though the age difference, I have always been addicted to her company. She was my cabin crew when I turned my bed into an airplane. She was my gatekeeper when I turned the living room sofa into a cave of wonders. She was my avid shopper when I turned my room into a shop of weird gadgets. She was my forced wingman when I watched horror movies. She was my financier when I ran out of my weekly allowance. She was always there for me (although sometimes unwillingly). She has changed a lot since then, but never ceased to stand beside me for the good and the bad.

It took me a while to catch up after I left for college. 8 years away from home overseas, I kept thinking it was only her voice that changed. First she was smart enough to decorate the tree before I made it home. Then came the high heels. I was shorter. Then the trips to the hairdressers. I was bolder. Then the switch to a healthy diet. I was chubbier. I no longer dived into her room without knocking. She was strong enough to watch the horror movies alone in a dark room (although she might end up sneaking to grandma’s after the movie). I would have never imagined her to grow up so fast. Never imagined to be the one taking advice. Never imagined to be the one so proud of her decisions and determination. I felt privileged to be the cavalier to my tall, sexy and confident sister. We had our ups and downs, but she has always been the princess of our home.

On my most recent trip back, she found his prince to become the queen of her own home. I am heavy with emotions, motivated with pride, happy with her happiness and somber with farewell. Her engagement was the first step. Her wedding will be the next to a new life she is set to build up with her husband. Her address might change, but she will always be a call away from me to bug her anytime, anywhere. This time I promise to be a little more mature and call during reasonable hours.

Congrats to my princess, Ayse and her prince I welcome as a brother, Serkan.

I close the door of apartment 29E one last time. My keys out of the keychain, I take one last glimpse at the gate that welcomed so many family members, friends and lovers. I leave it with good thoughts. Happy to be its patron for the past few years. Relieved to be able to separate from it with such determination and contentment.

Resigned from work and out the apartment that I called “home” since graduation, I spend the rest of my H1-B visa days in New York catching up with the city, hanging out with friends and making a list of everything that will be different once I am back in my home country. In between countless glasses of drinks, sweaty dances and plates of the most favorite NYC food I get closer to the day of my flight to Istanbul. I keep re-organizing the four large bags carefully packed to check into the plane to become close to the cold idea of departure. I realize it will be tougher than imagined. Never because of New York, but because of the people I will be leaving behind.

“How can you leave this city?”, “Life back home can’t even compare to the life here”, “Don’t you think you are making a mistake?” flush out of familiar mouths like bullets in a machine gun. Partially damaged with doubt, but still strong with confidence and determination, I hold on to my decision to move. I go back reminded how to love until it makes one shiver. I go back being re-thought the undeniable support of brotherhood and the importance of friendship. I go back with the necessity of trust carved on my head. I go back to end the longing for the family. I learnt a ton, yet I still have a long way to go.

I know so much will change. I leave to meet the ones who left before me. I leave cherishing the memories of the ones I leave behind. Time difference will interfere with Musa’s daily “I left the office, what’s the plan for dinner?” calls. I will not be able to personally observe his “my friend, how many wives do you have?” conversations with laid-back cab drivers. Burak will have to move his morning catch-up calls to my office to the late afternoon. Gorkem’s great last minute trips from Chicago to New York will now require 11-hour flights to Istanbul.

Le Bilboquet will not be blocks away for me to drag everyone there for lunch or dinner. Luis will not be taking his unavoidable after-work movie naps in front of my unnecessarily massive TV. Selim’s unique sunglasses will not always be there during the sunny days to brighten up the day. The holy brotherhood of 25 Mercer will dissolve into the hype of Cihangir in Istanbul.

Vermont will be off the navigation map, no longer able to accommodate the weekend ski trips. Hamptons will be too far away to observe the vicious ocean waves (Tara would know better :)) and luscious weekend estates. The intoxicating happy hour will cease to be an amazing weekend ritual. Delicious sushi will not taste as good. Tasty Mexican food will not be as common. The heartbreaking, heart-stopping models of Union Square will be too far away to observe.

Yusuf’s “the best of” compilations will no longer apply to favorite destinations. Shopping will not be such a bargain anymore. Greg’s “come out tonight” messages will not conclude in actionable decisions. Olivier’s weird faces after listening to each of my mixes for the first time will be stored in memory. Eda’s incredible vintage boots will not longer take on the streets.

It will be tough not to have Leslie as the princess of our guys-only dinner outings. Ece will be showing off her flips in a different park far far away from New York. Simon’s latino parties will have one less Turkish attendee.

Miles will be recorded in kilometers. Pounds will change into kilograms and blocks into steps. The Empire State will be the Bosphorus. There will be a replacement for everything, but the true friends New York so gladly introduced me to along the four glorious years I have spent here. Continents away technology will help with communication. Days, months and years apart, memories will help narrow the distance to what was once. I hope it will be easy to leave the fast and greedy island., but I know that it will be difficult to part from the people I have shared it with.

Celebrating great memories and wishing for even better days, I leave you with a mix dedicated to the journey from one home to another.

I expect to see you all. This time in Istanbul.

All my best,

Sinan

I recently received an extraordinary gift from my soon-to-be sister-in-law, Ceylan. It was unexpected in the sense that I would have never gotten it myself. It was impressive in the sense that its contents turned out to be even better than its carefully crafted luxurious box. Antica Farmacista, as I later on found out, is an American fragrance company that was created to revitalize ancient European tradition with the aromas of Tuscany and the Mediterranean Sea.

Inside my giftbox stood two individual apothecary bottles, one called “Fico Verde” and the other “Magnolie, Orchidea e Mimosa”. Both had a set of birch reeds ready to be dipped into the bottles to release the fragrance. I must have tested numerous home fragrances over the years and I can easily say that this special gift topped anything I have smelled so far. You can only find this quality in luxury hotels and spas around the world. The scent is strong enough to keep the room refreshed, but also mild enough to avoid headaches. Among the two bottles, my most favorite is “Fico Verde” with fresh green notes of cut grass, fruit, wild fig and sandalwood (as it reads on the back). After this tiny bottle took its place on my desk, there wasn’t a single visitor who skipped the question “what smells so great here?”

For more information about Antica Farmacista visit www.anticafarmacista.com

Moving is never easy and the international move is the worst, but their level of difficulty depends on our capability as smart consumers and well-rounded project managers. In most cases we perform below average, giving away precious furniture for free and/or throwing them away just because we bought more than we can handle and didn’t plan ahead.

The opportunity to be a well-trained systematic mover unavoidably decreases over the years we spend at our new temporary home. We constantly make the promise to cease the heavy decoration and not be a victim of the common hallucination of finally enjoying a permanent address. Yet, flocks of weird kitchen gadgets, massive TVs, art pieces and libraries of books gradually fill up the apartment we get on a short-term lease. The look is sophisticated. The feel is comfortable and heart-warming. The ending won’t be so peaceful.

Sweat will cover the forehead. The biceps will sizzle with the weight. The back will cry out the kneel. Boxes will pile up on the living room floor that once housed our personal sophisticated and comforting decoration. Each drawer will pop out items that will make us question our motives behind the purchase. The kitchen that once cooked the most enjoyable food will now turn into a room of nightmares, climbing on you with loads of spices, frozen meals, jams, pots and pans. Inside the study, light grey dust will glide onto the floor from the top of the tiny statues proudly displayed on shelves. Books never used more than twice, crisp restaurant menus picked up for home delivery and dictionaries forgotten after the Internet will be filling up trash bags shamefully placed in every corner.

The furniture so proudly enjoyed until the move out day will choke us, forcing us to run to the window for some air, for some well-deserved break. As we gaze out into the most familiar scenery, we won’t be able to stop asking ourselves “when and why did I gather so much trash?”. We will feel a little hurt realizing that we have been greedy people. We have been true supporters of “the serial shopper”. We will run out to friends, pressuring each to hold onto some of the extra items. The trash bags behind will be there to haunt and blame us. We will rush out to get rid of them just like a murderer getting rid of evidence.

Selling the large furniture (which always appears to be the easiest part of the job) will also be a problem. Open houses will not draw many interested buyers. Friends will take it personal when they won’t get the discount they expect on the desired items. Putting stuff on reserve without any deposit for a later pick up will be the biggest mistake. Most buyers will bail out with a well-crafted excuse. Smart shoppers will wait for the last day of the move to hit the jackpot with last minute bargains. Yet, most of the time they won’t make it to the pick up because of time conflicts. The showcasing on the Internet will most likely bring in spam. The precious items we spent so much money, calculation and care on will eventually be given away for nothing.

Sweaty, tired, surprised, ashamed, but still relieved, we will take comfort in reminding ourselves of the happy days in the middle of a once homey but now stripped dusty living room with a pile of cash wrapped inside our hands. Freshly out of the hectic move, heavy luggage on one side, keys taken out of the keychain, we will (once again) promise ourselves “next time I will only buy stuff that I really need and plan everything ahead!”

It is so difficult, isn’t it? We never want to say farewell to anything good (and sometimes even bad) that has been a part of us. Whether it is a lengthy trip or a complete move to a different city we are constantly bombarded with people, habits and belongings we do not want to leave behind. We try desperately to avoid the plans to meet again in the future, the questions on the next step and the admonition that reminds us of our mistakes. We keep it together and toughen up knowing that all will come loose the last day before the journey. Dignity consumed. Strength over-spent. Surrounded by loved ones, we turn into little babies constantly looking for hugs and attention.

On top of the emotional stress, we are forced to go through the superficial goodbye chat with the people we were never close with. The small talks, the customary need to take one out for a farewell drink and the request to have one’s detailed contact information…An unavoidable process that we always dread.

Let’s never say goodbye, skip the good wishes and just end with “see you soon”. The how, the when and the where will come to us. All in good time…

There must be a million jokes on horny men tucked into a tiny space. A few desperate guys drive each other crazy with inappropriate remarks and become characters of a story that makes everybody laugh. I was a part of such a tale in the army. Despite the fact that I have witnessed a few hilarious moments, I have at many times been curious to see how we function once all the accessories that distinguish our being are taken away. No opportunity for reproduction, no independence, no freedom, no financial assets, 4500 men stripped from all their dear belongings to become one and obey the strict rules forced upon by superior officers of the army.

Isn’t it hilarious to hear the curse “amina koyim” (fuck your vagina) a hundred times a day when there isn’t a single person around that possesses a vagina? Isn’t it a little weird to see men who are old enough to be fathers pinch each other and make jokes that were once popular back in elementary school? If you think that hardcore porn is as vivid and nasty as it gets, you should listen to a soldier speak of his love adventures outside the fences. In every corner you will find such a narrator addressing a crowd listening with great interest. With the great comfort of exaggeration, no requirement of an alibi and the attention of a crowd thirsty for the memoirs of an irresistible fake playboy, the storyteller moves into a state of ultimate bragging. It was the army that proved the hypothesis: It is only natural to bend the truth and lose a little bit of IQ, the need for respect and the motivation to be a good example once all the assets a man holds dear are frozen until further notice.