"Mandarin liquer? What is that?"

I didn't really need to ask. Really, anyone can guess what mandarin liquer is. But the bartender in our neighborhood bar was already pouring me a small shot.

I raised the glass to my nose. It smelled great, like a freshly sliced orange and a bar of organic soap. I passed it to Jeff to sip.

"Tastes like Las Vegas," he said.

Intoxicatingly sweet, the liquer wasn't something I'd normally drink a shot of, but I reminded myself that this is 2012: the Year of New.

So I downed the shot. It felt great.

There haven't been many times in my life where I've stepped out into the wholly unfamiliar. There was the time, back in 1999, when I came to Istanbul as a 16-year-old exchange student.

Then there was the year Jeff and I moved to Wichita, Kansas. That was definitely stepping into frightening territory, and it was even more terrifying when we realized not even 3 months in that we'd made a huge mistake in moving to the Mid-West.

But when we moved to Istanbul in 2007 -- with 6 bags and 2 cats between us -- in many ways I felt like I was going home, going back to somewhere familiar, even though we had no place to live, I had no job, and the only people I knew in the city I hadn't seen in about 8 years.

In a lot of ways I'm not a big risk-taker. I don't take chances on dicey-looking seafood, I like to stick to Grey Goose martinis, wet and dirty, no variations, please, and I'm not interested in any of my bank's offers to place my savings in high-risk stock options.

The funny thing is, I like to think of myself as living by the mantra, "Life is short". I say it when I reach for a second slice of cake (or beer) or when I sleep in on a Sunday.

But pretending that I'm really living when I do these things is just a facade, a way for me to maintain order in my life while believing that I am embracing opportunity. And living this way has made me predictable and, frankly, boring. 

Which is why 2012 is about stepping out of my comfort zone. Trying new things, small and large. Drinking that fancy vodka on a random Tuesday night. Staying out late with friends and not worrying (so much) about the time or the cost of cab fare home. Letting things spill, get messy, maybe even -- gasp -- get off track a little bit.

2012 is also the year of our return to Istanbul.

It's past time to accept that while Izmir is a lovely city and a really great place to live, I've wanted to leave since our first year here. And it's far past time to wait for "everything to fall into place" to move back to Istanbul.

It is, in fact, the time to say to the universe, "I'm going back, I'm under no illusions, I'm no longer some naive kid looking for adventure. I'm a different person now, with different expectations."

So this summer, after a trip to Ireland in June, for which we have already purchased direct tickets from Izmir, we're moving back. To where, exactly, we don't know. (I'm thinking Nisantasi, but I'm also considering Besiktas and Kadikoy.)

We'll go back with the same amount of furniture (which is amazing to me, considering how much bigger our current house is than our previous one), but way more wall art and kitchenware. We'll return with an extra cat as well.

But, most important, I think we'll go back with much more realistic expectations of Istanbul, of what we want out of the city, of what we're willing to give. I'll go back with far more patience and less frustration than when I left in 2009.

Let the ride begin.

 

Way back in July, Jeff's mom sent him a box of some books he needed for the fall semester. As these things go, the box didn't get here till late this week, almost three months after she sent it. Inside was a surprise bag of miniature Reese's Peanut Butter Cups, which, as you can see, are a little worse for wear from their high summer overseas trip. But once you dig out the aluminium foil that's managed to embed itself into the chocolate-peanut buttery mess, they still taste pretty damn great.

This has been one helluva summer, and not in the beaches-every-weekend-margaritas-on-the-water kind of way, but more the oh-dear-is-it-7-pm-already-and-I'm-still-not-done? kind of way.

I sort of let summer slip through my fingers this year, completely unintentionally, with work projects and freelance gigs and a promotion (yay!), and so at the beginning of September Jeff and I decided to have one last (or first?) hurrah and head over to Denizli for a long weekend before the summer was officially over.

Which is sort of ironic in a way, as Denliz -- despite being literally called "with sea" -- is 4 hours inland and nowhere near a sea, or any large body of water actually.  And, to be honest, we didn't actually go there, save for a few unremarkable minutes at the otogar where we waited for our dolmus to take us to Pamukkale, where we could hike up limestone travertines and bathe in an ancient thermal pool.

And we did do all that, and it was indeed wonderful, one of the best mini-holidays I've ever had, I think. But before we could do all of that, we first had to get there, which is why I was sitting last Thursday at the Pamukkale bus company office in my neighborhood waiting for the servis to take me to the otogar.

(The town where we went near Denizli is called Pamukkale, and the bus company we always take is also called Pamukkale. Funnily, the bus company Pamukkale does not actually go to the town of Pamukkale, only Denizli, from where you must catch a local bus to the village.)

It was late afternoon and I was tired and stressed and hot. My laptop was packed so I could continue working on the bus, but for now all I wanted to do was sit in the air conditioning and stare out the window.

But as my luck would have it, a mother and her young child came into the office, setting down their bags and taking a seat across from me. The mother proceeded to play a game I like to call "What is Abla Doing?", a game I am familiar with but am generally not amused by.

The game goes like this: mother tries to entertain child by using me as bait and asking the child questions such as: "What is abla (big sister) doing?", "What color shoes is abla wearing?", "Is abla wearing sunglasses?", "Why is abla reading a book?".

Except this woman was taking it to another level, you guys. I mean, she was going on for about 5 minutes asking the kid questions about me as I just sat there trying to act pleasant. And the whole time the kid just stared at me with her finger up her nose, not answering, not smiling, not nothing.

Finally, the woman got the hint that the kid didn't particularly care for this game and she got up to head out of the office. Before leaving she turned to me and asked if I could watch her stuff while she ran out to buy something. Sure, I said. It's easy to "watch" somebody's stuff; it basically involves me sitting here and staring out the window some more, so I was all for it.

Not a minute later she came back, child in tow, and told me it was difficult to shop with her daughter, and could I watch for a few minutes while she went back out?

I was shocked. I know Turks love children, and they assume everyone else does too, but I have never been asked by a complete stranger to watch their kid.

And so, in what is not my finest moment in life, I said the first and only thing that came to my mind.

"Ama istemiyorum." ("But I don't want to.")

To my credit, I did sort of sheepishly shrug my shoulders at the same time, as if to say, "it's not my fault I don't want to, right?".

As you can imagine, the mother did not take too kindly to my lack of interest in her precious offspring and she roughly swooped her up and stormed out of the bus office. 

The only other person in the office this whole time was the Pamukkale sales representative, who I swear snickered at this point, but I can't be sure. 

When the servis to take us to the otogar arrived, the woman and child sat directly in front of me, from where the mother glared at me a few times and made excessively loud cooing noises over her daughter (who I swear still had her finger up her nose).

As I mentioned, it was not my finest hour. I mean, what am I, some kind of ogre who hates children? No, of course not, though, to be honest, they aren't really my cup of tea. I get that a lot of people -- especially Turkish people -- adore and worship children but I simply don't. I like the children of my friends -- who are interesting people and thus have interesting and clever offspring -- but the children of random people? Goodness, no, I am not interested.

Living in Turkey without children is not difficult, but it can be strange sometimes, particularly because my choice to not have children sets me apart from so many people who just don't understand my decision. But I learned a long time ago that I don't have to explain my decision to anyone, and if they ask me about it, I only have to tell them what I want to tell them and no more.

And in fact, I love that Turks are so involved with children. I love that men and women will pick up a baby at a restaurant and walk away with it to give the parents a few minutes to eat in peace. I love that people truly do band together to help raise children, with neighbours and shopkeepers all playing a part in a child's welfare. And I think it's great the way perfect strangers will trust each other with something so important to them.

But I'm more than happy to let those people watch someone else's kid.