My life has oftentimes had glorious tapestries of connection & serendipity unfold, taking me into some marvelous places, and experiences. Retrospectively, I have realised it has been present, without intention, in all of my worlds. If I had to describe the feeling of it, I would liken it to being swept up in a murmuration.

For me, it begins with a knowing a few people, and becomes knowing many, via odd and unusual connections made and, somehow, it all flows together, in ways that defy any kind of logistics or planning.

It just happens.

Back when we first moved to this mountain valley, I joined Rural Women, and quickly found myself taking the 2025 calendar photographs, for our local branch.

It was a delightful way to ‘arrive’. It was also slightly epic and intense because we had something like 6 weeks to achieve it, and it was winter. But I met some really good people as it unfolded.

Pre-selected groups would reshape themselves, and all kinds of small dramas unfolded, illness … weather but it was an adventure, and we did it.

Fast-forward to now, and that same network was there, as we were wondering if we could even stay in this area we’ve come to love.

So we made an appointment with the potential new neighbour, to the house in question, as they were showing us around. I had first met this neighbour at one of the calendar shoots, and our paths have crossed occasionally over these last two years.

Did I mention, this new location is completely off-grid?

We drove up the long driveway, a little in awe at the thought we might be able to live there one day soon. It’s a wild space. Barely this side of tame, in some ways but so beautiful. And the owner has achieved so much since our last visit, two years earlier.

We explored the house, the gardens, the young fruit forest. We were told of the water-supplying spring up on the bush-covered hill, and invited to ask questions along the way.

It was more than we knew to dream of, and absolutely all about the next step we had been thinking about taking. Here, we would be moving into an established off-grid lifestyle, with everything set up, learning as we fitted ourselves into the life.

Of course we said, yes please. And then, may we plant our garlic crop as soon as is possible? We had been holding back on the early planting all our friends have been doing, as they try to beat the airborne, parasitic fungi called Rust. In New Zealand we used to plant on the shortest day, which is rapidly approaching. However, planting earlier means that the garlic is bigger if, and when, the Rust arrives, stunting all future bulb growth.

We had been holding back on planting here because we didn’t want to leave our garlic behind. We’ve built up a glorious supply of organic bulbs, and had been trying to work out whether we could plant in gardening bags, on wooden pallets, so we could move it when we left.

The garlic is going in at our new location this week. Long before we move but safely in the ground.

Our neighbours. There is some lovely serendipity going on there too. The wife is the local organiser of workshops, about subjects like seed-saving and cheese-making. And there she is, located next door, having generously told us, feel free to pop over, or not. No pressure but we’re here if you need us. I have offered to help her with advertising future workshops, and we’ll help in the community garden she is establishing.

We are moving 8kms further into the valley. The end of the road valley. I feel a little like Dorothy, in The Wizard of Oz but the exact words would be, 'You’re not in Istanbul anymore, Di!

It makes me smile to look back and see the vast distances between my European lives, and this life. Or between the small town I lived my first 20 years in, and this rural life I love.

We’re excited. We have about 10 weeks to organise and pack. To relocate some of our garden plants, and to coordinate the move of our much-loved 11 meter caravan … along a narrow gravel road.

Just wait until the local transport company hears where we need it taken this time. To write that they find us memorable, might be one way of describing how they feel about moving this particular caravan but those stories were complicated by the spaces we needed it to arrive in.

You are most welcome to follow along. Know that winter has been slow to arrive, that we have an average yearly rainfall of 4-5 meters, and that the road we’re moving on down is, occasionally, cut off from the rest of the world. It’s a wild and beautiful valley, hemmed in on both sides by mountains, and located on the very edge of one of our magnificent national parks.

It’s going to be a most marvelous adventure!

See you there.

-Chandler O’Leary.

I discovered Chandler O’Leary’s art after her death. I had all the joy of discovering her work, and then the sadness of realising she was already gone from this world.

But, if you’re artist, perhaps you remain forever. Remain forever discoverable.

I had to share this particular artwork, as my work life looks something like this these days. Minus the fox, and I more often operate a set of traffic lights.

No one is more surprised than me. And that’s after a lifetime of jobs that have, oftentimes, surprised me. This is where I am on random days, always unknown until the evening before, when I receive the word.

Oddly enough, the uncertainty seems to have gifted me that thrill I used to get, back when I was using planes, to fly all over Europe, and beyond, on adventures.

I was flown to Madrid, to photograph an opera singer’s wedding. Berlin, to capture the days of celebration that unfolded around a special couple’s wedding, each honoring the others traditions in ways that were beautiful but also about creating something new.

Those two weddings alone, were whole book chapters that I can find no way to summarise here. I was flown in to photograph weddings in Lyon, Stavanger, and the English countryside. And each time, I was so very clear, that I was a documentary photographer, not a ‘chocolate box moment’ kind of photographer. And I would never digitally enhance people to make them more beautiful. I would only attempt to capture the story of their special day, as it unfolded, with their family & friends. That was all.

Looking back, from the quiet life I’m living now, I see the cascade of adventures that unfolded, via synchronicity, old friends & new, and the joy that comes from saying ‘Yes’, even when deeply concerned that, this time, I had jumped and there would be no wings grown to soften the landing.

But it always worked out. And I have never ever been able to contain the joy that comes from being completely in the moment, in the event, & attempting to capture all, and more, of those special times.

But the woman in Chandler’s artwork delighted me because she looks a little like me. The long hair, the talking to creatures, although I never ever wear sunglasses. The stop sign, the safety vest, and those traffic cones disappearing into the distance. I know this scene.

I have discovered that my work is a place for dreaming. The silence, the stepping out of a structured, known world, in terms of tasks for the day, or even in a career.

My goals are simple, Pay attention. Keep everyone within the work-zone safe. And make sure all vehicles, bicycles and walkers, pass through the site, where ever it is, safely. And smiling, as they pass by.

Something I never expected though, was the kindness of strangers out there. The conversations, if they have to stop longer than a moment, are many and varied. One woman seemed so sad. I asked her how her day was. She was on her way to see her dying mother. She and her sisters had been with their mother all night, and after a short break, she had just had the call to return. It was almost time. Another dog-walker confided that she was thinking of buying the local newspaper. I loved it, and promised to keep her impulse to myself. (She did, and I wrote to congratulate her). Others talk of the vehicle they’re driving, sometimes it’s the weather, or completely off-charts surprising things. It’s always interesting.

I have been gifted coffee, flowers (as below, I popped them into my empty ginger beer bottle) and sweets out there, on the road side. And people sometimes stop, or simply shout as they drive-by, telling me that they love my work hat, as do I. It works in the sun, and in the rain.

But I’m learning, there’s more. There was the time I was handed the keys to a manual-drive work vehicle, and sent off over our famous Hill. Takaka Hill is the only way out of the Bay, unless you want to fly from the small airport, or find a boat. If curious, there’s a quietly delightful motorbike video of traveling over the Hill. It has 257 corners, some very tight 320-degree hairpin corners, and it often collapses in adverse weather.

I love driving it now however, the first time, in a manual-drive and I was feeling a little out on the edge. It was a dark morning, and I was heading over to do traffic management on the other side of the Hill, passing through some fairly intensive repair work along the way.

At some point, I think retrospectively, I recognise the ‘fear’. It was always like this, before I flew any place. Moving to Istanbul, and all of those 36-hours in transit flights, between Turkey or Europe, and New Zealand.

Flying off to photograph weddings with no formula for successfully capturing events. There was traveling to Cairo, with the Berlin-based curator, to document her quest for exhibition pieces and artists. And here I was, back home in New Zealand, and feeling the fear but doing it anyway. Again.

And there was the joy, wrapped up in a successful ‘mission completed’. Joy like the buzz I experienced each time I survived a flight.

But anyway, I am so happy I discovered Chandler O’Leary, and got to share her work here. There are so many glorious artists and story-tellers on Substack. I thought I would bring Chandler over, so you can discover her too.

Through her art, she is hoping to make a difference—even if it’s on a tiny scale: “If I can get others to stop and notice the world around them—even in what small way I can—I feel that can help us all be more thoughtful, mindful of, and participatory in all this inevitable change.”

• from, Drawn the Road Again. By Morgan P. Vickers.

On Saturday, we were told we have to leave our beautiful rental home. We were promised 2 years, and we have been granted a little longer however, we need to be gone before the end of August. Which is great, we have enough firewood, and we get to know that this story is coming to an end. We will continue to savour every moment till we leave.

The view from our deck.

We do have the 11 meter caravan, as our Plan B in this crazy old world but we decided that, if possible, we would both enjoy a little longer in a house. A little longer to prepare for that van life. A little longer to fit the firebox we bought for the caravan, and to learn how to use everything.

At the same time, you should know that you are reading the writing of someone who, after her first unexpected divorce, faced with the option of working in something like an office or supermarket job if she stayed where she was, or becoming an English teacher in Istanbul, flew out to Istanbul, with her degree in literature & anthropology. A degree which only seemed superb in particular settings. Not so much in my Dunedin life. I studied a little longer and was able to add a Teacher of English certificate and voila, my career kicked off in Istanbul.

So being forced into the caravan, and being inspired by having to learn how it all works, in order to be warm, cook, and get the bathroom up and running, isn’t the worst outcome. It’s a gorgeous caravan.

However, this is about something else. One of things, I love more than anything about this life I’m living, is the community that surrounds us. This is the place I have most loved living, even more than Genova, which is saying so much.

We have neighbours and friends, even acquaintances, who are there, without any questions, judgements, or ideas of what is ‘too much’. They are simply there.

The quest for a new house, in the area, began in the driveway this morning. Two days after we had signed the agreement to leave. The owner is a gold miner, and mining is about to begin. Our/His house is required for his staff.

No worries, at all.

My boyfriend was talking to a neighbour who told us of a farm near us, that had sold, with a house that was empty; that had been empty the whole time we’ve lived here, in fact. The neighbour gave us a name to call to find out more, so I messaged the further-down-the-road neighbour, who gave us a name but didn’t have a number. Although I was given his address but even I know, it’s probably not the best look, arriving at a stranger’s door, talking about a house that isn’t even officially for rent at the moment.

I called the friends, who live a couple of kilometers above us. She laughed. Yes, her husband knows the guy would be be managing the farm once it was sold but not his number. She suggested I message the Egg Lady, although used her real name.

So I did.

It turn out that the Egg Lady lives next to this guy I’m trying to contact. I know her because of a photo series I did for the Rural Woman calendar. After the photo shoot, up at her house, we four women sat drinking champagne & chatting, more than a year ago now.

I do love this life of mine.

Today, she not only confirmed that I could make an official weekly egg order but she gave me the phone number I needed. She also mentioned the house we were chasing, it seems like everyone knows it’s out there, and she wished us luck!

So I phoned the number. It’s a work day. He didn’t pick up. I guess I’m still a random number he doesn’t recognise. I have left him a message, about calling me when he has a moment, if he wouldn’t mind, and that’s where I left it …

All of that happened inside an hour.

Now I’m waiting for my latest batch of sourdough to bake. I was running behind schedule last night, and woke at 2am, with time to prepare the loaves for their time in the fridge. I am still learning.

Anyway, I think that baking a loaf of organic sourdough bread, is the best kind of way to end a day that unfolded so full of good people, & magic.

Some mornings, back in Genova, it felt like I was living in an enormous mansion. That my apartment was merely one of many rooms, located in that solid mass of building, that was my Genovese home.

My mornings there began differently, to any other time or place in my life. I would doze, windows open, shutters closed, waking again and again. To the sound of voices passing by, down in the narrow alley below.

I lived on Via Ravecca.

6am and suddenly, that heavy metal cafe door was rolled up, directly below my bedroom. Clattering and rattling, like a wild thunderstorm, or a bomb going off, perhaps. I would be startled into consciousness, heart pounding.

Then would come the greetings shouted, bursts of laughter, dogs barking, children calling. A slow-building morning crescendo that I loved.

And I would lie there, imagining the people who belonged to the voices. The Genovese, living their daily routines, stopping for coffee. The friends who meet everyday, on their way. A small slice of this place, where, approximately, two thousand years of history has happened, building its own form of a crescendo through time & space.

The progress of my days spent there, were measured by many things but in the apartment, it was coffee cups clattering, saucers rattling, cutlery clinking. The busy times of the day. And I would sit at my round formica table, making-up stories & editing photographs, in the Italian kitchen. Stories of lives long-lived in one place. Of generations.

I was quietly envious.

I felt like an orphan.

I loved it all.

One lunch time, I watched an old man lean out from his window across the alley, to shake his tablecloth clean of crumbs. We smiled at one another.

Sitting there, I would hear, perhaps, a small 3-wheeled truck manuvoring its way along the narrow caruggi. Scooters would zip by. People would walk past, constantly. University students, carrying their heavy portfolios. Businessmen in their blue suits. The old men and women, the shoppers, the mothers with their babies. The dog walkers.

My windows were always open, allowing me to pretend I was a part of that beautiful living tapestry.

I learned ‘va bene’ via that open window. And I practiced my ‘ciao’ by repeating it whenever I heard it. ‘Allora’ was my favourite. I would mimic each speaker, quietly, delighting in the variations of pronunciation, or was that usage.

What did I love, so passionately, about Genova?

What pulled me back, repeatedly, after that first introduction by my Brussels-based Genovese friend, in 2008?

What fueled the passion I felt, and still feel, for that little-known, often over-looked Italian city?

I loved the secretive alleyways, known as the carruggio by the Genovese.

I loved the hills that surrounded the city, cradling it. And the Ligurian Sea that caressed its feet.

It was a city that glowed apricot, pale yellow, and terracotta, with green or blue metal shutters, hanging from those homes. Shutters, that I wish I had here in New Zealand. I delighted in seemingly ruined buildings still inhabited, and not as ruined as they first appeared, to my young eyes, still unaccustomed to ancient.

And then there was the Genovese light.

It transformed the ordinary, the ugly, & the beautiful too.

It transformed everything it touched.

I remember, one evening, I glanced up and saw how the wall across the caruggi changed. The ordinary, slightly dull yellow surface, was singing gold in the evening light.

Perhaps it was this promise of transformation. Both of the city, as the light moved across it, and of me, as I explored the medieval city-scape as an unknown land. Somehow, that Genovese life striped everything away. It left me reliant on my senses. My camera was my means of an attempt at understanding. Of attempting a translation.

Then there was the Centro Storico, the oldest section of the city. It seemed like it was alive to me.

Zena, an old name the city wore with pride, was a shapeshifting city. A living-breathing city, with both a heartbeat and a soul. It seemed that she allowed me to walk her streets with impunity. Professional camera in hand, unmolested. I always felt safe there.

Sometimes, it seemed like I could feel the presence, or perhaps, the weight of times past. The ghosts of Genovese history, softly pressing round me. It seemed natural to feel them walking with me, caught in other times perhaps, or still present, just slightly out of focus.

Giants, like Fabrizio De André, the singer-songwriter, known as the Bob Dylan of Italy. Or d'Albertis, and Andrea Doria. Giuseppe Mazzini. Or maybe Eugenio Montale, writing his exquisite poetry. And then there those who opened Europe’s first bank, back in the 12th century. The whispers of them, combining with the Genovese from the city’s golden age, in the 16th century, and the port, that was considered a major port back in the 12th century too.

I loved that the streets carried the imprints, visible or not, of the millions who have walked there.

I understood: tracks have been worn, habits and customs formed, and generations born here, since forever.

And I loved it.

This dog is all the things ‘best dogs’ are. Her sense of humour is enormous, as is her protection and, remarkably, she manages to share her love equally between the two of us.

Synchronicity plays a huge role in my life, perhaps due to living life in a way that allows it to unfold. Randomly meeting our friends on that empty beach was a moment full of laughter. We couldn’t have planned more perfectly.

It has happened oftentimes, over the years, with these friends. I have joked that I see when they’re on the move because we had installed a trail cam, one that alerts us when they head to the beach …

Our inspiration was actually all about needing a real fruit ice cream, and a little bit of cabin fever. As in, let’s drive into town for a real fruit ice cream! When asked to justify that wicked and extravagant impulse, I could only come up with, ‘we need milk too’ because when one is budgeting, one can never justify a trip that is only about a desire for ice cream.

Obviously we needed garden mulch from the sea, too. The universe gifted us that, via our friends.

But that’s not all. Our friends, after the sea mulch collection, very generously, invited us back to their wee house by the beach, to share their lunch of freshly-smoked fish. It was divine!

This one finds me located in a remote area of New Zealand (note, I don’t find it remote, I’m only told it is by friends …) renting a home, on a large beef & sheep station, in a river valley between two mountain ranges.

I love it!

This life involves tasks like lifting & shifting huge loads of fallen-tree firewood, found nearby, in order to feed the wood-burning fire. In fact, due to recent economic challenges, created by my intermittent work as a contractor, we have switched off our electric water-heating, and we’re using the fire to heat everything.

Water-heating costs, via the grid, are simply rude. Meanwhile I’m actually, almost, excited about this experiment. Excited, if it turns out as I’m expecting it to turn out.

Out here, living so close to Nature, we watch our annual rainfall, 4 meters is the average, cascade down, in-between glorious sunrises, sunsets (with god-rays) and exquisite blue-sky days. There is a fierce wind, sometimes, due to living in valley that works as an impressive wind tunnel but that simply keeps other folk away. As does the rainfall. And the Sandflies.

Sunrise is my daily delight, as I usually wake between 4 and 5am, having gone to bed with the sun, or not too long after, unless I’m caught up in a stretch-and-fold-every-30 minutes x4, sourdough bread-making process. This habit, of early to bed, in no way represents a habit of a life-time. I used to be in bed after midnight, and up around 6am.

But I love the quiet of the early morning. Just me, my dog … and the mouse she spotted out on the deck this morning. Or whichever other creature captures our attention.

We are using this slightly challenging time to identify which costs can no longer be sustained, and what we think, or know, is simply non-negotiable. Perhaps it’s as simple as what is necessary or brings us joy versus what is an expensive habit.

Immediately though, this creates a small tension. The only wine, this former European wanderer will drink, is a French, Paul Mas Réserve Carignan Vieilles Vignes. An exquisite red wine. If I were ever to create a wine altar to my most beloved wine, it would be dedicated to the Mas Carignan.

Obviously it had to leave my table of delights, and as there is no other alcohol I will consume, I am happy to report that I have almost reached the 2-week mark, with my new membership in the Teetotalism Club, and it has gone far better than I had imagined it might go.

There are other subjects I will cover here. How the Plan B project could unfold, should life in the caravan become necessary. We have a caravan. Back in those heady days, where income was guaranteed, not excessive amounts but a little more than simply enough, that caravan was my Studio.

I would have loved to have called it my Atelier but I wear my Redband gumboots oftentimes, and my hair is regularly plaited, to keep it out of the way. My clothes are unashamedly secondhand however, in defense of ‘secondhand clothing’, I do love the feeling of finding treasure when I find something exquisite out there. Like my R M Williams leather boots for $100nz.

Anyway, all of that (and far too much else) to state that the caravan could only be described as my studio, here in this life, and that it is an ongoing project.

Our current project is all about getting the wood-burning stove we bought for the caravan, fitted. We dilly-dallied, it was summer, we would buy this thing, or that thing, first. Now that winter is looming, we’re kind of wishing the fire was in however, we have a house to inhabit, and we are in love with said house.

But best of all, in these days full of beauty & challenges, and exploring this glorious online community of amazingly intelligent, interesting, artistic souls, I’m finding my voice, discovering my point of view. Working out what I can share here, via my passion for photography, my deep love of writing, this new frugalism, nestled in Nature, in this quiet space where a regular job used to live, alongside guaranteed income.

Another adventure, in this next life.

Note: nothing is sponsored. I simply link, so you know what I’m talking of …

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The road down the hill & back to civilisation, should we need to a real fruit ice cream, or milk, petrol or a wee moment away from the cabin life.

I would begin at Taksim Square, having caught the Metro from home, in Mecidiyeköy. Wandering along İstiklal Caddesi, remembering to listen for the ancient tram that rolls up and down the centre of that walking street. I would detour into Çiçek Pasajı, a shortcut through to the Fish Bazaar, enjoying the architecture, smiling but leaving behind the waiters who would beckon and invite me to eat at their restaurants. It would be too soon to stop for food.

Once in the Fish Bazaar, I would turn left and head for the scarf shop nearby. The one where I used to sit and chat with the Turkish owner, listening to his stories of how life was for him, in that massive ancient post-modern city.

After a while, I would pop back out onto İstiklal and walk on until I reached Robinson Crusoe - my beloved Istanbul bookshop. I would browse awhile. Walking out, after an hour perhaps, with just one book I couldn’t resist. And then I would pass by the Paşabahçe store, just across the street, not wanting to carry their beautiful Turkish glassware as I wandered.

At the end of İstiklal Caddesi, there is always the decision … should I follow the winding road down the hill or catch the underground funicular at Tünel. Almost always I would opt for the walk, passing the Galata Mevlevi Lodge, where the dervishes whirled and mesmorised me whenever I watched them. And on down the hill, past the small music shops, past the blue window, and then, unable to stop myself, I’d turn right and head to Galata Tower. Just one more time.

Built in 1267, back when a Genovese colony was established in the Galata part of Constantinople, and was surrounded by walls. Back then, the Tower was the tallest building in the city, standing at 66.9 m. It worked as a watch-tower, as they were ‘interesting’ times.

Paying my entry fee, I would step into the lift, then continue on up, via the stairs to reach the 360 degree balcony. There, was my favourite view, out over that city I had come to love. This girl from small-town New Zealand looking out, over the exquisitely ancient city, both survived and thrived during those years spent in Istanbul. I couldn’t have dreamed my life there, before moving to the other side of the world.

With the post-modern heart of the city behind me, I would always begin by looking out at the massive bridges that link the continents of Europe and Asia. Straight ahead to Topkapi Palace, built in 1465. The place where, for 400 years, the Ottoman sultans ruled their empire

Out over Haghia Sophia, one of the world’s greatest architectural achievements, built about 1,400 years ago. A place of such incredible peaceful beauty. I would look out over the Golden Horn, the Bosphorus and the Marmara Sea ... all mysterious names that had meant nothing to me until I arrived in Istanbul.

Walking on, around the tower balcony, I could look down at the Italian architecture of the Galata area, the Genovese neighbourhood. At that point in time, I had no idea that I would fall completely madly in love with Genova, and that it would play a massive role in my life, later.

Eventually, stepping away from the tower, I would follow the narrow road, down the hill, until I reached Galata Bridge. I could never resist looking into the fishermens buckets, filled with water and fish, always so happy to be in the midst of the noise of the city. The simit salesmen calling for customers. The bait salesmen, the water guys too, selling their wares. A glorious mixture of sounds that I’ve only ever experienced in Istanbul.

Eventually, I would reach Eminonu, and descend down into the Pazaar, wandering a while in that place where the smell of fish cooking was the dominant scent. I would pass by the doner seller, watch people arranging themselves on the old ferry bound for Kadıköy and walk on, through the tunnel, to the Egyptian Bazaar. The Spice Bazaar too.

I would stay awhile, exploring the cheese and olive selections, always unable to resist visiting the stalls where the leeches were sold, watching the birdseed sellers, the people. And the people, always the people. I loved living amongst the Turks. They were incredibly kind to me.

Then, on up the hill, to Sultanahmet. The place where more of my favourite places are found. Haghia Sophia is there, the Underground Cistern, and the Blue Mosque too.

In need of some çay, I would walk back along the road to Çemberlitaş and my favourite cafe. The waiter and I would catch up on each others news. He might ask me about the friend I had with me last time, and I would ask how he was, how busy they were, and if the tourist season had been kind.

A potato gözleme and two çay before moving on, wanting to spend a little time in the halls of the Grand Bazaar, unable to resist look for a new scarf. Always the scarves but enjoying the banter with salesmen, within this ancient labyrinth of 4,000+ shops.

I once met a young man from Afghanistan there. He had just finished his first year, training to be a doctor, when the Taliban forced him, and his family, to flee. They moved through many countries until they were able to make their home in Istanbul. They were fluent in at least 7 languages. I was in awe of that level of fluency, and courage.

He was a nice guy, with a store like an Aladdin’s cave, full things that I can’t begin to describe. A surprise, tucked down a small corridor; one that I have trouble finding each time I return.

Then, I would stop to say hi to Hayden. The Yeni Zelanda, who arrived and stayed, so far from New Zealand. He was an Istanbul travel agent then, with an office located on the ground floor of a backpacker hostel. There was a delightful roof-top bar there, one that looked out over the Marmara Sea.

It was the perfect way to end a summertime walk across the city, and I would head up to the bar, order a cold Efes beer, and watch the ships queuing for entry out on the Marmara Sea; watching life unfold. And then, the sound of the call to prayer would go out of across the city, in staggered beginnings, each mosque a little behind the other. I loved the perfect imperfection of it, and I would know it was time to go home.

Home was always a much simpler journey. The Metro, from Sultanahment to Karaköy. A short walk to the historic underground funicular line at Tünel, where I could ride up the hill, on one of the oldest funicular’s in the world.

I would stroll back along İstiklal Caddesi, usually walking against the tide of the Turks who are just arriving as this yabancı, or foreigner, heads home. Walking down into the underground Metro at Taksim Square. Two stops to Mecidiyeköy, and then up into the noise of shoeshine men and flower-sellers, traffic and smog.

I would cut across the main road, under the highway overpass, then wend my way down into the place where I lived back then. In that little village-like suburb in the middle of Istanbul.

That is, if I had been in Istanbul today ..

.

One summer, down to my last 5euro, having miscalculated my ability to find work during that long Italian summer holiday period, there was that phone call from an Italian friend’s friend’s aunt, one that saw me traveling to Switzerland with her the following day, employed as a Nanny.

Here, in New Zealand, life on the farm seems to demand I pay attention or, at very least, give it more respect.

Is the wood shed full? Have I dealt with the laundry, blankets that might not see the laundry tub again until Spring? Are my winter clothes out? What can we plant that will make a good winter green? Are we ready for Autumn, and then Winter?

There will be no online friend, over in the old Travel Chat, offering me a job as an teacher of English, in a rather upmarket school in Istanbul.

The people who live in my rather isolated bay, number almost 6,000, and I live at the very sparsely-populated end. Istanbul both bemused and bewildered me, when I arrived … there are, at least, 16.5 million inhabitants. Approximately three times the population of New Zealand.

Here, each morning, since turning off the electric water-heater, in favour of using our fire to heat the hot water, my job has been to light the fire when I wake, so the water has time to heat for the breakfast dishes.

My new, and very natural, habit of waking at 5am, after heading to bed around 8pm, both bewilders and delights me. There are signs that the woman who was awake after midnight, & then up and wandering through the centro storico in Genova around 7 or 8am, has found a certain kind of peace in this rural life.

Not only do I light that fire but I often take the uncooked sourdough bread from the fridge, and ready it to bake. And that delights me too. As does eating pumpkin, garlic and all kinds of other vegetables from our garden. Talking to our, now dangerously elderly, hens, and the bull who is currently caught up in bellowing for his ‘woman, any woman!’, from the paddock next door.

This ability to observe my life, as it unfolds, has almost always bemused and delighted me. Occasionally it has also seen me preparing for death.

The first time I flew from New Zealand, Iraq was a hotspot … it was 2003, I think. My father had forbidden my move to Istanbul but I was in my late 30s… The flight was 30+ hours in transit, and I knew nothing about the reality of the city. I had read a little, only to discover that there was a risk of rockets being launched from the balconies on the apartment buildings, around Ataturk Airport.

An amusing aside, I ended up living in one of those apartments. Under the, sometimes, approach to the runway. There was my apartment, a playground below, a road, then a high fence, and the runway.

That apartment.

Anyway, we were approaching Singapore, late at night. It was dark. I had already accepted the possibility of death, as my nose had begun bleeding somewhere over Australia. I survived that however, I was startled to see a bright light appear away in the distance (I used to wear glasses for distant objects, and I wasn’t wearing them on at the time).

I simply knew … it was another plane, the pilots had missed it, we were all going to die. However, as a New Zealander, I preferred not to make a fuss and quietly imagined how the fiery death would go, knowing that that kind of thing is more of a slow-motion experience, thanks to the motorbike accident I had at 100km+, as a pillion passenger in my youth.

Suddenly, a series of lights appeared be tracking the plane. In a line. At that point, based on my research about Turkey, and despite being over Singapore, I knew a heat-seeking missile had locked onto us, and we were all going to die.

In a genius move, I dug out my glasses and popped them on. Slowly but surely, after quite some study, I understood the lights were ALL on the plane. We were fine. We were simply landing, at night, in the dark.

Here, on the sheep & beef station, located in the middle of nowhere, I live a far less dramatic life.

I do drive over 16 one-lane bridges to reach the small town. Population 310. And we do receive approximately 5 meters of rain per year, and sometimes the way out is flooded but I haven’t felt the same fear as when that woman fell past my 5th floor balcony, nor when the gunman was loose in the school. Chased in by the police, when he was caught robbing a nearby apartment …

After so many years of living almost completely in the moment, my current life is something so very different.

And so, I have been searching for my voice, here on Substack. My stories, my theme. I really am caught between here & there. The past informs my present, and there’s some kind of tapestry being created as I weave them together.

However, I not only light the fire, here in the lounge, these mornings, I also get to pull up my chair and slip into this vibrant Substack community of people happy to share glimpses of their lives, and ideas too.

You all arrive, from all over the world and it makes me catch my breath because feels a little bit like being out there, again. I treasure it.

Anyway, I wrote this post, not long after returning to New Zealand, after those 15 years lived in Turkey, Belgium, England and Italy. Dad was slipping into Dementia, he didn’t want to go into care but he needed someone to live with him. And my family were home, after a life lived in Europe, with me in Belgium, then over in Scotland. And so I returned too.

Here’s a glimpse of how that was all going.

December 22, 2018

Friends have been writing, in the weeks since I returned, telling me how relieved they are that I am Home, and Safe, at last.

Not just one friend but many friends.

And it is nice to be cared about but if I were given the chance to go back, I would. In a heartbeat.

In a world addicted to safety, to the illusion of security and happy endings, it seems that the previous 3 years my life (post-divorce, and flying by the seat of my pants) have been seen as a failure on every level. But honestly, flying across the world, returning to my teaching post in Istanbul … 20,000+ kms, with less than $100nz really was a Grand Adventure.

And never being sure of what was next, after the divorce … I have embraced that too.

Sure, I have crumpled sometimes but, at the same time, I always felt so very alive. And so much stronger when I reached the other side of whatever challenge had been sent my way.

And I learned so much about people. About how kind they can be.

I also felt incredibly fortunate, in terms of the positions I found myself in. So often, there I was, located somewhere between the craziest worlds, legal but only just … with the most marvelous people doing things like guiding me through the Swiss ER or moving me into their home as an employee … and then allowing me to become an odd little extra part of their family.

In this era of anti-immigration and fear-mongering politicians, I also came to understand I had the extreme privilege of dual-nationality (NZ & Belgian), and the freedom to roam, as a New Zealander, and a European. I never ever took that forgranted.

I never stopped whispering quiet ‘thank yous’ to whoever orchestrated that life that I lived.

And sure, every now and again, I would get my arse so totally kicked … but I also felt so very alive, and so very grateful.

Think about it for a moment. The story of Alice in Wonderland is a classic, known and loved by so many … and there was I, falling down rabbit holes and going on grand adventures, every single week, sometimes daily.

We live and we die. I love living big and … brave/crazy/passionate/ choose your own word. And if the price, is being vulnerable too, then that seems kind of okay because the rewards/results made everything more than worthwhile.

But now, here I am, in this known world. Slowly I am fitting myself back into the official version of home life.

I had a doctor’s appointment recently, needing a script for the daily medication that I had been given back in Belgium during the final months of my marriage. The medication that was, without questions or script, given to me in Italy. The NZ doctor was horrified by my ability to procure that medication for my blood pressure but more than that, she wanted to run a million terrifying tests on my person.

She was laughing, as I tried to talk my way out of ‘yet more’ blood tests, and kept writing down new tests I could have. I have the paper here. I will go when I am ready … maybe never. Although finding another doctor will be a nuisance.

Then, of course, I had to replace the glasses I lost back in Florence, Italy. So I had an eye test last week. They were so thorough that I actually developed motion sickness during the Extensive testing. It turns out there’s no sign of diabetes … I didn’t ask! And my eyes are quite healthy. Just a little short-sighted, long-sighted, and then there’s a wee issue with computer screens too.

I told the optometrist, had I known how thorough they were, I probably would have opted to continue to live in my slightly blurred world. I see things that no one else sees … it’s like I see fiction sometimes, whole novels.

She wanted to give me a pair of graduated glasses, that would deal with all 3 forms of eye issues I apparently have. I struck a deal where she just made a prescription pair for driving and for those distant boards in airports, the ones that tell you when your plane is departing. And I promised I was fine with my cheap supermarket glasses for reading, and would simply move my laptop screen until I could see it clearly.

She laughed at me too.

It was an odd experience, re-turning to the small town I grew up in, seeing how much, and how little, has changed. Driving Dad’s car –I called it Percy Fish, that little red Mazda Demio, going to movies without subtitles, having every conversation in my (easily understood here) New Zealand English. I am living a strange, and suddenly simple, life.

In unhappy news, my beloved and familiar Italian red wine, the Santa Cristina, comes in a screwtop bottle, down here in New Zealand, and honestly, it tastes so different. I tried it three times. My theory, non-scientific obviously, is that the anima is gone. The $30nz Reserva, with a cork, tastes like my 6.80 euro supermarket Santa Cristina back in Italy. It’s all about the cork. I know nothing of the argument, or even if there is one, about screwtop versus corks but I know where I stand. Yes yes, without any scientific backing at all.

So not only am I some kind of messed up wannabe-European-princess, missing my perfect espresso, all my beloved Italian cheeses, and the Basil that grows in Liguria (Basil varies in taste depending on where it is grown … ). I am also currently, desperately, pricing coffee machines that will make my breakfast coffee at home, without me giving up a kidney. I want to grind beans, and create a daily espresso, or two. They call them ‘short blacks’ over here and charge a crazy amount of money. That is messing with my head some.

Life is all over the place. I am meeting new people, creating new routines, walking new routes. Red wine has become a huge, and quite wickedly expensive, occasional gift to myself.

And then there’s Dad. He prefers to go to his Club, daily. He can no longer drive, so around aperitivo time, back in Italy, we head off to the RSA (the returned service mens association), and I sit at the table with Dad and the old fellas. They have let me in and I appreciate it.

They are ‘kind’ in that way New Zealand blokes are kind. Mocking is a form of affection, a sign of acceptance … or that’s what I tell myself. I grew up believing mocking was a form of affection. If it’s not true, don’t tell me.

Today, and yesterday too, were long days. Full of so many people and responsibilities but I can do it, this caring for Dad. I seem to have been programmed to nurture and, as always, I am so curious about each and (almost) every soul who crosses my path, that I can make a life any old place.

But please, never talk of my life as something I shouldn’t love. Every day has been a gift. Every bad thing has been something I have learned from. And the good things, well they fill me with joy.

The two divorces, those ones where I managed to lose almost everything … they have been lessons in the beauty that emerges out of walking away, without bitterness, no matter how they end. And the adventures I have had because of those divorces. My life feels so much richer as a result.

I am a woman, so full of stories from living that I feel wealthy …

Seriously.

It was a long day today. It’s been a long week but I’m home, making another life.

For now, that’s enough.

You see, I returned to New Zealand after an incredible fifteen years, full of adventures & stories in Europe, and slowly came to understand I was pretty close to being considered an abject failure. Especially when being compared, or comparing myself to, old friends and family. I didn’t have second house, nor a first house. No savings. No car.

I had my stories, experiences, and friends made around the world. There they were, those adventures, unfurling behind me but invisible to the material world I had returned to.

All I had, from those years spent in countries not my own, were the words for my gravestone. Words I hope not to be using anytime soon … She died rich in stories. I believe that is another kind of wealth, and I would always choose stories.

Then I discovered Substack, began reading, subscribing, taking notes, beginning new friendships and, for now, the experience has returned me to myself.

I have enough. I always have ‘enough’. I don’t desire wealth, or multiple homes, or home ownership although, a house of my own would be very acceptable. But I have learned, over these years, that moving countries meant giving up/giving away everything that I couldn’t fit in my suitcase and camera equipment bag.

I learned that ‘enough’, for me, isn’t a lot. These days, I eat organic food and wild meat, and that is gold. I live close to a river, in the mountains but near the sea, in a beautiful location … that I don’t own.

And I feel so blessed.

I work at a job that means adventure on the days when I get work. That’s a whole story in itself, and it will be told. I love my job. Never dreamed of it, nor imagined it, but that’s the place where the best adventures happen at moment. And I would love to share those stories, somewhere. Why not here.

I have enough. A life rich in stories. And Substack, the people who make up this tapestry of gloriousness … thank you for sharing your stories that inspire and educate me, make me laugh, or catch my breath of the beauty of your words.

Today, thanks goes to the post that inspired me today: Blake Boles, and his note, ‘How we tell the story matters.’

I have lived lives in Istanbul, Antwerp, London and Genova. I fell in love with Rome too. However, I am learning that my New Zealand life, and landscapes, also incite Stendhal syndrome; one that isn’t about great art & ancient cities.

My mornings here are begun with an experience that meets the criteria; ‘a phenomena of great beauty’. These mornings make me recall all the beauty I have experienced so far but then I take a deep breath and say, thank you for this too.

I have loved every place I lived, or found a way to love every place, but here is where there is a feeling of my core roots being buried, deep in the land. I found my way home to New Zealand, and then found a place I could love best of all.

I am still taking these very early steps on Substack. Searching for my voice, & for the stories I want to share with you but here is one.

Good morning.

I lived my wandering life with a degree of flexibility I was aware of and managing. Proud, almost, of how I could shape myself to fit the ‘next life’ I had accidentally arrived in. That said, I also knew the risk of settling down. I was first married at age 20, & I saw how my behaviour changed when my life became small-town and familiar.

I didn’t like it. It seemed that I was experiencing that known life like a rat, trapped in a cage, might. I moved through my evenings, making the house safe for sleeping, and repeated it, in reverse, each morning. Things had places they belonged, and we lived a life that was known to ourselves.

When I wandered the world, I ‘made do’, a lot. I would slip into the routines of hosts, flatmates, and friends. Donning their way of living their lives, as I shared their space, respectful of being the outsider, the wanderer.

My return to New Zealand was a complicated re-entry. People mostly. And it’s only during this last year, or two, that I have become aware of the risk of returning to my routines & rituals.

Then I discovered a way to counter the risk, a way of taking part in small adventures that make me feel at the edge, or beyond, what I have courage for.

Flying to Istanbul, that first time alone, over war-zones to reach that next life; my first year teaching English in Turkey, felt huge back then.

These days, I get that old travel frisson … do I dare? It’s all about a 4am alarm, a 5am departure from home, and a 6am at the yard, start. There, I’m handed the keys to an older manual-gear vehicle, and sent over ‘The Hill’, the one that was damaged in winter floods, with its 257 corners enroute.

Do I dare?

That first time, I thought surely not!!

But I did, and it cracked open the routine of my known life, tested my limits, and gifted me that feeling of feeling the fear & doing it anyway.

So, for the moment, this awareness of how I have always felt, when life is too known, is enough to keep me exploring, mostly within the confines of the big bay, with its mountains, & river valleys, beaches, & gravel roads, traveling to be entertained by an incredible cast of local folk.

It is enough.

We’ve only been on our own for three days …

Yes, so there’s no buffer between me & the animals that I was so delighted to start conversations with. I didn’t understand the reality of it all, when someone else was responsible for most of their care.

Then there’s the hens. Only two of the six elderly chooks still live, left here by the previous inhabitants of this house I love living in. The surviving two, to whom I have become very close, are actually little murderers. As the others naturally aged, these two sometimes assisted in taking them out … we didn’t realise this at first.

It’s quite common chook-owning friends tell me.

Henpecked really is a thing.

Of the surviving two, one looks rather bedraggled these days but she’s still eating, still getting up and heading out to forage, every single morning & all day long. As part of their daily routine, they come to the back door, for a wheat top-up, and then later in the day, they arrive at the sliding door, next to my desk here, and wait for me to go chat with them. The bedraggled one, sometimes pecks my arm, tidying me up, as we chat. I’m quite good at chook-chat, which is a fact I’m not sure I should be proud of.

You see, I spent fifteen years living in countries not my own. I failed to do anything with conversational Turkish, back when I lived in Istanbul, except make friends and strangers laugh long and loud, as they exclaimed my Turkish sounded so very English. Which was almost amusing, however British & American colleagues and friends, at the private school I was teaching in, were very unkind about my English. Well, about my New Zealand accent, if I’m honest.

Later, in Belgium, my Flemish husband, would translate my English, in English, to his Belgian friends. Obviously that divorce was always going to happen. We lasted ten years.

After the divorce, I had some respite time in England, then moved to Italy. Genovese friends were quite direct, in their demands I speak proper English. They applauded my attempts at Italian but I think that they were basically positive parenting me, praying that praise would help me become something like fluent.

So you can see how it is, that I enjoyed breaking the communication barriers with the hens and my dog. I can also carry on conversations with goats, and our fabulous mountain parrots, called Kea.

Sadly, I suspect it is that the complete lack of vowels, in the animal world, have made these ‘conversations’ possible. The New Zealand vowel is … it’s different. You say ‘pen’, I say ‘pin’, or so they told me. Bed was bid. And then there was the time I bought my Arabic, African, and ‘other European’ Dutch language classmates, in Antwerp, to tears of laughter, when talking of Brad Pitt.

Anyway, onto more positive things. The Kea have been known to come to an almost, mid-air, screeching halt, and circle back to chat with me, as they make their journey between the mountain ranges where I live. They perch, high up in the trees here, and we call to each other, varying the call each time. All the while, my talking dog has her front paws up on said tree, barking at them, barking at me.

I believe she is desperately telling me to stop, and them to move on. Asking, perhaps, if I’m crazy!! Keas love to destroy things, as they explore how exactly that car windscreen wiper, caravan roof, or pair of hiking boots, are put together. She keeps them in the tree, and I get to chat with them without them actually touching down to check out how our stuff ‘works’.

So, it’s no longer a life where I’m on the last plane that actually lands during a massive snow-dump in Istanbul, or I spend three months in Berlin as sole documentary photographer on a large international multi-room exhibition. Nor am I flying to Lyon, Stavanger, Madrid or Berlin to document a wedding, nor teaching photography workshops for women in Antwerp or Genova. These days, my life is full, of animals I have taught to talk, nag, and beg.

The photographs, a tiny glimpse of my New Zealand life. I returned, late in 2018, and this place is the first time I have felt grounded, my roots reaching down into the earth. It’s marvelous to be home.

A faraway friend asked me to recommend a few.

Here’s the list I made for Jonė.

Fugitive Pieces by Anne Michaels

Dinner with Edward: A Story of an Unexpected Friendship Vincent, Isabel

Running in the Family - Michael Ondaatje (his magical realism bio)

Love That Moves the Sun: Vittoria Colonna and Michelangelo Buonarroti - Linda Cardillo

A Fortune-Teller Told Me: Earthbound Travels in the Far East - Tiziano Terzani

I Saw Ramallah - Mourid Barghouti

What Remains - Denise Leith

In Xanadu - a Quest - William Dalrymple

The Journey is the Destination - Dan Eldon

Nomad’s Hotel - travels in time and space - Cees Nooteboom

Travels with Herododus - Ryszard Kapuściński

Blindness - José Saramago

The Way of Herodotus: Travels With the Man Who Invented History - Justin Marozzi

When Nietzsche Wept - Irvin D. Yalom

Mornings in Jenin - Susan Abulhawa

Knulp - Hermann Hesse

The Truth About Lou - Angela von der Lippe

Under The Wire - Paul Conroy

Under The Tuscan Sun - Frances Mayes

I am slipping into this new measure of time. Tasting 2026, as it rolls off my tongue. ( I do read aloud as I write here. Or anywhere. As I write, I often read aloud to hear the rhythm of it.)

That said, it’s a glorious summer morning, here in this river valley, between mountain ranges. Being New Zealand, tomorrow there will be different weather. We have 60+mm’s of rain predicted.

But I have a new way of viewing my beloved rain, here in this westerly corner, 1,000kms north of previous homes. These days I find myself thinking, This will fill our water-tank. Especially after all our guests!

The ‘holiday’ season was a wild & raucous ride we barely survived. One where the final wheel fell off the Martyrdom Wagon - my lifelong vehicle of choice, when it came to navigating blended families, different approaches to life and, as per recent weeks, the minutiae of hosting 9 people (4 children) in a 3-bedroom house with one toilet and 1 shower.

All praise to the Plan B tiny house/sizeable caravan to which we two escaped to and slept in, nightly.

Needless to say, we came through it, and then went down with a magnificent dose of the flu, as a reward for twisting ourselves, physically and psychologically, into some of the finest knots of the journey. And that’s saying something.

I was still learning. So here we are, our cups completely empty, midway through a quiet period of recovery, of putting our house, minds and bodies back in order, thankful that we survived.

Then this morning, just as I was starting to feel like a better version of myself than I had felt in quite some time, another, more delightful perhaps, scourge tapped on the glass sliding door as soon as I opened the curtains at 5.30am.

The Weka family were announcing their presence, with the implicit threat of, Your ripe tomatoes are out here with us. We can get through the netting and ANY obstacles you put between us and them. Bring out the wheat you feed the hens, or lose the baby tomatoes!

I ignored them. Heard the, now daily, clatter of invasion. Went and picked up the broken tomato stem, loaded with tiny green tomatoes, blocked up the hole in the netting. A short time later, there was another loud clatter, and when I went out, I had to slow down, not wanting to panic the little bastard Weka inside the netting. After it exited, with ease, I then blocked up yet another point of entry.

That said, I love the Weka. They are intelligent beyond measure. It should be noted here that, as a ‘Kiwi’ by nationality, I would rather be named for the incorrigible Weka, or the super intelligent, very amusing, slightly naughty Kea (our alpine parrot) … anything, almost, except the Kiwi bird. That flightless, shy, nocturnal native bird, and a nickname, adopted in world war one, by NZ soldiers wearing the Kiwi on their military labels. Not the best time for ‘branding’ …

However, over the years, other cultures have come to believe the nickname Kiwi, originates from the locally-grown and exported Kiwi fruit … a fruit formerly known as Chinese Gooseberry, stolen by New Zealand fruit growers, decades ago, and rebranded/renamed as the Kiwifruit.

Shameless bastardry, and completely in-line with Weka and Kea behaviour.

You see it now, we’re superb thieves, and quite shameless about international heists. Let’s not mention other examples. We are associated with the wrong native New Zealand bird.

Completely mis-named.

And the holiday season is over for now. Bring on the Weka!!

A Weka, captured, making off with our dog’s haf-chewed beef bone. Gentle Annie, Buller, New Zealand.

I loved my blogging community. The conversations were delicious but, slowly, I think, FB eroded it all … offering up quick communication, and fast-consumption.

I was a New Zealander living in Belgium, back when I began, then England, Italy, Switzerland and all kinds of other, shorter-duration, countries too. Facebook gave me an instant ‘hit’ when loneliness arrived. There was always someone out there, when I needed a someone. Friends sent birthday greetings, from all over the world, on my birthday.

But the price was high. I lost the art of sitting quietly, developing a blog post. I applied less thought, & took less time when reading the work of others. It became a fast-food kind of activity. Instant gratification … scroll on, constantly.

I have downloaded all that I can on FB, knowing that much will probably be kept because I didn’t read the permissions properly however, it feels good to be going. Actually, it’s not unlike the excitement (& terror) I felt when I moved countries after the first divorce. The second divorce wasn’t any easier.

Flying to Cairo alone, working in Berlin for those 3 months I was sole photographer on a massive international exhibition. That feeling of a new beginning … slightly terrifying but the excitement of setting out on an adventure, with no idea where it might lead. Glad to be going, glad to be creating a new space … discovering new people.

Back in my world this morning, I wandered out to feed the hens. Two pensioner hens, elderly survivors of the small group we inherited with the house when we moved here. The sun had been visible initially but it seems like a grey fog is coming in from the north … from the sea.

It made me smile & wonder … where will the weather arrive from today? Living at the top of New Zealand’s South Island; and I mean the ‘very top’, our weather can come from almost any direction. The West Coast sends the heaviest rain, sometimes gifting us up to 5 meters a year. But we are geographically higher than some places in the North Island, so we have a warmth that is unfamiliar to me, after recent years spent living in the south-west corner of New Zealand. I grew up on the east coast, down there in the south. I love the warmth of here.

Anyway, here I am, moving ‘house’, curious to see how I will decorate this one, and looking forward to taking the time to read some of the beautiful minds I have already discovered here.

View from Home, one Spring morning.

I arrived, I devoured so much beauty, and then slipped away again. It was almost as if I had some version of Stendal Syndrome. I was over-powered by all the voices I found. All the beautiful here.

I signed up with Nathalia Montenegro (https://substack.com/@natmontenegro) and began working through her ‘Story Voice Discovery’ workbook.

And I found Maja, over on Velvet Noise (velvetnoise.substack.com) and loved her voice too.

Anliette, at The Art of Re; (anliette.substack.com) blew my mind today, with her mind & her beautiful art.

So … it’s been like that, reading from one kind of exquisiteness, to another, & another.

Even better, I got to meander. I explored side-roads along the way, following recommendations to artists like Braxton Haugen (www.braxtonhaugen.com); a guy who has been making films since he was 3 years old. And rediscovered William James, after my first exposure to him was back when I was an NZ Airforce Officer’s wife. It was like meeting an old, much-respected friend as I read some of his ideas, searched online for a book, or two.

Actually, I began this unexpected day out of the world, re-watching the documentary on Frances Hodgkins: Anything But a Still Life, with a big hardcover book, Letters of Frances Hodgkins, next to me, open. Frances was one of New Zealand’s greatest painters, and wandered the world from 1901, back in a time when women didn’t generally do that kind of thing. Well, there was Katherine Mansfield; a New Zealand writer … the only writer Virginia Woolf was ever envious of. I wish I had been exposed to them, back in school.

Anyway, it all unfolded here … chooks at the sliding door, ready & waiting for conversation (or, in their wildest dreams, to be invited inside). I lie on the door sometimes, open the door and we chat. It’s not as sad as it looks in this photograph. I promise.

I am brewing something, more writing or photography, my book, images to sell at the local Market … something.

Ciao, for now.

In 1999 my mother died. In 2003 I graduated from university with a degree in literature; the same year my divorce became final.

My life could do nothing but change.

And so I slipped away from the life I had known, and into an Istanbul world; a world full of ancient monuments and noisy children, where my electricity bill arrived monthly, my gas bill appeared irregularly, and my phone bill went to a neighbor.

It was a world where a wink, a smile or an offer of coffee could be mistaken for an invitation, or acceptance of an invitation. Where my southern hemisphere summer became a northern hemisphere winter, and my secular New Zealand Christmas was almost a non-event in that new Muslim world. It was a world where the Muzzein’s call went out over the sprawl of the city through modern-day loud speakers.

It was a city of 1,400-year-old cathedrals and Roman cisterns dating from 532. An ancient world with Burger Kings, McDonalds and beautiful European cars; where some women wore designer label clothing, walking next to veiled women on modern-day streets and through the ancient alleyways of the Grand Bazaar, with its 1,200 shops, selling everything you could imagine and much more.

It was a world that changed me a little each day. I used to disappear into Nature, back home in New Zealand but, in Istanbul, I often climbed a 62-metre tower for a 360 degree view out over the city. Built by the Genoese in 1348, the tower stood testimony to a history of trade that drew all nations here.

5am … my first morning, dawn on a summer’s day.

I was leaning on the barred bedroom window when I heard the Muezzins call to prayer go out across the city, and I knew why I was there … it was for moments like this, when I was cocooned in the home of a friend, listening to a new world wake up around me, enchanted by the sound of an invitation to prayer in Arabic, & stunned by the beauty of everything.

And that was the moment when city slowly began entering me, through the gaps that a new country opens in you. You come as a child, without language, without cultural knowledge and you begin again ... until that life becomes familiar.