I grew up in a place where every neighbourhood had its own characters. Like the man in the fedora who ran past me, newspaper tucked under his arm, every morning as I waited for the school bus, always trying to catch his own bus, yet always late. Or the greengrocer who handed me a banana when my mum and I left for swimming lessons. Every weekend, as I passed the taxi rank to meet friends, one of my father’s friends would ask where I was going and tell me to say hello to my father. I never minded, because I knew he cared. After all, I was one of those people in that neighbourhood, too. I stayed in that neighbourhood until I moved here. It’s been a long time, no need to do the math. My family still calls it home. Some things have changed. The barber’s apprentice downstairs has grown up; the shop is now in his hands. But some things have stayed the same. Like our neighbour knocking on our door with a pot of stuffed vine leaves every time I come home.
Before I left, I had my last gatherings with friends and took final walks through beloved streets. I enjoyed one more cup of tea by the Bosphorus. My usual bar had closed long ago, so I finished the last drinks at the new spot two streets away. Even my city had changed. Now, when I return, I notice changes: the man who once ran for the bus now sits in the park, likely retired. After the carpenter who worked in the park passed away, his name was carved into the table where he sat, becoming a quiet monument. New faces arrived as the area transformed, with a nearby university campus expanding and glass office buildings changing the rhythm.
On my last day in Istanbul, everything was packed and ready. I was the only one not prepared. That didn’t matter. Around three, I stepped outside, unsure what to do. I wandered down our street, taking in the trees and houses. I hoped to spot a familiar face. Bingo! The watermelon seller had parked his truck and was clearing his throat. Here, watermelons are never sold by the slice. You buy the whole thing. I glanced up. Even the clouds looked familiar. It was a quiet, powerful farewell. Yes, I am here.
On my first day in Belsize, I walked through Daleham Mews. It was February. Construction lined the street in front of our new home. The greengrocer’s green sign felt instantly familiar. So did the fishmongerʼs beaded doorway. It rained, unsurprisingly for London. If Iʼm writing this during a heat wave, perhaps thatʼs newsworthy now. As I settled in, I leaned out the window and looked down. The square below felt familiar. I thought, this place must be beautiful in spring. Never mind the mess now; they are digging it up.
An exuberant tree
For a newcomer, so many things felt like home… For instance, the woman with the kangal dog, a large Anatolian breed that looks fierce but is gentle at heart. Or the waiter at the Greek restaurant who always asks how my day was when I return from the office. There is also our pigeon, limping around the square on its injured foot, the paving stones dusted with chalk, and I wonder about what colour they will be this weekend. Our neighbour across the street has dining tables that line up with ours, so it feels as if we are sharing a meal. The sky here has its own character. Rain pours on one side of the house while the other stays dry. I find this fascinating. I once promised a friend I’d mention it. Fitting that it belongs in my Belsize piece. In a book I once read but never found again, there was a line that stayed with me: “Chance is perhaps the pseudonym of God when He did not want to sign.” I searched for its author for many years, but I could never find them. Maybe I made it up. Then, while I was telling a friend about this very piece, they suggested it might be by Anatole France. After nearly twenty years, the missing piece finally fell into place. What a coincidence!
But my path to Belsize is more than that.
In Turkey, we say “kan çekiyor”: when you love someone, you feel a sudden warmth, as if your blood is drawn to them. Belsize felt like that for me. Here, I have routines, as do the living creatures and people around me. The fox appears nightly at 10:30. The black-and-white cat watches from a distance, uninterested. The greengrocer opens, then the next shop, then the café. Our tree will soon be cut down, but I will not let this become a sad story. Another tree will replace it and will also need time to settle. Whenever my sister visits, we stop by Freud’s statue at the end of the street. We have a little ritual: we take turns whispering something to him that we would never tell anyone else. I’m not sure he approves, but he has never interrupted us. And, like a true confidant, he has never revealed a single secret we have entrusted to him.
Routine, though often overlooked, is beautiful. It anchors you in the present; repetition reveals what you missed before. Routine is a meditation: you can quiet your thoughts and simply exist. We rarely get that chance these days. Yet every morning, my neighbourhood reminds me of this, the familiar beauty that feels as if it has always been here. For now, I need to stop here. I have probably told you more than enough already. But if you see me in the morning, sitting on the bench beside the tree with my coffee, don’t walk past without saying “helloˮ.
With love, from your whimsical and friendly neighbour, Hülya.
