All of us, at some point, cry because everyone in the house gets the barking cough, or the only windshield wiper fluid we could find smells like toxic watermelon, or we just put our kids on a school bus to a place we’ve never been. Every foreign service mama dreams of a farm with a porch swing back home. They know we lit a candle in a Jura mountain chapel, where the ghosts of my grandfathers whispered: How lucky you are-to be so lost and yet so alive. They know I nursed their sister on the ferry from Europe to Asia. They know we took sleds to school on snowy Moscow mornings. If you ask my children where they’re from, they’ll say Washington, D.C., but if you ask them where home is, they may not know.

“I want to be an astronaut,” my six-year-old son says, “and go to space and sing the prayer from there, so everybody in the world can hear it.” My son, the muezzin astronaut, has already lived in four different countries. When we finally get to the bazaar, the kids feast on rose candies and gobble simit on a rooftop, facing two continents and counting ships on the most enchanting body of water in the world. I tune out the inside noise and let the outside guide me until, by some magic, my gigantic silver machine is out of the maze of streets, and the men are shaking my husband’s hand, blessing our children and the road ahead. Each man gestures for me to come his direction. The outside smells like jasmine, gasoline, and fresh bread. Within seconds, someone knocks on my bumper and waves his hands. “Mami, I want simit,” the little one howls, referring to the seeded ring of bread, a Turkish snack. Fourteen million people get on with their day.Ī distant ferry blows its foghorn like a deep, condescending I-told-you-so. A basket tied to a rope drops from a window, waiting for clotted cream. More men cross the street, balancing carpets on their shoulders, cigarettes between their lips. The car behind me honks a long, irritated honk. Is this a one-way street? Is this even a street? I thought I remembered. I turn into a current of carts that are pushed by men peddling copper wire and knife sharpeners. I turn onto a narrow street, heading to our usual parking lot near the Grand Bazaar.Ī few ablas (sisters) in their bright hijabs walk in front of us, bags full of lemons and pomegranates. It’s Saturday in Istanbul, our fourth Foreign Service home in seven years. We’re driving a minivan with a Space Shuttle bumper sticker: three children, one husband, and my visiting sister.

Where You End by Anna Pellicioli