the id, the ego, & the single misfiring brain cell

This time two years ago, I was still in Izmir. The weather was in the 50s. It rained a lot. We didn't have a lot of work to do, and were on minimal manning, anyway. I spent the days sipping wine and watching the city from my apartment's perch above Izmir Bay with a breathtaking view, or hanging out in Bahar's Carpet Shop, listening to her stories, talking “carpets,” and just generally...well, just being there with her, and with anyone who wandered in and sat down for some çay, some nuts or Turkish delight or baklava or other munchies or some “grape juice.”

I miss Bahar. I miss all my friends from Izmir, and I miss them deeply.

I enlisted in the Air Force in April of 1986.* I was immediately exposed to people who had been, in my estimation, “everywhere.” In truth, I met people who had had only a small subset of the assignments and experiences the Air Force has to offer, but to me—a country girl whose first time in an airplane was on the way to basic training—it was awe-inspiring to listen to them talk about the far-away places they'd been, and tell stories of theirs or others' experiences. I remember wondering why they spoke with a peculiar fondness of “remote” assignments.

* Don't bother doing the math. I'm 47.

Why would anyone find a remote assignment enjoyable, let alone look back upon it with what can only be described as inordinate fondness? It didn't make sense. But...there it was. I'd ask them about it, and they'd try to explain. “You're closer to your fellow Americans in remote locations.” “There's more camaraderie.” 

Now that I've done a remote, I understand the limitations of language to explain the experience. I don't know if I can explain this to anyone who hasn't “been there,” but let me try. Humor me.

I left my wife* to go to a country I'd only heard about**. I traveled alone and knew no one there. The country I was going to had a language I'd never heard spoken before I was on the final leg of my journey, at which point the flight attendants spoke in both Turkish and English. I had no apartment awaiting me. I would be working predominantly with our Allies in NATO. It was winter, moreover, and the days were short and cold and rainy.

* Mich and I had been together almost 9 years at that point, but it would be another year before the DoD would declare Don't Ask, Don't Tell unconstitutional—and we were married on my next visit home—and even longer before the Defense of Marriage Act was repealed, making it possible for Michelle to shop on base or qualify for Tricare. All the same, she's been my wife, as far as I'm concerned, since we chose to make a life together in 2002. 

** I've heard about Turkey from my military friends since I was an Airman Basic (E-1) at Falcon Air Force Station (now Shriever Air Force Base). Without exception, each person who told me about Turkey said it was the best assignment they'd ever had—and they had not even done it as a remote assignment. They'd been assigned to Incirlik Air Force Base, which offers American grocery stories and American medical care, and so forth. Nonetheless, they all said Turkey and its people were wonderful, and it was without question the best assignment they'd ever had. So when I saw Izmir on the list of assignments I'd be offered, I asked for it, even before I knew where to find it on a map.

I was met at the airport by Roger Yoon, a man I've more or less lost touch with since. He was and is a brilliant, funny, and thoughtful gentleman. He spent a few days showing me the ropes, including helping me get a Kentkart—a sort of public transport debit card, good for buses, the ferry, and the metro—and showing me how to get around. Roger told me I would need to meet Bahar, because she was "the best." She wasn't in when we visited the BX complex, though, so he reiterated that I would have to meet her. I was already planning a two-year stint there (although it was only a one-year assignment), so I was like, “Yeah. Sure. I'll meet her.” Little did I know at the time that she would become my sister—or the closest I've ever had to one.

And so, there among so many strangers from myriad countries, I worked out my place in the grand scheme of things. Shortly after I got there, Operation Unified Protector kicked off and most everyone I knew at work suddenly was working shifts, so the usual social life I'd heard so much about was suddenly forfeited for a military-normal (but not NATO-normal) business life. Still...

When you are alone in a foreign country with other people who are alone in a foreign country, you bond in ways that are rare indeed in any other situation. It isn't just that most of us didn't speak Turkish—some of my best friends from those two years are Turks. It's something more primal.

I'm not sure if that's the right word, but it feels right. In that situation, you're alone in a way you've never been alone before, most likely. If you have a family, they can't come with you, so you suddenly find yourself “geographically single.” It's disconcerting, to say the least. You reach out to people. You make friends and let other people closer in ways you wouldn't when you're at home and have your family and attendant obligations.

I'm not hinting that there was hanky-panky. I don't know and frankly, it isn't any of my business. I speak only of the over-riding feeling of connectedness that arose—not just with fellow Americans, but with Allied friends that we worked (and played) with.

Families would visit from time to time, and they would get superstar treatment from everyone. This would happen at house parties (there were usual Friday evening “bring a dish” parties that shifted from one apartment to the next) and at Bahar's Carpet Shop, where most of us hung out.

But actual families were the exception. Most of the time, we just had each other. And because our families weren't there, we became one another's families. We spent a lot of time together, usually in groups, but often in twos and threes, and we took care of each other.

I understand why this isn't the case Stateside. People have their own families and circles of friends that are usually outside of their military acquaintances, and that's great, too.

We all know, though, after we leave—if we didn't realize it beforehand—how special was our time at our remote assignment together. When I got home, Phil Stevens, a man and friend I have infinite respect (and affection) for, called and left a message on my phone: “Hey. Call me. Let me know how it's going.” Phil had left Izmir two months or so before I had.

I'm not a telephone person. I've always had a phobia regarding the things, so I didn't call. I posted on Facebook, though, and through my posts, my pain and depression were clear. He called me again.

Turns out, he had gone through the same thing I was going through. This man, with the beautiful (and funny!) wife and family and is well-adjusted and smart and successful and had every reason to look forward to being back with his family and back in his life—just as I did—but he had gone through the same weird withdrawals from Izmir as I was going through. 

We talked for two hours. It helped me immeasurably to know that, as wonderful as I knew his life back home to be, he also had had intense Izmir Withdrawal Syndrome, like I was having at that moment. He'd gotten past it. He said it took almost two months before he felt he really fit back in the States. I don't think I ever told him how much I needed that conversation, but I think he knew. That's why he called until I answered. 

I took about the same amount of time, but I still go through latent Izmir withdrawal periods, like I am right now.

It doesn't hurt so much anymore, but it still hurts. There are people there I love very much and refuse to believe I will never see again. And I want to walk around Izmir again with a sense of wonder, like I did in the beginning. Hell...even toward the end, I appreciated how different that life was from the culture I was about to return to. And I want to sit in Bahar's Carpet Shop—if she hasn't retired—and listen to her stories and have her try to sell me another carpet. And if she has retired, I'll go to her home, where I know I'll be welcomed with open arms. 

Life is funny this way. Stuff happens. You go places and do things and there are good times and bad, but you can't ever go back and live it again.

I guess I just don't know how to deal with that yet.

d