It’s hard to find any level ground in Trabzon,
which is situated in the foothills of the Black
Sea mountains. Consequently most houses are built
on terraces. These terraces, where the laundry is
hung out to dry and the table set on summer evenings,
once were also the places where children played.
And the people of Trabzon satisfied their longing
for level ground on their terraces. I remember that
I saw my first airplane from one of those terraces.
My mother, who had gone out to hang the laundry,
took me with her since I was too small to be left
alone. She always called me her ‘carry-all’
anyway. The plane appeared and disappeared from
view between the pieces of laundry flapping on the
line. My father’s pants, then the plane, my
brother’s shirt, then the plane, my grandmother’s
long underwear, the plane again. When I asked my
mother where the plane was going to land, she replied,
“At the airport, my darling.” The airport!
It was the first time I had heard of such a place.
“So what is an airport?” I asked. Pointing
to our terrace, my mother replied, “It’s
a flat place, just like this...” I was jealous.
So the plane was going to land on some other’s