No address

Oh Turkey! The ways I love you. The ways you annoy me. The ways you confuse me.

On Saturday, our family and two other families made the three or so hour drive up to the mountains to stay at a resort for the MLK weekend and let the kids play in the snow.

Much more to come on this trip. Stay tuned.

However, when JB attempted to get directions to the hotel, he called the travel company we booked with on Base.

"Could I get the address of the hotel?" JB asked.

In his thick Turkish accent Mehmet told JB that the hotel did not have an address.

"No address at all?" JB asked.

"No. Just go city. It is in that city."

Hmmmm ...

Seriously? Do they get mail? Do they get tourists? It's just another reason why living here is difficult for Americans. Things are just so different. Addresses often do not exist. And if they do, there are no street signs to find the address.

I predict a major culture shock will hit me when I return to the USA in a few weeks. The world has become Turkey for me. The Middle East is my home. It is difficult to remember that it is, in fact, not my home, and that one day I will return to a place that is large and sprawling with choices and addresses and people not wearing head scarves and me not hearing the call to prayer every few hours.

But first, we move to the Azores.

Little steps.