For 6 1/2 years I lived in this building.
This pink and yellow and gray building. 3rd floor, apartment #12. The building was new when we moved in so we were the first to live in that apartment. It was like no apartment I had ever lived in. There were four bedrooms, a kitchen, a combined living and dining room, and three bathrooms. Only two of them had toilets though. You could start at the front door and follow the hallways in a square passing every room in our apartment and end up back where you started. Every room had a door that could close it off from the rest of the house. We took the kitchen door off it's hinges right after we moved in because it was in our way. It took up precious wall space when it was open and closing the kitchen door seemed strange. Our doorbell rang to the tune of Für Elise. It was a friendly way to announce a guest.
I honestly can't imagine not going back to that apartment there. I walked in and out of that front door countless times in the 6 1/2 years I lived there. I took off my shoes as I entered and hung my bag on one of the hooks by the door. I greeted many a guest in that entryway. We don't even have a real entryway hall here. The front door just opens into the abyss that is the office/formal living and dining room area. We don't even use the front door on a regular basis save for the pizza delivery guy and the kid next door.
I moved around a lot as a kid. I remember lying in my bed at night in the new house and closing my eyes. I would picture the old house. I would picture the layout of my old room. Being in the same bed made it easy. The closet door was to the right. My dresser was in front of me. The pink prayer picture was hanging on the wall to my left. I would fall asleep remembering.
It's much harder to do that here. The bed is different. It's a king size instead of a queen. All of the furniture is different. I can't close my wardrobe and feel the air rush out of the small crack between the doors. I don't have that wardrobe anymore. I have a closet for my clothes. I can't pry open the secret compartment in my dresser to reveal passports and shot records. The dresser here doesn't have secret compartments. The passports and shot records are kept in the filing cabinet in the office now.
I don't have a basket full of winter wear by the front door. I did bring back a few of our favorite scarves and hats for winter, but they weren't ever taken out of the coat closet. It never got cold enough, because well, this is Texas.
The treasure chest that sat on our entryway table...the one where we kept loose change to give our doorman so he would bring us a loaf of fresh bread in the mornings sits empty in our office here. There is no doorman to bring us bread. This is Texas.
There is no sending the boys to get their haircuts, no asking one of the kids to run to the store for a forgotten item, no walking to a friend's house, no doing a lot of things I got used to doing. This is Texas.
The kids still take their shoes off as soon as they come in the house even though it isn't considered dirty to wear your shoes in the house here. Some habits die hard even though this is Texas.
For some of my musings about Turkey and moving to America you can go here and here and I'm sure many other places on my blog. Clicking the Turkey link on the sidebar will get you to some of it. If you're interested.
