I was born in a city of water. Istanbul. Water everywhere. You cannot not see it, not smell it, not hear it. Istanbul is water. I have never thought this was special until I left her.

I grew up right in front of the water. Our home was in a neighborhood called Moda, which is in a way a village within the city. It is like a small half island surrounded by the sea almost all around. When I went out and walked down only one street, I saw the blue sea opening up in front of me into endlessness. She was the embodiment of freedom, tranquility and possibility.

No day was she the same. Sometimes her colors took on different colors, sometimes she had more seagulls flying above her waters, sometimes she had much to tell. Her waves never rested, while some other times she was like a sleeping beauty, peaceful and innocent.

I took her for granted.

During the summer months, my grandma would gather our family at the tea garden in our neighborhood right in front of the sea. We had our favorite spot in the garden, where we would sit for hours sipping tea, eating Turkish pastries, boiled corn or even chestnuts. Ice cream was only allowed after dinner. Sometimes our neighbors would come join us, or our family friends.

The sight and the smell of the sea were an integral part of me and a city without her was beyond my imagination. In other words, the question didn’t even occur to me.

I took her for granted.

Twenty years later when I left Istanbul for Germany to learn German, I had my first experience with a city without water. Aachen. A cute, little, student city in the northwest at the Dutch border; without water.

After my first excitement with setting up my new life in Aachen was over, I started feeling the deprivation. I desperately craved for water. A little pond in a park near my home became my best friend. Yet, her company didn’t suffice. I was death thirsty and she could offer me a few drops. I would have never ever thought until then that I would long for the smell of the salty water, sound of the waves and the endless sights. I could even feel it all in my body, becoming tense and nervous.

I was a language student without work, so I had very little money. This meant I couldn’t travel and I also didn’t want to. I wanted to focus and learn German as soon as possible. Once, though, I managed to go to Amsterdam; another city of water. Oh, what a relief it was. It was not my sea but there was so much more water. My body immediately celebrated what she found, she relaxed, softened and let go.

A year later I left Aachen for Munich as I had learned German and was admitted into the University of Munich to study Computational Linguistics. I was sad to leave this cute little, student city, my attic flat and my friends, at the same time I was excited about what came next. I had also heard so much about the lakes around Zurich, which I couldn’t wait to see. A lot more water.

Munich indeed gave me easier access to more water even though she didn’t have the lakes integrated in herself like Istanbul. Less than an hour’s train ride took me to big lakes such as Tegernsee, which were beautifully embedded in nature.

Lake is not the sea. It doesn’t have the smell of the salty water, the blue color nor the endless sights. It doesn’t have seagulls but swans and ducks instead. It is seldom restless, most of the times she sits there patiently in tranquillity. Munich’s lakes were not a remedy for my craving but they helped. They sustained me until I reunited with my sea, be it in Istanbul or somewhere else like Napoli or Antalya.

I promised myself in Munich that I will not move to a place, if I move again, without body of water. I almost managed that except for one year in Kansas, which was a challenge.

Zurich has been my home now for seven years and she has a lake integrated within herself. My home is not right in front of the water, yet a ten minute walk takes me to her. She doesn’t have the salty smell nor the endless sights, but she knows how to soothe me. I love her most in the early morning hours, when the sun just rises, while everyone sleeps. During the winters, she can become restless too, throwing uneasy waves left and right as the chilly wind touches her waters. I like her. She has been gentle enough to make an effort to sustain me until I reunite with my sea in Istanbul or elsewhere.