Pulp Ankara: An Odyssey for a Package Store

A leaden light filtered through the grime-streaked window, painting the air in the cramped apartment a sickly yellow. The insistent whine of the mobile, a banshee trapped beneath the pillow, seemed to solidify the dreariness of the day. With a groan that rivaled the rusty hinges of existence itself, I fumbled for the offending device. 6:45 AM, the harsh red digits mocked me. A meeting. There was supposed to be… something. A rendezvous, perhaps, with a soul as lost as I in this labyrinthine city. But the details, the who and the why, were obscured by the swirling fog in my head, a casualty of last night’s questionable libations.

Panic, a cold serpent, slithered through my gut. Meetings, in this city of oppressive routine, were not to be trifled with. But a counterpoint, a languid voice from some forgotten dream, whispered reassurances. It spoke of a calendar, a sacred tablet where appointments were etched into existence. With a sigh that rattled the windowpanes, I clawed my way from the sheets, the warmth a fleeting memory, a cruel promise of what could have been. The calendar, a digital oracle confined to my phone screen, blinked into existence with a harsh buzz. With trembling fingers, I swiped through the monotonous grid of days, blurring one into the next. There, sandwiched between the dreaded blinking reminder of a dentist appointment and the looming threat of an overdue bill, was the meeting. A scrawled name, a cryptic time, and a question mark hastily appended – a testament to my fading memory.

A sliver of relief, fragile as a spiderweb, snagged the edges of my despair. A name. A starting point. Perhaps, with enough coffee, enough cigarettes, I could piece together the puzzle before the designated hour. This city, this monotonous cycle of existence, might yet offer a sliver of redemption, a chance to salvage this already crumbling day. Or perhaps, a deeper, more Pynchonesque dread whispered, the meeting was a figment, a hallucination born from the dregs of last night’s intoxication. Maybe, in this absurd, kafkaesque world, the very notion of an appointment was meaningless, a cruel joke played by a universe indifferent to our struggles.

Whatever the truth, a sliver of determination sparked within me. The day, though still shrouded in the city’s perpetual gray, held a flicker of possibility. With a resolute cough, I reached for the coffee pot, a rusty knight facing a dubious dawn. The battle for another day of routine, another cog in the city’s relentless machine, had begun.

This city is built of lead. Not the alchemist’s kind, promising transformation with a sprinkle of magic dust, but the soul-crushing kind of the utterly ordinary, the relentless same old, day in and day out. The narrow streets, choked with exhaust fumes, seem to echo with the indifferent grumble of the city’s daily commute. Faces wear the same weary mask, a silent agreement to just get through another day. Even the stray cats that weave between legs lack the spark of mischief, their eyes reflecting the same dull resignation.

The only pockets of what might pass for civility are locked away behind the gleaming glass facades of the city’s malls. Inside, temperature-controlled air and piped-in music create a sterile illusion of cheer. But the smiles of the shop assistants are practiced, their eyes hollow. Here, too, everything has its price, a constant reminder that even the illusion of connection comes at a cost.

The silence of this particular November morning is almost deafening, broken only by the distant rumble of a tram. An eerie quiet that seeps into my bones, a quiet that makes one crave the usual chaotic symphony of the city, a sound that at least signifies life. But for a stolen moment, the city sleeps, and you, with it. An awakening, however, is inevitable. The gears will begin to turn again, the relentless machine of routine will crank back to life, and you, a single cog in its vast assembly, will have to find your place once more. Yet, for now, there’s a strange beauty in this quietude, a secret pocket of time snatched from the jaws of the ordinary. You savor this stolen moment, this brief pause before the relentless rhythm of the city resumes its relentless course.

Ankara, where existence feels like a perpetual state of frayed nerves, an undercurrent of tension that crackles in the very air. The people, mirroring the stray dogs that haunt their streets, carry that same skittish energy, that gnawing anxiety simmering just beneath the surface. And what’s most peculiar is the lack of urgency. They scurry and fret, trapped in their own private maelstroms of worry, yet there’s no destination, no race against the clock. The unease devours them whole, leaving behind hollow shells, automatons going through the motions.

You see it in every brief interaction, the forced smiles, the eyes that flicker away too quickly. It’s as though some unseen, insatiable creature gnaws at their essence, leaving behind a tangle of insecurity and fear, masked by the trappings of urban life. There’s a hollowness to it all, a chilling realization that the facade of civility hides a profound spiritual decay.

“A metropolitan does not have a soul,” someone mused somewhere. They’re not animated by dreams and passions, but by mundane detritus – parking tickets that litter their glove compartments, the endless jangle of keys, the plastic weight of credit cards and chipped access badges, remote controls for a life lived on autopilot, and those damned calendars, overflowing with soulless meetings and appointments. These are the pieces that make them whole, the pathetic armor they wear to shield themselves from the hollowness within.

The city grinds on, fueled not by ambition but by a collective anxiety that pulses through its streets. And I, caught in its grip, become an unwilling observer, mapping out the spiritual erosion etched into the city’s very fabric.

This is the city I was thrown into, a crucible that molded me from molten anxieties into the being I am today. Its very stones seem to sweat with nervous energy, a reflection of the frenetic dance of its inhabitants. Nervous people, jittery like the stray dogs that weave between their legs, their smiles taut and their eyes darting.

Yet, there’s no urgency in their movements, a peculiar lethargy that belies the disquietude that courses through them. It’s a paradox I wrestled with for years – this city that devours your soul in slow, agonizing bites, all the while maintaining an illusion of calm. The anxiety here isn’t a frantic scramble, it’s a slow, insidious rot that eats away at your insides. I can feel it gnawing at the edges of my own sanity, a constant low hum beneath the surface.

But beneath the fear, there’s a strange comfort in this shared neurosis. A camaraderie forged in the crucible of urban angst. Here, the masks we wear in the rest of the world fall away, replaced by a raw vulnerability. The courteous smiles might be laced with anxiety, but they’re genuine nonetheless, a desperate plea for connection in this ocean of isolation.

Perhaps, that’s the true horror of Ankara. It strips you bare, leaving you a collection of mundane totems – the ever-growing stack of parking tickets, the jangling keychain, the worn leather of your wallet overflowing with plastic. These become your talismans, your pathetic attempts to ground yourself in a city that threatens to swallow you whole.

The insistent buzzing of my phone vibrates not just on the nightstand, but against my very skull. A Pavlovian jolt rips me from the dream’s embrace, shattering the fragile peace of sleep. Immediately, I’m transported back to the flickering black and white world of Chinatown, to Gittes trapped in his car, the droning voice of Evelyn Mulwray a maddening echo on the other end of the line. Fifteen minutes? It felt like an eternity, a desperate plea swallowed by the California heat and the stench of corruption that clung to every frame of that neo-noir masterpiece.

Unlike Gittes, tangled in a web of deceit far grander than himself, I have the luxury, if you can call it that, of silencing the call with a swipe. But even that simple act feels like a victory in this city that thrives on a constant undercurrent of nervous energy. With a sigh that could curdle milk, I fumble for the phone, the harsh blue light momentarily blinding after the inky darkness of sleep. A glance at the screen reveals a notification as mundane as a pigeon on a park bench – a reminder for that dentist appointment I’d been skillfully avoiding. A sardonic chuckle escapes my lips. At least, unlike Gittes, I have the power to silence the incessant demands, to reclaim a sliver of peace before the city’s relentless symphony resumes.

But the brief sojourn into the world of film noir leaves a lingering disquiet. The line between fiction and reality feels blurred this morning. Is the city I wake up to really that different from the sun-drenched nightmare of Chinatown? The same desperation lurks just beneath the surface here, the same sense of powerlessness against forces far grander than ourselves. The anxious faces on the morning commute, the hurried exchanges punctuated by nervous laughter – it all feels vaguely conspiratorial.

Chinatown holds a mirror to the anxieties that simmer beneath the surface of even the most ordinary city. And this morning, in the bleary-eyed haze of half-sleep, that reflection feels a little too real. Maybe I should just burrow back under the covers, escape into the oblivion of sleep for a few more precious minutes. But the city beckons, a relentless siren song that promises another day of navigating the labyrinthine alleyways of routine, another opportunity to confront the existential dread that lurks around every corner, just like Gittes in his car, forever haunted by the ghost of Evelyn Mulwray and the secrets she died for.

The first clue usually wasn’t the weak Ankara sun struggling to pierce the grime on the windowpane. No, the true herald of dawn in this city was a cacophony. First, the frantic symphony of barking erupting from every ramshackle apartment building and stray-dog haven. A chorus of discontent against the approaching day, a glorious symphony for those who craved a good night’s sleep (not you, clearly). Then, inevitably, the phone would begin its shrill assault. Here, unlike the rest of the world, telephonic communication wasn’t reserved for the urgent or important. It was a weapon of mass disruption, wielded with reckless abandon.

This morning, the phone call that shattered the fragile peace (and the tail-end of my Chinatown reverie) came from my uncle. “Later, Uncle” – a phrase that hung heavy in the air, a well-worn path in our relationship. But before you could burrow back under the covers, a jolt of a different kind hit. The dogs – silent. An unsettling quietude that spoke volumes. This could only mean one thing: it was well past the hour of acceptable canine chaos, which could only signify a dreadfully late morning.

Sedat, is my old chum from the neighborhood, wouldn’t mind the late start though. He was, after all, a creature of habit, and those habits often revolved around questionable decisions made after questionable amounts of beer. The “basement bars,” those dimly lit dens reeking of desperation and a misplaced sense of youthful rebellion, were where our shared history began. First sips of forbidden brew, teenage dreams whispered in the stale air – a world away from the suburban nightmare Sedat now found himself in.

Married at the “ripe” age of 42, only to be tossed out by his wife – the irony wasn’t lost on me. The desperation in his voice, the need clinging to his every word, was as familiar as the city’s morning symphony. A desperate attempt to salvage things with cheap flowers and a hangover-induced apology – a predictable script in the tragicomedy of his life.

But today, you wouldn’t be an audience member. Today, you were called upon to play your part. So, with a sigh that mirrored the city’s perpetual exhaustion, you threw back the covers. Another day in Ankara beckoned, a day filled with the familiar comfort of chaos and the desperate hope of redemption, for yourself and maybe, just maybe, for Sedat too.

Damn that early morning promise I made to Sedat. The Chinatown hangover lingering in my brain made any promises seem possible at the time. Now, I was paying the price, rolling out of bed with all the enthusiasm of a kicked dog. But the thought of Demirtepe – that dusty, chaotic district where everything from secondhand furniture to knockoff watches could be found – brought a flicker of interest to my dull morning.

There was the Kurdish guy, of course, the one with the boxes. Stacks and stacks of them, a hoarder’s paradise. Thirty-by-thirty for a measly 35 liras? A steal, especially for a fellow book addict like Sedat. We shared that affliction, our rooms overflowing with forgotten titles and unread purchases. But our madness took different forms. I couldn’t even bring myself to lift a book from its box, a strange sort of reverence for the pristine, untouched page. Sedat, on the other hand, lived with his books. They spilled from shelves, nestled comfortably on armchairs, even threatened to invade the kitchen.

That’s what got him in trouble, I supposed. Too comfortable with the stacks of novels vying for space with family photos and the other trappings of domesticity. Too comfortable with a family life that maybe felt confining in its own way. The fight with his wife, the drunken apologies – I’d seen it play out enough times to know the ending.

With a sigh that echoed the city’s eternal weariness, I dragged myself from bed. At least today’s mission had a purpose. A stack of cheap boxes and the camaraderie of an old friend – that was something even Ankara couldn’t ruin. It might even be enough to make the day bearable, a tiny victory in the grand battle against monotony.

With a caffeine and nicotine fueled jolt, I cranked the engine. The SUV, a recent acquisition, roared to life with an unconvincing growl. It looked tough, a four-by-four facade masking its city-bred soul. But hey, the illusion was good enough to scare off the worst of Ankara’s traffic monsters, and that’s all that really mattered. A sense of warped pride sparked in my chest. I may be just another cog in this monstrous machine of a city, but at least I had a marginally intimidating ride to navigate the chaos.

Leaving my cramped apartment and descending into the urban jungle, I thought of Sedat’s place – that ill-fated attempt at suburban normalcy. I pictured pristine white walls, generic furniture, and the oppressive weight of too much “grown-up” comfort. A life measured in matching curtains instead of the tattered spines of beloved books. It had become a battleground, a mismatch of domestic ideals and a soul still restless for something more. Maybe a pile of cheap cardboard boxes, brimming with unread adventures, wouldn’t fix that ache in his being. But maybe, I hoped, they would offer a small, rebellious start.

A wry smile played on my lips as I navigated the city streets, the fumes blending with the acrid tang of my cigarette a familiar Ankara cocktail. This box-buying mission, as absurd as it seemed, was just the opening act in Sedat’s grand, albeit slightly ridiculous, play to win back his wife, Senem. The alliteration of their names, a source of endless amusement for me (much to Senem’s disapproval), now felt strangely poignant.

Sedat, bless his misguided soul, saw everything in black and white, even names. For him, alliteration reeked of a kind of preordained evil, a theory of onomatopoeia twisted into a cynical worldview. Maybe it was a reflection of our city, this relentless Ankara, where the very rhythm of life felt monotonous, a never-ending drone.

But beneath the cynicism, I saw a glimmer of hope. This box escapade, this desperate attempt to reclaim a sliver of his book-hoarding bachelorhood, was a clumsy act of rebellion. A rebellion against the beige walls and matching furniture of domesticity, a yearning for the solace of forgotten stories nestled between cardboard walls.

Perhaps it wouldn’t win back Senem. Perhaps it was a fool’s errand, a misplaced act of defiance in the face of a crumbling marriage. But for today, at least, there was purpose in the madness. A car full of boxes, a shared love of the written word, and the camaraderie of a lifelong friend – a small victory against the relentless drone of Ankara, a city that threatened to swallow everything whole.

As I steered through the snarling traffic, visions of our last night in that dingy tavern danced in my head. We’d gone through more beers than I cared to count, blurring the lines between reality and the absurd. At some point, fueled by cheap spirit and a shared history as avid football fans (me cheering for the glorious Beşiktaş, him tragically misguided in his allegiance to Galatasaray), the conversation had swerved towards tactics.

“The best defense is attack,” Sedat had mumbled, eyes glazed. His mantra for any battle, both on the football pitch and in life. His grand plan to woo back Senem hinged on this same half-baked principle, born from too many drinks and a desperate longing for lost comfort.

Alper, bless his soul, clung to his delusion that 2000 Cup victory was still the highlight of his life. Lost in a nostalgic fog, he was oblivious to the unfolding drama, leaving me as the reluctant audience to Sedat’s tactical ramblings. I may have nodded along then, fueled by a desire for peace and one more round. But now, in the harsh light of day, the plan seemed more comical than courageous.

Still, beneath the absurdity, there was a flicker of defiance in Sedat’s bloodshot eyes. A refusal to accept the tidy box of domesticity, a desperate grab for those familiar battle lines. In that moment, I understood. This wasn’t just about winning back a wife or reclaiming a space. It was the primal instinct to fight back, even with flimsy logic and empty beer glasses as his weapons.

Maybe Ankara wasn’t a place for grand victories, but there was a kind of dignity in the struggle, a bittersweet taste of freedom in the doomed charge. And for today, maybe that was enough.

The corner of Kılgı and Olgu loomed as a monument to bureaucratic absurdity. Practice and Fact? As if Ankara wasn’t already a tangled labyrinth of contradictions. “Only in this city,” I muttered, scanning the desolate street with a growing sense of annoyance. No sign of Sedat, no sheepish apology, nothing but the echo of my own footsteps on the cracked pavement. Of course. He’d waited for Senem to leave, the image of his wife striding off to work the only motivation capable of rousing him from those worn sheets. Now he was back in the warmth of a bed that probably still held her scent, a faint whisper of the domestic life he so desperately longed to reclaim.

A surge of frustration replaced my early-morning sympathy. The boxes, the drive through the city’s relentless snarl… It all felt like a monumental joke. Yet, somewhere beneath the annoyance, lingered a flicker of understanding. Sedat was a creature of routine, a man who craved the familiar, even when it held the seeds of his own undoing. Like the city he was trapped in, he battled against a tide of monotony, his wild schemes and bursts of defiance merely fleeting rebellions against the inevitable.

Maybe his grand plan was doomed, maybe the boxes would gather dust in a corner, but they represented a yearning for something else. A sliver of resistance against the weight of “shoulds” and “musts” that burdened his spirit. A desperate plea for a different kind of existence, even if he couldn’t quite define it. As the sun cast a harsh glare on the intersection of Practice and Fact, I realized we were cut from the same cloth, both of us lost in this city that offered little but routine and the illusion of comfort. And for today, perhaps a shared sense of failure and a car full of unused boxes were the only solace this place would offer.

The question hung in the air between us, a splash of cold water against the warmth of shared absurdity. “Yeah…” Sedat started, his voice trailing off. The flicker of defiance in his eyes dimmed, replaced by a familiar weariness.

“I mean, it’s not like I can just… fill them right here on the sidewalk,” he said, a hint of desperation lacing his voice. He kicked at a discarded cigarette butt, sending it skittering across the cracked pavement.

I chewed my lip and glanced around the near-empty street. The harsh truth was sinking in. Boxes, even cheap ones stacked high in a stampede of cardboard, needed space. And Sedat’s space… well, it wasn’t exactly his anymore.

“Look,” I started, feeling a heavy weight settle in my chest, “Maybe we could… I mean, I’ve got some room in my place. Temporarily. Just until you figure something out.”

The offer felt lame, inadequate. My own apartment wasn’t exactly spacious, and the thought of dozens of boxes cluttering up my already cramped existence filled me with a sense of impending doom. But Sedat’s slumping shoulders and defeated gaze cut through me. He looked like a kicked dog, the same one I’d woken up with this morning.

“You sure?” he asked, a flicker of hope rekindling in his eyes.

“Yeah, yeah, sure. It’s a temporary solution,” I mumbled. “We’ll figure something out.” The words sounded hollow, even to my own ears, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

Inside, I knew this was just another doomed attempt, another half-baked plan spawned in a haze of beer and late-night desperation. The boxes would likely end up gathering dust in a corner, a constant reminder of battles lost and dreams abandoned. But for now, for this fleeting moment, they represented a sliver of hope. A shared rebellion against the harsh realities of Ankara, a city that relentlessly chipped away at your spirit, leaving you with nothing but a pile of boxes and a stampede of elephants in your head.

“Whoa, hold on a minute,” I blurted out, a wave of panic washing over me as I imagined my apartment transformed into a cardboard jungle. “That’s not what I meant at all.”

The flicker of hope in Sedat’s eyes died instantly, replaced by a defensive wall of resignation. “Forget it,” he muttered, scuffing the sidewalk with his shoe. “Stupid idea anyway.”

My frustration spiked. “Damn it, Sedat. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and think for a second. Don’t go back to that ‘chums and bros’ crap, I can’t handle you wallowing in pity in my already cramped space.”

I took a deep breath, trying to quell the irritation that threatened to boil over. “I meant, have you considered renting a storage space? A small unit, just for the boxes?”

It wasn’t a perfect solution, but it beat becoming a hoarder by proxy. The practical part of me rebelled against the waste of money on empty space, but the other part, the part that knew what a crushing defeat felt like, hoped it might provide a lifeline.

Sedat’s gaze shifted from the cracked pavement to my earnest expression. Finally, he sighed, “I guess. I didn’t even think about that…”

“Okay, good. There are places all over the city, probably dirt cheap ones further out,” I pressed on, relieved to see a crack in his self-defeating armor. “It’s temporary, just until you sort things out. Gives you room to breathe, to think…”

“And avoid awkward run-ins with Senem,” Sedat finished, a wry smile playing on his lips.

“Exactly,” I affirmed, clapping him on the shoulder. “And who knows, maybe those boxes filled with unread books are some kind of poetic metaphor for a new start.”

“Let’s just hope they don’t become a metaphor for my pathetic bachelorhood,” Sedat chuckled ruefully.

The elephant stampede in our heads seemed a little less overwhelming. There was no grand plan, no guaranteed win. Just a sliver of hope, a temporary respite, and a reminder that even in a city like Ankara, sometimes the best defense was simply finding a place to stack your boxes.

A sharp laugh escaped my lips, a hint of dark humor lacing the sound. “Oh, Sedat,” I muttered. “You sneaky bastard.”

The realization hit me like a jolt of strong coffee. This wasn’t a haphazard act of desperation, this was a strategy, twisted as it was. The boxes, a physical manifestation of his presence in their once-shared home, but cleverly, the onus of filling them would remain on Senem.

“Brilliant in its own tragicomic way,” I mused. “He’ll never lift a finger to unpack, of course. It’s a testament to his inherent laziness, warped into emotional blackmail.” I paused, a thought swirling in my mind. “Or maybe it’s more than that. Maybe it’s a… strange form of surrender.”

The city’s relentless traffic hummed in the background as we both pondered Sedat’s peculiar plan. I saw it clearly now, a battlefield littered not with weapons, but with empty cardboard shells. It was a way for Sedat to reclaim a space in his own life, a passive rebellion against being shoved out the door.

But just like the city we lived in, there was a melancholic undercurrent to it all. Leaving the boxes unfilled wasn’t a sign of power, but of resignation. An admission that there were battles he couldn’t fight and that some of those boxes might ultimately hold the fragments of a lost life rather than the start of a new one.

“Well,” I said, clapping my hands together, a sudden sense of purpose replacing the morning’s weariness, “it looks like we’ve got a mission. Not just buying boxes, but finding him a place to put them. A real place, with walls and a door. Somewhere to start again, even if it means starting amidst a sea of cardboard.”

Sedat’s eyes held a flicker of vulnerability, the familiar mask of bravado slipping slightly. “You really think so?”

“Listen, buddy, Ankara might wear you down, grind you into the pavement,” I replied, my voice infused with the steely determination the city sometimes forged in even the most unwilling of its residents, “but it hasn’t broken you yet. So yeah, I think so. Now let’s get those boxes and find you a damn apartment. Senem might have won this round, but the game isn’t over yet.”

The clock on the dashboard blinked 7:40 AM. The usual morning frenzy hadn’t yet descended upon Ankara’s streets, giving the city a deceptive air of tranquility. The SUV hummed along, the only sound the rhythmic swish of the wipers battling against the persistent drizzle.

“So,” I said, breaking the silence, “any idea where this mythical box store is hiding in Demirtepe?”

Sedat shrugged, his gaze lost in the tangle of streets outside. “Somewhere near the old market, I think. My cousin mentioned it once.”

“Great,” I muttered, “navigating that labyrinth at this hour will be a joy.”

Demirtepe was a chaotic organism, a sprawling network of narrow streets choked with vendors, shoppers, and the occasional stray dog. Finding a parking spot there was akin to winning the lottery.

As we entered the district, the calm of the morning evaporated. Cars jostled for space, horns blared, and pedestrians weaved between vehicles with a practiced indifference to the potential for vehicular manslaughter.

“See any parking spots?” I asked, my voice laced with sarcasm.

Sedat, his face now creased with anxiety, shook his head. We circled the block, then another, and another, each turn adding to the growing knot of frustration in my stomach.

“This is hopeless,” I finally said, pulling over to the side of the road, narrowly avoiding a collision with a delivery truck. “We’ll be here all day at this rate.”

Sedat let out a defeated sigh. “Maybe we should just come back later.”

“And waste another hour navigating this mess?” I countered. “No way. Look, I’ll drop you off near the market. You go find the box store, I’ll keep circling until I find a spot. We’ll meet back here in… say, an hour?”

He nodded, a flicker of hope returning to his eyes. “Alright, sounds good.”

I watched him disappear into the throng of shoppers, his figure swallowed by the chaos of Demirtepe. Then, I rejoined the vehicular ballet, resigning myself to the Sisyphean task of finding a parking spot in a city that seemed designed to test the limits of human patience.

Forty minutes later, after countless loops and near-misses, I finally secured a spot. I joined Sedat at the designated meeting point, a small cafe tucked away from the main thoroughfare.

He was slumped at a table, a cup of lukewarm tea untouched in front of him. His face was a mask of disappointment.

“No luck?” I asked, already suspecting the answer.

He shook his head. “Found the store, but…” he paused, letting out a frustrated sigh, “it doesn’t open until 10.”

I stared at him, momentarily speechless. “You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope,” he replied, his voice flat. “Big sign on the door. ‘Opens at 10 AM.'”

We sat there, united in our shared exasperation. The city, it seemed, was conspiring against us, throwing obstacles in our path with a sadistic glee.

“So,” I finally said, “what do we do now? Kill two hours in this charming cafe?”

Sedat shrugged, his shoulders slumping. “I guess. Unless you have a better idea.”

I looked around at the grimy walls and chipped linoleum floor. The cafe was a microcosm of the city itself – worn down, slightly depressing, but strangely comforting in its familiarity.

“Actually,” I said, a mischievous grin spreading across my face, “I might have a plan.”

The morning, though off to a frustrating start, held a glimmer of possibility. Ankara might be a city that thrived on testing your patience, but it also had a way of forcing you to be resourceful. And today, resourcefulness meant finding a way to kill two hours and secure some boxes, even if it meant venturing into the city’s underbelly.

“Let’s go,” I said, throwing a few liras on the table. “We’ve got some exploring to do.”

The drive to the bakery became a pilgrimage to a forgotten corner of our shared history. With each familiar street and weathered landmark, the weight of Ankara’s relentless change seemed to fade away. For a fleeting moment, we were those two kids again, fueled by dreams and greasy hot dogs, ready to conquer the world before the drudgery of prep-school classes dulled our spirits.

The corner where the bakery stood came into view, and a jolt of disappointment coursed through me. The storefront, once bustling with the aroma of warm bread and the chatter of early risers, was shuttered. The bright sign that heralded cheap treats and early morning sustenance had been replaced with a faded “For Rent” notice.

“Damn,” Sedat muttered, his voice a mix of surprise and a heavy dose of nostalgia. “I guess even the best hot dogs are no match for this city.”

A wave of melancholic amusement washed over me. It was absurdly poetic – the demise of a humble bakery felt like a symbol of our own fading youth. Ankara had a way of doing that, erasing the landmarks of our younger days, reminding us of the relentless march of time.

“Come on,” I chuckled, a tinge of bitterness in my voice. “Maybe all that change means there’s a halfway decent coffee shop around here now. And the coffee, I bet, will be just as overpriced as everywhere else in this city.”

We abandoned the hunt for hot dogs, the ghost of the old bakery a bittersweet reminder of days lost. But beneath the disappointment, there was a strange sense of resilience. Ankara might grind away at our memories, might replace bakeries with overpriced lattes, but it couldn’t erase the shared history that fueled our absurd plans and half-baked rebellions. That, I knew, was something this city would never take from us.

“Besides,” I added, clapping Sedat on the shoulder, “the less time we spend reminiscing about soggy hot dogs, the sooner we can get those boxes and find you a place to fill them with a new pile of unread books.”