10) An Extraordinary Evening (A Year in Montreal: Part 1)

It was a rainy, dark October evening. As I was driving along St. Huber Street, my wipers were working at full speed. “Ugh, what a terrible rain!” I muttered. The city had surrendered to the rain; the roads had turned into huge mirrors reflecting the streetlights.

When I opened the garage door with the remote control and entered the parking lot of our building overlooking the Old Port, I took a deep breath. “What a horrible rain! Finally home. Is this city testing me or what?” I whispered to myself.

It had been two months since I moved to Montreal. The famous cold weather everyone warned me about still hadn’t arrived. In fact, October had been unusually warm and sunny. But today, for some reason, a heavy tropical rainstorm had started and continued non-stop all day.

I parked our Saab Cabrio in its spot. My partner Charles had found this old beauty in Quebec and, imagining the smile on my face, had carefully cleaned the leather seats and polished the body.

I opened the car door, placed both feet on the ground before getting out of the low vehicle, and felt a pain in my back as I stood up. I wasn’t exactly old yet. I was about to turn fifty-five next month. But lately, I had been battling pains in my back, neck, and knees. The health problems I’d faced in recent years had forced me to descend from the world of gods into the world of mortals. My genetic heritage had certainly overworked my internal organs as I aged, but luckily it had added beauty to my appearance, turning me into a graceful, attractive, and sophisticated woman. Instead of the shy, timid girl of my childhood, I now saw a poised lady in the mirror.

I slid the driver’s seat forward and took my green leather backpack and small handbag from the back seat—souvenirs from Venice last year. Over the past year, with my partner’s insistent suggestions, I had gotten used to using a backpack to protect my back. I had also given up stuffing my bag to the brim; now I carried only my laptop and a few essential items. Apart from a lipstick and a small perfume, I no longer carried makeup. In the past, I used to carry huge handbags, filled with things I didn’t even know about. Sometimes, even God wouldn’t have been able to guess what I’d pull out of them. My ex-husband Daniel used to laugh and call it my “Woopy bag.” Woopy, apparently, was a magician character from a children’s TV show he used to watch, famous for pulling all sorts of things out of his bag.

I got into the elevator and pressed the button for the eighth floor. The thought of climbing nine flights of stairs from the garage had crossed my mind—it would’ve been good exercise for my legs and heart—but I’d never tried it.

Since we were only planning to stay in Canada for at most two years, we had rented a furnished apartment. We were enjoying certain luxuries we weren’t used to in Europe: a lobby, a swimming pool, a gym, and a sauna.

When I started my career, I’d immediately taken out a loan from the bank where I worked and bought my own home. Now, living in a rental, surrounded by furniture chosen by someone else, gave me the odd feeling of long-term hotel living.

Canada felt too Americanized for chronic European romantics like us. We missed streets steeped in history. Even Quebec French sounded to our ears like an American speaking French. The helpfulness of people in North America, though appreciated, often felt a bit fake to us. But after all, we weren’t here permanently. We weren’t condemned to this place, and we were content with our expat-tourist hybrid lifestyle.

The elevator doors opened on the eighth floor. My neighbor’s door was open, and the entrance was full of suitcases and shopping bags. I had met the small, white-haired woman in her mid-sixties before, but it was the first time I saw her husband, who was much bigger, overweight, and had messy hair. Other than two of the six apartments on our floor, I had no idea who lived in the others.

The elderly couple introduced themselves briefly. They said they usually stayed at their second home outside the city and only came here for work every two weeks. When they learned I was Swiss, ten minutes later, the man knocked on my door. I hesitantly opened it, and he said a sentence he’d learned in German. “Typical Canadians and their intrusiveness,” I thought. The other day we’d invited one of my husband’s colleagues over, and he had casually opened our fridge. Opening the fridge in someone’s home on a first visit—this mixture of friendliness and overfamiliarity—seemed unique to Canadians.

Even though I felt completely safe in this apartment, I always locked the door. The main entrance to the building was always locked, but delivery people rang the doorbells, and the residents would buzz them in from upstairs. There were also many homeless people in the city, and they might try to sneak into the warm lobby during these deliveries.

Since my brain was capable of producing infinite disaster scenarios, when my neighbor knocked, I felt a little jolt of anxiety. Once again, I was convinced how right I was to always lock the door.

My husband worked in a factory in the industrial zone of Granby, about eighty kilometers away. He spent two hours a day in the car and always came home later than me. During that time, I would tidy up the house, do the ironing, or go to the gym.

Now, because of the heavy rain, the evening had gotten even darker. But the last rays of the sun had found a small gap in the clouds, making the silver dome of the Bonsecours Market shine brilliantly. I had started painting the incredible view from our apartment onto a canvas, to take it back to Europe as a memory. The canvas still stood half-finished on the easel, and for weeks I hadn’t been able to continue. Besides, the light wasn’t quite right tonight, and honestly, landscape painting didn’t give me much pleasure. I had always been inclined toward painting, but I preferred portraits and figures. The details and chaos of rooftops, terraces, and chimneys tired me out.

Indeed, the floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room and bedroom captured the endless view like a painting. Especially when we turned off the lights, I couldn’t get enough of looking at the scenery. That evening, I took off my work clothes, put on my shorts, sat on my yoga mat, and watched the view. I picked up the dumbbells and lifted them half-heartedly, just to feel like I’d done some exercise.

Then I heard the key turn in the lock, and I ran to the hallway to greet my partner. We hugged warmly and kissed. But his face looked tired. As soon as he hung up his coat and took off his shoes, he started telling me without me even asking.

That morning, when he went to get into his car, he noticed a huge crack in the windshield and found a note on it. The police had caught the person who did it—a man who had smashed the windows of twenty other cars but had turned himself in without stealing anything.

“Really? Why would someone do that?” I asked. Then, as if answering my own question, I said, “Could it have been one of the homeless? Maybe he thought he’d be more comfortable in jail as winter approaches.” My husband nodded in agreement. His colleagues had come to the same conclusion. It was actually a tragic situation. What a decadent solution. Twenty car owners had started their day annoyed by a cracked windshield, gone to the police station to file reports, talked to insurance companies, made repair appointments—a waste of time, effort, and money. All because this city still hadn’t found a solution for its homeless.

I took a bottle of Chardonnay from the fridge and poured two glasses. I handed him one, looked into his eyes, and said, “Santé.” Another ordinary evening was beginning on the new continent.

 

 

09- A Journey of Life

As Yaşar Kemal's famous words say, "Those beautiful people mounted their beautiful horses and rode away." One by one, the kindest and most gentle-hearted people in the world left us, leaving us abandoned here.

One of these beautiful, extraordinary people was Mr. Hüseyin. Born in 1935 into a poor family in Rasht, a city near the Caspian Sea in Iran, he began his apprenticeship as a tailor at a young age. His mentor was an Azeri tailor, which not only honed his tailoring skills but also allowed him to learn Azeri.

In 1962, he married Mrs. Mükerrem in Rasht. She insisted on being called "Muki Hanım." Perhaps it was because she wasn't considered a stunning beauty or because, at 29, she was deemed to have missed her marital window by societal standards of the time, that she chose to marry the humble tailor. Unlike many women of her age, she quickly obtained her driver’s license, bought a car, and became an indispensable partner to her non-driving husband, supporting his artistic soul with her financial acumen.

After moving to Tehran, Mr. Hüseyin expanded his business, hired employees, and soon became one of Tehran's most respected tailors. He opened a three-story workshop and created clothing for the wives of the political elite surrounding Shah Pahlavi. Despite his success, he remained humble and kind throughout his life.

However, the Iranian Islamic Revolution changed everything for them. What began in 1979 as a liberation movement turned into a regime of moral policing in the 1980s. These enforcers frequently raided Mr. Hüseyin's shop, degrading and falsely accusing him because he tailored women’s clothing. These pressures extinguished the light of life within a man who had never harmed anyone and was a paragon of goodness. Eventually, he was forced to leave his homeland.

In the early years of the revolution, he sent his son and daughter to Sweden for their education. Later, his daughter married and moved to America, and finally, Mr. Hüseyin, along with his wife, had to migrate to Virginia, near their daughter. Yet, the wounds of the last twelve years in Iran remained an indelible scar in his heart, and he even requested that his remains not be returned to Iran.

When they moved to America in 1992, Mr. Hüseyin was 57, and Muki Hanım was 59. They fed birds on the balcony of their small apartment in Fairfax, Virginia. Muki Hanım, who had bought a modest car after moving to America, handled the shopping. Meanwhile, Mr. Hüseyin turned one room of their two-room apartment into a sewing studio, where he sewed evening gowns for the local Iranian community. In the mornings, he worked a few hours at an Afghan tailor's shop, making minor adjustments to garments. Life had taken them to the heights of success, only to confine them to this humble apartment.

He wasn’t just a tailor; he was a creative designer and a master of his craft. When his son was about to marry, he made his future daughter-in-law's wedding dress based only on her measurements and a photograph of the design. When he arrived in Stockholm a few days before the wedding, the gown fit her perfectly. Yet, he modestly attributed this success to the young woman’s perfect physique rather than his extraordinary skill.

Later, he sewed coats, jackets, and dresses for his daughter-in-law, presenting them as though they were insignificant gifts, even feeling shy when thanked. The fact that his daughter-in-law was Turkish brought him special joy. He loved her as his own daughter and relished speaking in Azeri Turkish, which he had learned during his apprenticeship, with her. He felt embarrassed about not knowing the exact Turkish equivalents of some words, but his warm smile never faded.

They lived in Virginia for 20 years. Without retirement savings, Mr. Hüseyin worked until the age of 77, never once complaining. Each morning, he would hold the medallion of Imam Ali around his neck, offer a prayer, and then sew throughout the day. Despite his piety, he was never dogmatic. When his grandson wanted to pierce both his ears, Mr. Hüseyin took him to an Armenian jeweler and bought him his first earrings.

In their final years, life scattered this couple to opposite ends of the world. Mr. Hüseyin fell ill and despite the disagreements he had with his son-in-law, spent his last years in Beverly Hills with his daughter and son-in-law. Meanwhile, Muki Hanım returned to Tehran. Their son and grandson remained in Europe. It seemed to be the fate of good people from that country to be scattered like grains of rice and die separated. 

In September 2020, Mr. Hüseyin passed away in Los Angeles at the age of 85. In October 2024, Muki Hanım passed away in Tehran at the age of 90.

When Mr. Hüseyin was laid to rest, he left behind not just his magnificent garments but also his love, which he gave without expecting anything in return, his ever-present smile, and his philosophy of always responding to both good and evil with kindness.

I remember them both with tears in my eyes and a deep longing. Reflecting on the beauty of the Iranian people and the tragic destiny of this ancient neighboring country moves me deeply.

 

06- Returning Home. As If It Were Just Yesterday

 

It was three o’clock in the morning. Everywhere was pitch dark. The door to the apartment building opened quietly.

Last year, the entry code system had broken down, and since the residents couldn’t manage to collect the necessary maintenance fee, the door remained unlocked both day and night. Most of the people living in the building were retired civil servants, getting by on meagre pensions, and hadn’t really cared whether the door was locked or not. Taking advantage of this, children who didn’t even live in the building had begun to spend their time here—running up and down the stairs, sliding down the railings, or sitting on the steps engrossed in their smartphones. Over the course of the year, they had scratched their names and scribbled swear words on the walls. When Mr Mehmet from number 3 passed away last summer, his daughter cleared out the flat he had rented for many years, took what was useful, and left the rest piled in a corner of the large entrance corridor under the pretext of “someone might need it.” At the very front of the pile was a red velvet sofa, where Mr Mehmet always sat on the right side in his final years. The cushion had sagged under his heavy body. The children especially liked to play on this sofa, wedging chocolate wrappers between the cushions, wiping their snotty fingers on the velvet fabric. The most mischievous among them would sometimes climb to the top of the bookcase at the back and shoot arrows at people entering the building. With the arrival of autumn, even the cats had started to sleep there on cold nights. The apartment had begun to resemble something straight out of Elif Şafak’s The Flea Palace.

The building’s oldest resident was Mr Levon. When the apartment was newly built in 1936, young couples had moved into all the flats. Levon had been just five years old when his parents moved in. Back then, the neighbourhood and the building were both elegant and pleasant.
The wrought iron garden gate was always kept closed, roses bloomed in the garden tended mostly by Levon’s father, and both an apple and a cherry tree flowered in spring and bore fruit in summer. In this four-storey building, children had been born, many had married and moved away, parents had passed on or become too elderly to leave their homes. Even the newer tenants had now reached retirement age.

Mr Levon was an only child. He had never married and continued to live in the same flat after his parents passed away. In seventy years, the face of the neighbourhood had changed drastically—houses with gardens and small apartment blocks had been replaced by high-rises and office buildings. Now, this old building, squashed in between, had become a neglected relic of a bygone century. The garden gate had been removed, the garden converted into a car park. In the 1980s, a door lock had been installed, but now broken, the building had turned into a thoroughfare.

Since Mr Levon lived on the first floor, he was always the first to know what was going on.
He had been a handsome and flirtatious young man in his time, often inviting his girlfriends over—much to the frustration of some of the more pious residents. At seventy-three, he was still lively and good-looking. While he no longer carried on as wildly as he once had, his cheerful and courteous manner had made him the darling of the older ladies at the Pera Café, where he went every Sunday.

That night, Mr Levon hadn’t been able to sleep at all. Charles Aznavour’s Hier Encore was playing softly on the record player—low enough not to disturb the neighbours.
Levon sat in the reading chair by the window, his smiling eyes watching the empty street lit by a streetlamp, his thoughts wandering to the old days.

As the longcase clock, which he never liked but couldn’t bring himself to get rid of because it had belonged to his grandfather, struck three, he heard a sound like the clicking of high heels. Who could it be at this hour? He stood up from the chair and moved closer to the window, looking down. Outside stood a slender, elegant lady. One hand held her shawl, the other leaned on a walking stick. She looked around. Her hair, loosely tied in a bun, had strands of white fluttering in the light of the streetlamp. There was no sign of a taxi or any other vehicle.
As he wondered what this woman could be doing here at this hour, he recognised her.
It was Jale. Yes, it could be no one else—his childhood love. He hadn’t seen her in half a century. But those delicate wrists, that graceful head, that beautiful, upturned nose—how could he ever forget them, even after a hundred years? The building door opened quietly, and Jale glided in like a swan.

Levon and Jale were the same age. They had moved into the building the same year but had attended different schools. During their youth, they had shared no more than shy glances.
Jale’s father was a doctor, her mother had her take piano lessons, and Levon would drift into daydreams as he listened to the piano melodies wafting down from the floor above. In 1948, Jale had married the son of a wealthy family. When Levon found out, he was devastated, cried for nights, but in the end surrendered to the flow of life.

After marrying, Jale had moved to her husband’s family’s mansion in Bebek. Her parents had relocated to one of the newer, rising neighbourhoods and never returned to the area. She had a son first, then a daughter five years later. Her son didn’t follow his father into business but entered law school. During those years, Jale only saw her husband and son late at night, spending her days in the mansion with the staff and her daughter. She had piano lessons arranged for her daughter and eventually enrolled her in the conservatoire. In 1980, she lost her husband in a tragic accident. Later, she opened a gallery in Etiler and spent twenty years there.

To reassure himself he wasn’t dreaming, Levon rushed to the door, moved swiftly down the stairwell, and descended the stairs quickly. Jale had stopped at the pile of Mr Mehmet’s belongings and was staring into the dusty entrance hall. Her back was to the staircase.
The furniture was lit by the glow of the streetlamp streaming inside. Levon marvelled that she could still look so graceful. He didn’t want to frighten her, so he called out softly, “Jale, is that you?”

Jale startled slightly, but then turned her noble head proudly in the direction of the voice. Then, beaming as though they had seen each other only yesterday, she began: “I took a taxi,” she said. “I needed to come home.” Levon hadn’t seen a taxi—but perhaps she had got out further away and walked. What was she doing here in the middle of the night? Despite the wrinkles, he could still see the young girl in her beautiful face, but the fact that she was returning to this building she hadn’t lived in for fifty or sixty years made him uneasy. “Why have you come? There’s no one here anymore!” he managed to say. Jale’s eyes sparkled and she smiled mischievously. “I ran away, Levon,” she said, laughing. “My daughter called my son over from Paris, saying I had Alzheimer’s. He rushed here to put me into a care home. So I snuck out in the night without telling anyone. Said I was going to my parents’.”

About five years ago, Jale had started disappearing now and then, and often wandered back to the old neighbourhood. But she had always managed to return without being seen.
Once, she’d said she was going to meet a friend, then forgotten and got lost shopping.
During the millennium celebrations in 2000, when the whole family had gathered at the mansion, her disappearances and memory lapses had become noticeable. First, the gallery was handed over, then a carer was hired. But when she began vanishing from home more frequently, her daughter Suna had urgently summoned her brother from Paris. Now, the children were at home trying to figure out what to do about their mother.

Jale looked at Levon: “I may have Alzheimer’s, but I remember you, Levon!” she said.
“Your eyes were always beautiful. They still are—but you’ve aged terribly!” They both laughed. Levon managed to reply, “And you’re still beautiful.” Then, not wanting to wake the neighbours, he put his hand over his mouth and gestured for silence. “Come upstairs,” he said.
“You know your parents aren’t here, don’t you? It’s been sixty years—could they still be alive? I’ve always been here. I’m glad I never left.” Jale lifted her head as though something had suddenly clicked in her mind. “Yes, we lost Mum. We lost Dad when the children were still young.” Then she looked again at Levon. “Come on, take my arm. I don’t know why I thought wearing these heels was a good idea.”

The two old friends linked arms and climbed the stairs together. As they entered the flat, Aznavour’s voice echoed softly from the record player.

 

05- The Man Sitting on the Bench

 

These days, the old Dalhousie train station, now hosting art events, has two benches set against its northern wall. On each bench sits a man—both Black. If you look down the stairs from Notre-Dame Street to Saint-Hubert Street at 12:30 p.m., you’ll surely see these two men. And if they’re not there, you’ll feel their absence. At first, you might not pay much attention, but with time, you begin to observe and realise that these two men share nothing in common except their skin colour.

One of them is just as you might expect at first glance—one of those homeless men who sleep on benches at night. His body is slumped forward with exhaustion, his hair unkempt, his hands constantly moving and rummaging through his belongings, which are scattered across the bench. He is one of those whom Montreal’s politically correct crowd gently refer to as SDF (Sans domicile fixe = without a fixed address).

The other, though from a distance may appear to be a similar dark silhouette, reveals on closer inspection a completely different picture: neatly pressed trousers, a smart jacket, a dark shirt to match, spotless shoes, perfectly trimmed hair, an upright, dignified posture, and a well-kept physique. Clearly, this young man does not sleep on the bench. He always sits with his hands clasped on his knees, one leg stretched forward, the other tucked under the bench, gazing straight ahead in stillness.

Once you notice this difference, the man with the clasped hands, sitting as if burdened by something, begins to occupy your thoughts. What could be troubling him? You may conclude that he’s lost his job but hasn’t been able to bring himself to accept it—so he dresses each morning as if going to work and leaves home. Perhaps it’s such a deep blow that he hasn’t even told his wife. He spends his day sitting on this bench, deep in thought, only to return home in the evening as if coming back from the office—just like in a film.

You begin to obsess over seeing him there at lunchtime. Wondering if he sits there all day, you start to keep watch even from your home. You realise that his presence there isn’t random—it’s rooted in his inner world. Eventually, you notice that he spends only about an hour and a half there each day. You think, perhaps instead of joining his colleagues for lunch, he uses this window of time to think, to weigh his troubles. Perhaps he’s religious and occasionally folds his hands to pray. Or maybe he just closes his eyes to rest.

To one man, the bench is a bed he sleeps on every night, his home. To the other, it is a place of retreat, a spot to gaze into the distance and unload his sorrows. Though they’ve long been aware of each other’s presence, they have never spoken.

Yet if you delve into the well-groomed young man’s mind, you’d learn that his father has been homeless for some time. After living for a year in an old caravan, he has now been missing for a month. Grieving and hoping to find him, the young man has developed a growing curiosity and compassion for those living on the streets. Had his wife agreed last year, he would have offered his father the small workshop annex with a separate entrance. But now, with his father having sold the caravan and vanished, the guilt gnaws at him. He has started greeting the man on the next bench in the hope that he might learn something from him. Still, he hasn’t been able to strike up a conversation. Even when the homeless man doesn’t turn up, the young man never gives up coming to the same spot.

These benches, nestled in the cosmopolitan swirl of Montreal, serve as a sanctuary and space of calm. They are the place to which these two men have been brought by hardship and weariness. In this quiet corner of the city, far from the crowds and noise, by the old station wall and its two benches that sit before a park, life continues to unfold—and these benches continue to bear witness to the lives of these two men.

 

04- Writing a New Story

Hours chased hours, days chased days. It had been exactly one month since Selin had arrived here. Autumn in Canada was beginning to make itself truly felt. Mornings were darker, evenings cooler. Every evening, as the sun turned red on the horizon, she would think that it was already night-time in Zurich, that her son was alone at home, but just as she liked to imagine—sleeping peacefully. From the depths of her heart, she would whisper, “Good night, my darling.” Soon, Charles would be home from work and they would prepare dinner together. In fact, these were the hours when Selin felt most at ease. On the old continent, the sun had long since set, and the night had begun.

When the alarm rang at 6 a.m., still half-asleep, she would reach for the mobile phone on her bedside table, switch off flight mode, and check her messages in case anything urgent had happened overnight.

Still groggy, Charles would stagger to his feet in just his boxer shorts, pull up the blinds and ask, “Do you want coffee, love?” Selin, with her familiar cheeky smile, would always reply, “Yes, darling,” and then their day would begin.

Charles would return to the bedroom carrying two fragrant cups of coffee. He would place one on the bedside table, right where Selin had just set her phone, and as he leaned over to kiss her, he would never fail to say, “Good morning, my love.” Sitting side by side, sipping their coffee, they would talk—about Charles’s work, Selin’s classes, politics, ageing family members, and the journey of life they shared. But most of all, they would talk about their children—now grown—whom they had left behind in two different countries in Europe.

For now, this was their life: calm, peaceful, a life with a rhythm. The children had grown up, but still, leaving them behind to move to another continent was, in itself, an adventure. Selin was very close to her son. She described herself, borrowing an expression from the Far East, as a “tiger mother”. They messaged each other daily. She took interest in his university subjects and would share her thoughts with him. As she sipped her coffee, her mind would drift like a bird flying above the continents. “Leon is probably taking his lunch break now. He’s a bit slow; while the other students are already halfway down the corridor, he’s still packing away his laptop and tablet,” she would imagine.

Charles had two children of his own, but he believed that children should be given freedom, that only in this way could they develop their own identity. On this matter, they were different.

As their conversation deepened, the sky above the city would slowly lighten, the lights would go out one by one, and the day would begin. They planned to stay in this city for no more than two years, then return to the continent. Selin had already started looking for a new house in France or Switzerland. She enjoyed dreaming. Charles joined in her dreams. Nothing could compare to the peace of that first hour spent with morning coffee. Then suddenly they would realise it was nearly seven o’clock, leap out of bed, and dash to the shower together.

For the first time in years, Selin was not working. And it hadn’t been her decision. The company had changed hands, and the new management had made twenty-seven redundancies. This sudden decision initially made her angry—after all the years she had given to the company, being discarded so easily had upset her. But over time, she noticed another feeling growing inside her—a sense of lightness. Perhaps she had needed rest, the chance to learn new things, and to follow Charles to Canada. She was excited that they now had time for each other.

When Charles left for work, she had half an hour before her French class. She spent it tidying up—loading the dishwasher, putting the flat in order—and her mind went back to the day she was made redundant.

She had climbed the stairs, entered the four-digit code, and stepped into the large, open-plan office. Ever since the company had changed owners, she had felt a tightness in her chest each time she passed through that door. One of the young managers, seated near the entrance, was loudly scolding someone on the phone. His disrespectful tone always irritated Selin. She had dropped her things at her desk and gone to the kitchen area in the corner for coffee. As she placed her cup beneath the sparkling Italian espresso machine, a colleague told her, “Apparently twenty-seven people are being let go today.”

Returning to her desk, she had opened the email in question. It came from that same young manager who had annoyed her earlier. Written in management school jargon, the message coldly explained that twenty-seven “redundant headcount” would be dismissed to improve efficiency and reduce costs. She was disgusted by the arrogant tone—it perfectly reflected the character of the company’s new owners.

She had seen her colleagues being led to HR one by one, like prisoners walking to execution. Before she could even think, “Is it my turn?”, Marina appeared silently beside her and invited her to the meeting room. As soon as she left the office, she had burst into tears. On the tram, everyone looked sad to her, as if the whole day was weighed down with sorrow. She had got off and walked along the waterfront under the light drizzle. When she remembered her fiftieth birthday was just a week away, she cried again—“What a terrible birthday present,” she thought—and only then did she feel some relief. The emotions from that day were still fresh, but they no longer hurt her.

She swung her green leather rucksack over her shoulder and glanced in the mirror one more time. Twenty-five years ago, when she came to Zurich for a job interview, the company had even paid for her flight from Stockholm. Life had been full of promise. The interview had been brief. The HR manager had already prepared her contract before she arrived. Her salary would be nearly three times what she earned in Stockholm. What a polite man he had been. Over the past twenty-five years, the job title had changed from “personnel manager” to “head of human resources.” Back then, that kind man had said, “The CEO and I have signed it. All that’s left is your signature. Go home, read it, think about it, and let us know.” She smiled at the memory—she had felt as if she were walking on air.

Those twenty-five years had passed beautifully and quickly. She had advanced in her career, achieved financial success, and built herself a safety net. Yet for some reason, she had never dared to change the story she was living. It was only after being made redundant that she found the courage to rewrite her narrative.

She turned from Saint André Street onto Rue de la Commune. The rain was falling lightly again. This time, Selin was walking with a wide smile on her face. She had left behind her job, her routine, her old life—but she had wholeheartedly embraced her new one. Sometimes, an ending we didn’t write ourselves can be the start of a brand new story.

 

03- Two People, Two Wounds

 

Kaan was sitting in his living room in Istanbul, silent and thoughtful, staring at his computer screen. He repeatedly read and edited the email he had written to his father, although he hadn’t yet summoned the courage to send it. He was striving both to express the emotions he had gathered inside him as clearly as possible, and to avoid any mistaken phrase that his father might twist or exaggerate. The coldness and lack of communication between him and his father Karl had become an unbearable burden. That chill even froze his heart on a warm autumn evening in Istanbul.

Evening had fallen, the sun had set over the sea. His son had run to his cheek for a kiss before bedtime, using his adorable persuasive charm to coax his mother into reading him a bedtime story. As their voices receded down the corridor, Kaan tried to put into words the sadness he felt at knowing his son would grow up never knowing his grandfather.

Twelve years ago, his father and his mother—originally from İzmir—had moved to İzmir for their retirement years. But shortly afterwards, after forty years of marriage, they had gone through a painful separation. His father had rushed back to Canada in haste.

He read the email to his father through from start to finish again. The sadness, anger, and disappointment he had bottled inside weighed heavily on him. He had perhaps begun with a somewhat harsh phrase: “Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am not.” Yet he hoped that if his father read the letter to its conclusion, he might understand.

His father had met his mother while serving as an observer at the American base in İzmir. He had fallen madly in love and they had married quickly. When they were three, seven, and nine, they had moved to Canada, their father’s homeland. Their childhood had been beautiful. They played tennis, and he once dreamt of becoming a famous tennis player like Daniel Nestor. When he got married at thirty-three, his parents celebrated their fortieth wedding anniversary that year—and they were still very happy.

Later, Kaan and his wife had spent time working in Dubai, Singapore, and Zürich. Then, after being offered a good job in Istanbul, they had settled here six years ago. While in Dubai, some sort of indiscretion from his father had occurred, and they divorced hastily. After that scandalous divorce, his father had married another woman in short order—without feeling any need to explain himself, without telling anyone.

From that day on, Karl had removed his three children entirely from his life, returned to Canada, and began living with his new wife in the beautiful home in Westmont where he had spent his youth. His sisters still live in Canada, but they have never spoken to him—having always sided with their mother. Kaan found it hard to understand either party.

Reflecting on his own small family, he wondered what his father had sacrificed. His nephews and son were growing up without ever knowing their grandfather. Unlike his sisters, he hadn’t given up. He had tried many times to reach out to his father and had tried to create opportunities for his son to meet him. They had met a few times. Yet each time, Karl had put distance between himself and his children, yielding to the whims of his new wife. In that email, Kaan was giving him one last chance. “Time passes, people grow old, people die—but you never question yourself,” he had written. These words were both a plea and a warning to his father.

Before sending the email, he took a deep breath. The mild evening breeze of Istanbul drifted through the open window, easing his heart somewhat. He knew every word he had written was true. He had told his father how hurt and wounded he had been over the years—and that he was still ready to forgive him. He paused before pressing send and thought it over. His father might remain silent again, but he felt at peace with having done his part. Finally, he took another deep breath and pressed the send button.

………………………………

Karl was seated in the living room of the house he had bought on the slopes of Mont Royal about thirty years ago when his children first grew up, opening a card-reading tool on his laptop. Autumn had come, days were shortening. His wife was busy in the kitchen preparing lunch, and the deep silence of the home filled him with contrasting sensations of peace and discomfort. At that moment, a new email arrived in his inbox. The sender was his son Kaan, with whom he had completely cut off communication for a year, ignoring calls and messages.

His eyes locked on the screen, his heart began to race. He hesitated, hand poised over the mouse, whether to open it or not. The subject line was simple and direct: “Papa.” Memories flooded his mind—playing tennis with his son on an open court in the rain, getting soaked through, the children running up and down the stairs at home. He hoped this was the apology he had long awaited. With hope in his heart, he clicked open the email. But the subject had deceived him. The email began: “Papa, you can be so cruel, but I am not.” That opening sentence had already angered him. Each time Kaan addressed him like that, it felt like a slap, wounding his paternal pride and pushing him toward silence. He was already irritated. He frowned, offended by the way his son had addressed him. The words Kaan had used to suggest his new wife was ignorant and greedy—and unworthy of their family—had burned every bridge. While rebuilding his life, the harsh words his son had said about his wife were unforgivable.

He took another deep breath and continued reading. “A year has passed, and you are still silent. I have tried to reach you. A year is not that long, but perhaps you have had time to reflect. Because of the whims of the woman you took into your life after my mother, you erased me and my sisters from your life. Maybe you could look at this issue again with fresh eyes.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. His son’s words gnawed at him. He twisted the events in his mind, in every line accusing him—labelling him selfish and distant. “You erased us for a woman’s whims,” his son said. He sighed deeply. He could not accept that he had to focus on this new life. His marriage of many years to his first wife had been happy, but later they drifted apart. Returning to İzmir, where they had spent their happiest decade, he thought everything would return to perfection—but everything collapsed. Then he entered a relationship that brought him happiness again. His new wife was truly supportive, offering peace in his life. His children, however, not only refused to accept it—they blamed him harshly because of the unpleasant events surrounding the divorce.

Karl, thinking that things were going well with Kaan, had again erupted in an impulsive outburst and insulted his own wife during their last meeting. He could never forget the angry words his son had thrown at him. He thought to himself, “Kaan, nothing will be resolved until you apologise to my wife.” But there was no sign of reconciliation from his son—instead, more accusations each time, claiming he had neglected his children. Throughout the email, Kaan reverted to the past, emphasising the weight of his father’s decisions: “You’ve broken my heart so many times—I don’t know if I can ever rebuild it.” That final sentence also pierced Karl’s heart deeply.

He let his fingers hover over the screen, considering whether to write a reply. The response he would pen would surely ignite yet another inescapable dispute. He sat up in his armchair and averted his gaze from the screen. His wife came from the kitchen and began placing plates on the table. For a moment, he looked out of the window. The wind was murmuring against the house walls outside and swaying the leafless trees. He closed his laptop, stood up, and made his way to the kitchen to help his wife.

 

01- This City

 

Discovering a city is like stepping into a new story. I’d like to tell you about this city I’ve only recently begun to explore. At first glance, it may not appear much different from other major cities. Montreal, with its wide boulevards, towering apartment blocks, bustling cafés and streets echoing with various languages at every corner, is a typical metropolis.

My first trip to Montreal dates back a year. At the time, my boyfriend had travelled here several times due to the preliminary work for a factory his company was setting up nearby. Each time, his schedule had been confirmed at the last minute, so I hadn’t been able to join him. But last September, I arranged a schedule that allowed me to work remotely in the mornings and take the afternoons off, and I travelled here with him. That eight-day visit was my first real contact with Montreal. Those days passed like a dream. In the mornings, I’d work until noon, then once it was after 6pm in Zurich, I’d go out, have lunch at a different restaurant each day, visit museums and galleries, and sit in parks sketching. It was such a busy week that we even managed to fit in a classical music concert and a weekend trip to Quebec City. So when we moved here, the city wasn’t entirely unfamiliar to me.

Still, when my boyfriend received a permanent transfer offer, we were hesitant about moving and deliberately made the process more difficult by keeping our conditions high. But in the end, they came back with an irresistible offer: a stunning apartment in our chosen location, a car, insurance, and a very attractive salary. Slowly, we warmed to the idea of moving — like frogs gradually adjusting to cold water heating up. Before we knew it, days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and by March this year, we found ourselves choosing our new flat in Montreal and setting a move-in date.

As someone who has lived in different countries and often describes herself as a global citizen, I’m not sure why I hesitated so much about coming to Montreal. Maybe it was the time difference, maybe the vast ocean separating us from Europe, or perhaps the fear of being far from loved ones. But ultimately, I clung to two narratives to convince myself: one was the need to take a break from my career, the other was my long-standing desire to improve my French, which I hadn’t had much chance to study properly.

And so our Montreal adventure began. As I write these lines, I can see the statue of Mary atop Bonsecours Church from my window — arms open towards the harbour and sailors. The dome of Bonsecours Market gleams like silver in the sunlight. Down below, the streets are alive with movement.

From our home, I walk straight along Notre Dame Street and reach my school in about ten minutes. On the way, I pass in front of the constitutional court building, and when I arrive at Place Jacques-Cartier, the pavement is already crowded with tourists. Some have arrived by massive cruise ships docked at the port; others by coach — by this time of day, they’ve already begun touring the city’s old town and popular sights. As I approach my school, the sounds of construction grow louder and French, English, and sometimes Spanish conversations echo around me. Along the route, cafés, markets, and businesses line the street. In the mornings, bins wait to be collected, traffic jams build up, and seemingly endless roadworks add to the city’s rhythm.

Judges in their white collars and black robes, businesswomen in heels, rush past in their own worlds. Others, however, haven’t severed those subtle ties to their surroundings — they smile back at you, thank you for holding a door, or simply wish you a good day.

There’s much to say about this city, but I’d like to speak first about a reality that has struck me deeply — something I’ve never seen in any other city before: the homeless. But I’m not referring to the ones we might see in Paris or Washington D.C., curled up in a sheltered corner, sleeping. These people often lie right in the middle of the pavement, not even bothering to use their arms as pillows, their shirts rolled up to their backs, lying there unconscious, as if they’ve simply collapsed. When they are awake, especially on certain stretches of Saint Catherine Street, they wander the streets shouting non-stop, delivering what sounds like speeches — but if you listen closely, the words are completely nonsensical. The scenes resemble something out of a science fiction film, like a scene from a futuristic dystopia. They strangely remind me of the Netflix series Hot Skull.

I was so disturbed by it that my boyfriend decided to look into it. Apparently, many of these individuals suffered brain damage (he says they’re “burnt”) due to a drug that was once widely used in the area. Now, they live in their own inner worlds, experiencing reality in a distorted, parallel universe.

Of course, I’ve seen children in Istanbul rummaging through bins, often due to poverty or addiction, but even so, they were still clinging to life, still part of reality. The people here, though, seem like beings from another planet — disconnected, wandering around stripped of the basic qualities of humanity.

In time, I’ll also talk about Montreal’s many beauties. But for now, in these first few days, what’s struck me most deeply are these strange, surreal human images I’ve encountered in this beautiful and wealthy country.