Searching for Lost Frequencies in Enigmatic Yeldeğirmeni “Radyo var mı?” “Ra-dio?” I tried again, my eyes scanning rows of stationery behind the shopkeeper, as I navigated tight floorspace, nudging against a carousel of toys. “Yok.” He shook his head, arms raised. Was his incredulous look a response to my clumsy pronunciation, or the fact that it’s 2020? Either way, I bade him “kolay gelsin,” a Turkish expression of goodwill, hoping his work comes easy. Finding a radio, however, proved otherwise. A strong gust billowed through Karakolhane Street, cracking a potted plant like a half-boiled ostrich egg inches from my feet as silver bells clanged behind me. I looked up, immediately apprehending the apartment suspect. Windows closed, curtains drawn. I mourned the sad apology of the basil’s straggly remains. No surprises, Yeldeğirmeni is named after a windmill. Perched on a hill on the Anatolian side of Istanbul, the neighbourhood is situated within the ancient Phoenician city of Kalkedon, dating back to 7th century BC. Flour mills long gone, the scent of freshly-baked ekmek, poğaça and simit continues to waft out of Yeldeğirmeni’s numerous bakeries today. “İyi misin?” the shopkeeper yelled through the glass door. I signalled thumbs up, as I whispered under my breath, “Korktum.” They say you learn a language best through association. “Korktum” was a word I had learnt weeks ago, but will remember forever. One lulling September afternoon, I was shaken awake by a reverberating force, urgent and ice-rattling as a cocktail in the hands of a bartender. Staring at the oscillating Ikea lamp above, I wondered: Was that an earthquake? My bed resumed its bed-like repose following 30 long seconds. My mind cycled: Change pyjamas? Brush teeth? Not worth risk. Grabbing keys, I tentatively stuck my head out. The coast seemed clear. Three flights of stairs felt non-Euclidean, but eventually, I reached the front door. “Korktum! Korktum! Korktum!” my first-floor neighbour trembled as she grabbed me, her powdery perfume evocative of my grandma. We had never exchanged a single word before. I held her hand as we evacuated the apartment, unsure if I could assuage the visible fear in her eyes. Everyone was frantic, calling loved ones. However, telecommunications were disrupted. Then I noticed neighbours cradling cat carriers, and held back a litany of Turkish profanities. Fink. My housemate’s golden retriever. Still up there. I debated for awhile, before trudging up the same stairs. This time, noticing fractures along its seams. The door opened to Fink pawing expectantly, tail sweeping the floor. Do dogs feel earthquakes? Aren’t they supposed to have powers of premonition? Fink appeared unperturbed, happy to go for a mid-day walk. I felt better with her companionship, our first-floor neighbour more at ease. A nurse hurtled by, calling her daughter’s name as tears streamed down her face. I thought of my mom, an expert geography teacher who had spent years illustrating plate tectonics and volcanic activity using papier mâché models. She had only experienced her first earthquake the year before, during a trip to Indonesia. Fortunately, I was inducted into seismically active Turkey with a relatively minor 5.7-magnitude quake. A minaret had collapsed, but everyone survived, except for the man who had a heart attack. I knew I had to be better prepared, and began learning about brace positions and earthquake bags. “Radyo var mı?” Silence. It’s been months but my tongue still flaps unfamiliar to rolling ‘r’s, assuming a conference of accents—rrraaadio, ready-o, rah-dyoh—transmitting static in an attempt to dial the right frequency. Twelve shops later, a round-bellied man in a dwarfed shop bellows in Turkish “Pardon. Radio’s unavailable now. But,” his tongue elicits a sunflower seed out of its kernel with dexterity, “it will be here, in the future. Come back on Friday.” Maybe I will never find a radio in Yeldeğirmeni. Yet, I trust that I will always find the ubiquitous smell of bread, the powdery perfume of my neighbour, the swaying wag of my housemate’s dog, the cheeky wit of the shopkeepers. Maybe these are all the voices necessary to feel attuned. I tend to the growing basil plant sitting on my balcony, as the Carpenters croon “Yesterday Once More.” Oh, here’s a new word I’ve learnt—korkma, don’t be afraid.