I’ve always had this habit of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or the right place at the right time, depending on how you look at it. I’m still trying to suss that one out.

When I was a reporter in California, for example, I came on board just as the 2000 energy crisis struck. We’d barely managed to get the lights back on when jets slammed into the Twin Towers and the Pentagon. When the smoke from that horror cleared, our nation was at war, and in California, a political circus fired a muscleman-turned-actor, like a clown bursting from a canon, into the governor’s office in Sacramento.

Everywhere, there was a sense of chaos, a breakdown of order. Even back in our neck of the woods, the district attorney was fighting to keep his job.

It was quite an initiation into the life of a reporter: From that point on, it seemed, trouble never ceased to follow me.

These past couple weeks, I’ve witnessed the failed military coup here in Turkey, and the still-unfolding aftermath – mass arrests, detentions, dismissals, and mass political rallies. And this crisis was just the latest in a series of mounting troubling developments: the ongoing civil war in Syria, the resulting arrival of refugees, and the ever-haunting specter of terror attacks.

You may ask: Do I have some kind of congenital condition – a talent for disaster? Is it masochism? Or merely an over-developed sense of drama?

The answer is, yes, on all counts, I’m afraid. I’ve always been a rebel, but that’s beside the point. We’re all suckers for a good story, even if the story doesn’t end well. (No, especially when it doesn’t. Don’t believe that nonsense about happy endings – people love a bloodbath. If you don’t believe me, try watching an episode of “Game of Thrones.”)

So with this latest crisis in Turkey, we can take solace in the fact that, once again, we’re in position to witness a real barn-burner (where the farm may actually get burned). Not that any of this is an excuse to be self-involved; we should all look out for our skins, but remember the bigger picture, I suppose.

Anyway, for some strange reason I got to thinking of yet another disaster I happened to be on hand to witness. This was back in Prague, some years ago. Perhaps the memory of this incident, wrapped in its peculiarly Czech form of humor, can offer some much-needed perspective.

In the spring of 2007, I was working for a language school in the center of the city, not far from Wenceslas Square. Every morning I would get off the metro and walk right past the national museum, and the statue of General Zizkov on my way to work. It was a good time to be in Europe, and to be in Prague. By then it had been nearly two decades since the Velvet Revolution brought down a half century of communism, and the Czechs had made a fairly graceful transition from a former Eastern bloc country to a stable, EU member state. I even found freelance work at a weekly that featured glowing reports on the thriving Prague business sector.

Around this time, the Czech government was preparing for its turn at the EU presidency. The member states all passed the presidency around like a musical hat every six months. All that mattered to me was that it meant work. Our school had secured a valuable contract with the government, and I found myself at the Office of the Government several days a week.

The main government office is a lovely building right on the Vltava River, with a panoramic view of the Golden City. My task was to help the government employees – those working for EU affairs, mainly – to improve their English well enough to pass a basic proficiency exam. Most of the students, who were lawyers, bureaucrats, even high-ranking officials, already possessed a fairly high level of English, so the work wasn’t really that difficult.

One of my students reported directly to the prime minister himself. This particular individual, who was highly educated, was usually too busy for the lessons. Instead, he passed me on to his secretary. “She needs to improve her English,” he said, with his offhand, casual authority. Then, he’d return to the stack of correspondence that had accumulated on his desk while he’d been away on state business.

The secretary and I, who became very good friends, would usually just gossip for a half hour or so, then she’d happily sign the attendance form (I needed that to get paid), and send me off to enjoy the afternoon sunshine and a few pints at nearby Letna Park.

The same could be said of Tomas, a lawyer in the EU affairs department. Tomas was about thirty then, and he even invited me to his wedding. Tomas had spent some time in America, and his English was excellent. We passed the time following the elections (this was the year of Obama), and chatting about politics. Tomas was writing a report, which tied in with the coming Czech-EU presidency. The report, entitled, “A Return To Europe,” highlighted the EU presidency as the centerpiece in the Czech revival. After decades of being aligned with the former Soviet Union, followed by the fall of communism and the years of transition, this presidency signaled for the Czechs a successful reunion with a more Eurocentric way of life.

“It’s really exciting!” Tomas enthused, his face glowing, as he and his colleagues prepared for the presidency. The Czechs, history’s doormats, would finally get a chance to lead Europe for a change, even to shape history. They were doing meaningful, important work.

“It is exciting,” I agreed. I felt happy for my Czech friends, and shared their optimism.

When the Czechs officially took the presidency the following January, initially they did pretty well. This was the winter when the Russians were threatening to cut off gas supplies to Europe over a price dispute with Ukraine. Nobody liked idea of this threat, considering it was winter and winters, especially in Prague, are bitterly cold. The Czechs, led by the prime minister, went over to Moscow and managed to secure a compromise with Putin that kept the gas flowing.

I was impressed by this deal, which was quite a feather in the Czechs’ cap. Not bad, I thought. My students were all really busy, zipping off correspondence, hopping on daily jets to Brussels, and buzzing with their sudden importance. They had no time for English lessons.

And then it all came crashing down.

Not two months into the presidency, the leader of the Czech’s opposition party – who was most likely jealous of all the attention his counterpart was getting – called for a “no-confidence” vote in Parliament. Shockingly, unbelievably, the measure passed. All of a sudden, there were the Czechs – the supposed leaders of the New Europe – and back home, they had no official government.

My students were all gutted. After all those months of preparation, expectation, it was like the rug was pulled out beneath them.

“How could this have happened?” I asked Tomas incredulously.

“It’s like in hockey,” he said, with a gloomy, resigned shrug. “You know? In hockey, when the losing team fires off a lucky shot that goes in the net at the last second? It was like that. The opposition fired a lucky shot – and it went in.”

“Lucky for them, unlucky for you,” I commiserated.

After that, the Czech-EU presidency limped along, humiliated, until the term finally came to an end in June, and the torch was passed to the next EU member state.

Czechs, fortunately or no, are accustomed to disappointment. Hence, the Czech humor, which gives us such expressions as, “Every Czech has golden hands – two left golden hands.”

“Welcome to the New Europe, and to the same old Czechs,” echoed sentiment in the streets, the pubs, and in the press.

In the days and weeks to come, a footnote occurred that would have amused the great Czech comic writer Jaroslav Hasek .

There were some demonstrations against the opposition leader, who led the no-confidence vote. At one of these demonstrations, some protesters threw eggs at the opposition leader.

The opposition leader, trying to appear unfazed, taunted the protesters back. “You missed me!” he shouted. “Your aim is pathetic!”

In response, one of the protesters picked up a carton of eggs, approached the podium, and quietly set the carton of eggs down at the opposition leader’s feet.

For a moment, the opposition leader appeared dumbfounded at this gesture. Then, realizing the joke, he angrily kicked the carton of eggs off the podium. Some of the eggs broke, and the yoke oozed all over the ground. It seemed a perfect symbol. The Czechs, having begun their European endeavor with such high hopes, had ended up with eggs not just on their faces, but all over the ground as well.

I wonder why I suddenly recall this story, in light of the recent events here in Turkey.

Maybe, as I said, it fits in with my history of ending up in chaotic, strange situations. Or perhaps the story is attempting to remind me of the importance of keeping a sense of humor – and a carton of eggs perhaps – nearby.

Anyway, if it is true that crises also lead to opportunities, then what opportunities have they presented? From California, to Prague, and now Istanbul, I suppose they have given me the rare chance to have a front row seat. In that case, there’s no sense in running away, as some friends and readers have urged. Come back to America, they say, or Get Out Of There!

We’ll see what happens. I guess, it’s true: I’ve always been a sucker for a good story. Especially when it involves raw eggs being thrown.

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher living in Istanbul. His latest collection, “Living With Terror,” can be found at Lulu.com.