In California, you have Santa Ana winds. In this part of the world, we have “lodos”: strong, potentially destructive winds that occur when the currents shift in the Aegean Sea. This past week the snow disappeared, and in its place the lodos came.

With the return of the lodos, and the unseasonably warm weather, came the almost expected chaos. At least one hundred flights were canceled, and heavy waves pounded the Bosphorus.

For my wife, Özge, this meant that she was going to be late for work at Dolmabahçe Palace. She’d left the flat at her usual time, a little after eight, and got the bus to Üsküdar to get the ferry to the European side, only to find the ferry boats were canceled.

She got the metro to Sultanahmet, and took the tram to Besiktaş, where the palace is located.

No sooner had she started work, when suddenly she heard what she later told me sounded like thunder.

“I thought, ‘Is there a storm coming?’ But how could there be? It was sunny outside.”

A few minutes later, one of her colleagues, who’d been checking his phone, told her the news. There’d been a terrible tragedy. Over at Sultanhmet, near the Egyptian obelisk, a suicide bomber had struck. According to the news, at least 10 people were killed, and another dozen or so injured. The casualties were reported to be tourists, mostly German.

“It was the first time I ever really felt afraid,” Özge said. “I mean, I was right there – just twenty minutes before, when I was getting off the metro to get the tram. Right there! “

Another twenty minutes, and my wife might well have been one of the casualties. And it’s not the first time.

Late last year, a terrorist attack occurred just outside her workplace at Dolmabahçe, when gunmen attacked the security gate. Fortunately no one was killed in that foiled attack, and my wife had by chance gone to a doctor’s appointment that morning.

Now, this second close brush with terror left her shaken. It seemed as if a dark cloud, in the shape of a bomb, was following her every move.

###

Just last week, we returned from America, where we visited New York and my family in Pittsburgh for the holidays.

While we were home, my parents told us about an incident that occurred last year at the high school just up the road from their house outside Pittsburgh. My youngest brother teaches history at the school. One morning, one of the students came to school with a knife and began stabbing his fellow students, as well as teachers. Fortunately no one was killed, but many were injured. My brother actually worked in the nurse’s station and helped attend to the wounded.

My parents had expressed their concern about Özge and I living in Turkey, with the ongoing civil war in Syria as well as the ISIL threat. But having told us that story, they were somewhat reflective.

“I guess it goes to show,” my mother said, “that such terrible things can happen anywhere at any time … even here … “

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That evening, after my wife told me about her close call, I tried to offer support and comfort – what can you say? I reminded my wife about the stabbings in Pittsburgh.

“Yes, but you can’t really compare them,” my wife said. “I mean, that kid at the high school was one teenager with mental problems. Here, we are talking about a terror organization (the attack at Sultanahmet was reportedly linked to IS). I mean, you think about the attack at my work last year … most people don’t attack a place like Dolmabahce because the security is too tight. They would be afraid of getting arrested. But these people – IS – they don’t care if they get arrested. They are ready to die!”

That night we settled into bed. Outside it began to rain. When she left for work the next morning, the lodos had died down, gone away, or whatever happens to all violent things. As she went out the door, it was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Be careful,” but the last time I said that, she’d just looked at me and laughed. “Careful – what does that mean?” she’d said.

These days, we just settle for, “Have a good day!”

###

Istanbul is a city that was built for chaos, disorder … upheaval has marked its entire history. I suppose we should be well-built, accustomed ourselves by now. After all, we all know that the lodos always return this time of year, or sometime thereabouts.

“Yeah, I heard the sound of the bomb, too,” said an English colleague. He seemed to have his countrymen’s characteristic stiff upper lip.

“I was over near the Grand Bazaar,” he went on. “To be honest, it just sounded to me like another noise, a big sound. Y’know, we tend to get a lot of that in Istanbul.”

###

On the metro, you find yourself scanning around the crowded car, scrutinizing people … that guy standing nearby seems a bit dodgy; he seems to regard you the same way. At one stop, a couple of children, a boy and girl no more than 6 or 7 years old, get on. Why aren’t these kids in school? The girl is barefoot — in January.

Later on, in a taxi, the driver asks where I’m from.

“America?” he asks, with polite interest. “Do you live here? Really? And what do you think of Turkey?”

“Well, these days, it’s a bit –” I give the so-so hand gesture. We talk about bombing at Sultanahmet, as the driver navigates the busy street. Surprisingly, the driver suddenly to English.

“It can happen anywhere,” he says. “Anywhere, anytime.”

We rounded the coastal road, taking in the view of the Marmara Sea, which was calm.

“Lodos biti,” I said. “The lodos are gone.”

“Yes,” the driver said. “But they say snow is on the way.”

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and journalist living in Istanbul. His books, including the recently published, “City Scherzos: New Istanbul Stories,” can be found at Lulu.com.