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The Bosphorus Bridge was shut down, guarded by soldiers. Military jets were reported flying over Ankara.

My wife Ozge noticed these out-of-the-blue, strange developments as we were getting ready for bed Friday night.

“What’s going on?” I asked, thinking maybe it was some routine security precaution following the Nice terror attacks the day before. Like most people, we were still reeling from that horror. Hell, we were still reeling from the attacks at Ataturk Airport the week before that.

“No it’s not that,” my wife said, with a puzzled expression. “I think it might be a military coup.”

Come on – a military coup, on a Friday night? No way. I mean, I’ve lived in Turkey long enough to know the country has had its history of coups – the big one in 1980, most notably, and others in the Nineties. But that was a long time ago.

A military coup – seriously?

It was after ten, and my wife had to work in the morning. Instead, we found ourselves getting out of bed and going to our laptops. The social media was all down – well, Facebook worked long enough for me to reassure anxious family back home that we were safe.

We turned on the news. Ozge’s mother called as well. The reports were scattered, conflicting, vague. There were reports of soldiers detaining police,of the bridges shut down, of jets flying over Ankara. Then we heard the jets over Istanbul as well.

Was a military coup happening?

We still couldn’t be sure. News reports initially suggested it was small faction of the military. Then, we got reports that the military had taken over one of the major TV stations, and forced the anchorman to read an announcement.

Even more surreal, on TRT, the anchorwoman managed to get a hold of President Recep Tayyip Erdogan via her mobile. She actually held up the mobile, so that we could see the president of the nation, looking like he was holed up in a bunker somewhere, urging citizens to stand with him, to decry this “illegal action.”

It was really surreal, as I said. Can you imagine your president almost looking like he was in hiding, almost whispering into a phone?

We stayed up – not sure if my wife would be able to go to work in the morning now. By 1 a.m., the coup appeared to be official, with the military announcing a curfew. Citizens were not allowed to go outside, pending further notice. The BBC and CNN also were reporting there had been a coup.

On Turkish TV, Erdogan appeared in public, looking more composed, albeit a bit shaken. That was new – he always projects this image of self-assuredness. He spoke to reporters, reiterating his message that the military’s action was illegal, and calling on the nation to denounce the coup.

My wife just then had a very practical suggestion: “Let’s go and see if any shops are still open,” she said.

Good idea: You didn’t know how long this craziness would last, or where it was all going.

Only one market was still open on our street. Already a long line had formed outside, and people were hastily snapping up food and water. Thankfully, we had just done our big monthly shopping trip a few days before, and were stocked up on food. For now, we just wanted to make sure we had enough cigarettes.

As we waited in line, we could hear people in front of us. They weren’t even talking about the coup, and instead were chatting of other things. “Guess they’re used to coups in Turkey,” I joked.

“I still can’t believe this is happening,” Ozge said. “I refuse to believe it.”

We still wondered if she would have to go to work in the morning, if there were restrictions on travel. Already we’d heard that the main highway down the street from our neighborhood had been ordered closed, and I wondered if the metro and ferries would also be closed.

We got our cigs, and started home. Down the street, groups of youths, men, were shouting something in unison.

“They’re shouting support for the president,” my wife said, nervously. We’re no strangers to unrest in Turkey, but were in no mood now to run into charged up hooligans looking to get their load on, especially with me as a foreigner.

“Come on,” she urged. Holding hands, we ran a bit, crossing the street to our apartment complex. It was a bit nerve-racking, for sure. You felt suddenly like Michael Corleone in The Godfather, Part 2, when he’s in Cuba and all of a sudden the streets are filled with pro-Castro revolutionaries. The ground under you suddenly seems to be spinning.

Back upstairs at the apartment, we checked the news. The former president was talking with reporters, more or less repeating the same message that Erdogan had given earlier, how the military coup was illegal and citizens needed to show their support for the government.

Facebook was working again, and there were lots of messages from concerned friends in America. “What is this I hear?” my former Times-Standard editor messaged. “The president (of Turkey) claims the coup failed and the military claims it didn’t fail.”

We were still trying to figure that out ourselves. By then, it was nearly 2 a.m. You wanted to go to bed, but wanted to stay up too, afraid you’d miss something.

Meanwhile, the military appeared to be clamping down everywhere in the city, at least the key points. Our neighborhood was still quiet as always. Still, you could almost feel the walls closing in. You wondered how long this would go on, this bizarre theater. That’s what it felt like: You kept waiting for some announcement, like: From now on, all citizens will wear their underwear on the outside, and you would just take it in stride, go to the toilet and make the awkward adjustment.

My wife got a message from her work. She had to go in, after all. Damn.

“Why can’t you just call in and say you can’t come?” I protested. “I mean, you’ve got a good excuse!” For the life of me, I couldn’t imagine the palace where she works would actually be open. How many tourists are going to want to take a tour when the country is in the middle of an apparent military coup?

My wife just sighed, and continued watching the news. That’s about all you can do really. This is my first military coup, and I have a lot to learn, evidently.

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and journalist living in Istanbul.