The town was located on a cape on the south Mediterranean coast at the foot of the Taurus Mountains. From the beach, you looked out at a broad, flat line of limitless sea, over which the clouds of Cyprus could be discerned. The mountains, with ridges like eagle talons, stretched down to the sea. In the gently swaying trees, pomegranates, dates, oranges and Russian olives grew within a stone’s throw of the beach.

It was the end of the summer season, but the airport in Istanbul had been very crowded with many people finally getting their holidays – thousands forced to wait until the crackdown over the July coup attempt had somewhat died down.

In the town little was changed. It was on a somewhat isolated stretch of the Turquoise Coast, hours away from Antalya, Bodrum and the other hot spots, and most foreigners did not know about it. The town, like many others in the region, was home to its share of antiquity. During Roman times it was a trading and military post, a link between North Africa and the Antatolian route to Constantinople. The remants of the Roman post were still there – baths, a theater, and a cemetary – at one edge of town; at the other, like a historical bookend, stood a castle with high walls overlooking the sea .

They usually swam very early in the morning, went back to the house for breakfast, then read and slept in the afternoons when it was too hot to go outside. Later, they returned to the beach and swam until sunset. Then back at the house, her mother would prepare a big meal and they would all sit out on the balcony and eat and talk. They were usually in bed fairly early, for it was best to be up in the morning to catch the calm sea before the winds set in.

Most of the locals followed the same routine. After the bustle and scramble of Istanbul, they both basked in the change. Each day had a sort of classical structure, reflected the husband, a three-act play, with the two swims taking on the aspects of ritual, and the breakfast and evening meal a sacrifice to the gods of indolence and pleasure.

That evening after dinner – her mother had prepared köfte, spiced meatballs, with smoked aubergines, tomatoes and peppers, and a bottle of rose – the couple went out for a walk. They were both stuffed and feeling that drowsy boredom that comes from too much eating and lying around.

“I don’t think I am going to eat for a week when we get back,” the wife said. She stretched as they walked. In the fading sunlight, her skin looked dark and smooth. They both had a healthy tone, and enjoyed walking together, still dressed in their swimsuits and wearing sandals. The streets of the town were virtually empty.

“You can actually cross the street without stopping and looking first!”

“Yes, and it’s so quiet! Listen! Not a sound!”

They enjoyed saying these kinds of banalities to each other as a way of reminding themselves that they were on holiday.

At the airport in Istanbul, there were heavy armored vehicles at the entrance, soldiers carrying machine guns. It was all necessary, they understood. The country was at war, had been – within and without – for some time now, all summer long. In the evenings after dinner they watched the advances of the Turkish army near the Firat River, reportedly driving back the IS-held lines. Then there were reports on the Kurds, the pro- and anti-Assad forces, all of it a confusing swirl of colorblind graphics on the TV set, the picture changing every day. Then there were the daily reports about the ongoing coup attempt investigation, which consisted largely of the efforts to have Gulen extradited from the U.S., and the reports of more people dismissed from their government posts.

Now they, the husband and wife, walked together the length of the coastal road. The husband watched his wife walking beside him, the way her shoulder dipped slightly with each stride the way his did, and he liked that they walked the same, and the way she reached out her hand to be held sometimes.

They passed the local military base. Nothing seemed to have changed there either, except more sandbags had been hoisted in front of the entrance. “I guess it’s unlikely anybody would ever invade here,” the husband mused to himself. “It’s too far out of the way.”

At the end of the coastal road, they crossed over to a strip that ran along the beach. Here there were 1950s-style neon cafes, video game arcades, trampolines for children, and plenty of bars for the adults. Here along the strip there was music, and some people were out. Young people walked up and down the street, in twos and threes, and they all looked very attactive and sun-kissed, as did most people in the region.

They decided on one of the bright neon cafes that had tables outside on the beach. Here they could still listen to the music at the cafe across the street. A live band, with a violin, flute and sez were playing “If I Were A Rich Man,” from Fiddler on the Roof, with the violin carrying the strident melody all the way out to the dark beach.

A garcon brought them two bottles of Tuborg, and they sat looking out at the dark sea. A covered woman was fishing, and every now and then she would bring the line in and cast it out again.

After a while, their eyes adjusted, and they could make out the distant horizon, vaguely, beneath the opaque sky, and the stars shining overhead.

“When was the last time we saw the stars?” the husband remarked. “God, in Istanbul you never even think of looking up to see the stars.” He wondered which one was the North Star, but gave up after a short survey. Across the street, the musicians were playing the wedding song from The Godfather.

Later, they paid the bill and decided to follow the beach back to their neighborhood rather than walk along the roads. Most of the beach here, running beside the town, was sandy. They passed a long pier, and continued on, listening to the hushed sound of the surf.

Presently they arrived at their beach. The bar was still open, though most of the tables were empty. The husband bought two more bottles of beer, and took them down to where the wife had put two chairs facing the sea. It was nearly ten o’clock, and most people in the sleepy town were already back in their apartments. You could see people sittıng out on their balconies, having Turkish coffee and baklavı.

The husband and wife drank and enjoyed looking out at the sea, visible from the light coming from the bar. Suddenly from the dark, a man materialized. He was stooped, bearded, and accompanied by a woman and a child. They were silent, ghostly – indeed, the husband was startled when he first saw them.

“They are Syrians, I think,” the wife said. “But I can’t be sure.”

“They look like some of the ones we’ve seen in Istanbul,” the husband concurred.

The family continued walking, almost tip-toeing it seemed, over the sand. They were right next to the waterline, and avoided looking in the direction of the bar or the couple. It seemed to the husband that perhaps the family was afraid of being seen. It reminded him of something similar that happened many, many years ago, when he lived in San Diego. Back then, he was doing precisely the same as he was now – sitting on a beach and having beers – when a family of Mexicans passed along the beach. The beach was so close to the Mexican border that you could hear the buzz of patrol helicopters at night. That long ago night, the Mexican family had seen him watching them and had frozen in fear. But he had done nothing except raise his beer bottle in a kind of harmless way, and they had warily – and very wearily — continued on their journey.

He told that story to his wife.

“There used to be some Syrian refugees here,” his wife said. “They found work at the banana farms, apparently. But then one day, some of the town people came and put them all on a bus and drove them over to Mersin and dropped them off. That was what happened here.”

“I guess they were trying to send a message,” the husband offered.

“Oh, they sent it alright,” the wife said.

“Well, maybe these people weren’t Syrians,” the husband said. “What do we know?” It was dark out, he reasoned, and who were they to make any determinations or judgements? Who was anybody?

They looked down the beach again. The family had already disapppeared in the dark.

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