I was recently invited to speak at an Expat Spotlight forum, held in an old brewery on the city’s European side.

The brewery, destroyed by a fire years ago, has been redeveloped into a kind of multi-cultural meet point. The stone exterial shell of the old brewery remains, but passing through the gates you enter a transformed space: Bars and cafes, patios, stages for performances, as well as the Bomontiada, a community center where the forum was held.

I’ve been writing for Yabangee, the online expat magazine that organized the event, for about three years. Creator and editor Tarik Yassien is a 29-year-old Turk who actually grew up in North Carolina. Like a lot of expats, Tarik relies on a few private English lessons to get by (and pay for his room in the fashionable Cihangir neighborhood). The rest of the time he spends keeping Yabangee up to date with new posts from locally based expat writers.

Tarik and I have collaborated for years without ever having met face to face.

“Great to finally put a face to a name,” I said, when Tarik arrived.

“Yeah,” Tarik said. “Come on up, I’ll show you around.”

Inside, it was like walking into a Northern California start-up. You had this wide open office space, with mostly twenty-somethings hot-desking, most of them at work on their lap tops, while others were lounging on pillows in the nearby break area. Still others were busy using 3-D printers.

“So this is where I come and work,” Tarik said. He opened a refrigerator in the cozy break area. “Coffee – or beer?”

“Beer sounds good. Who are all these people? Interns? Students?”

“No, they are professionals. They all work. And they are also members of Atölye.” Tarik drew my attention to a bulletin board with photos of all the members. Most of the people are designers, architects, illustrators, writers –a sanctuary and platform for budding creatives.

Atölye is a community-based incubator for new ideas, and has its offices in the Bomontiada (Where does the financing come from, you ask? Good question. I got the sense that it’s something like a non-profit).

Around seven o’clock it was time to start the event. There were about fifty people or so, maybe more, enough to fill the room at any rate. Several people I knew were there, including an old colleague from the school who occasionally contributes to Yabangee. The audience was a mix of expats – mostly British and American, but others as well, including two young Syrian architects, and a good number of Turks as well.

The other speakers all had impressive credentials. One guy has written for Culinary Backstreets and Al-Jazeera English; a woman from San Francisco (hey!) is an environmental reporter whose work has been published in The Atlantic, The BBC and Time Out Istanbul. Two other guys, Englishmen, are the co-publishers of The Bosphorus Review of Books. Yet another Englishman is a frequent contributer to the Hurriyet Daily News, Turkey’s leading newspaper.

Now I was nervous. With all these great people on tap, why had Tarik invited me?

Plus, I’ve never given a speech before – or at least, certainly not about “writing.”

My wife Özge offered a curious suggestion.

“You know all those comments you get when you write for Lost Coast Outpost?” she said. “Why not print out some of the best and worst of those comments? It might be interesting for the audience to see how your stories are viewed outside of Turkey.”

Hmm … I tried to imagine giving the audience a rendition of the Thunderdome’s Greatest Hits. I’d probably be branded an “undesirable” and never invited back.

“Why don’t you just tell a couple of funny stories,” suggested an English colleague, who was planning to go to the event.

The minute someone says, “Tell a funny story,” your mind goes blank. You can’t recall a single humorous thing happening to you ever. Maybe I could steal the Woody Allen line from “Bananas,” where he opens his speech with, “This reminds me of the farmer who had incestuous relations with both of his daughters simultaneously.”

So I prepared something, a speech of sorts, and as a Plan B brought along a copy of my latest book, “Living With Terror,” thinking I could always read a couple of passages if nothing else.

Now, minutes away from the start of the forum, with the room filled with all these people, drinking the free wine and all chatting familiarly with one another about various projects and such, I felt like a fish out of water. On top of that, my wife Özge had been unable to come. She was stuck working extra days at the palace – it would have been unfair to drag her along when she could use the evening to rest. Still, I missed her support.

“Alright, I think we can get started,” said the master of ceremonies, Katrinka Nadworthy. She was a locally based writer. She introduced the first speaker, Paul Osterlund , the guy who’s written for Culinary Backstreets, Al-Jazeera English, et al.

Paul set a nice tone. He didn’t give a speech. He just talked, about his stories, about the challenges of pitching to foreign-desk editors, tips on refining said pitches, and about how Istanbul influences his work.

I was next. I liked the way Paul had just talked, instead of reading, so as I went up to the center stage, I abandoned the speech, along with any thoughts of reading my work – we weren’t at a Spoken Word, after all.

“Well, I feel like I’m somewhere between a writer’s conference, a poetry reading and an A/A meeting,” I opened.

Big laugh. Scanning the crowd, you see those lights of sympathy in people’s eyes, the smiles. They’re on your side, and that’s big.

“I planned a whole speech for this –” I began.

“Let’s hear it!”

“Speech! Speech!”

“No,” I said. “You’re nice people. I couldn’t do that to you.”

We were only supposed to speak for fifteen minutes, and if there’s anything I can do that long, it’s talk … Mostly I continued the thread that the first speaker, Paul, had started. I talked about writing for Lost Coast Outpost, as well as Yabangee, and the books I’d written.

“—How do you justify not getting paid?” asked a young woman in the first row. She was a keen listener, and was armed with a pen and notepad.

“Well, I don’t justify it,” I responded. “I guess my advice would be to keep a second job. But writing is like eating, or breathing. You do it because you have to.”

Other questions followed. Did I feel there were any limitations as a writer in Istanbul? (“Well, not really – except that most of the best journalist here are in prison, or else have left the country.” What was my best work? “This one,” I said, holding up the copy of “Living With Terror” (come on – you have to plug your stuff at some point).

It ended, finally. Applause.

Relieved, I went back to my seat and listened to the rest of the speakers. It was a good event, and the others all had interesting things to say. It was great to learn from Luke Frostick and Thomas Parker, for example, that The Bosphorus Review of Books (it’s fairly new) publishes fiction – a possible future online avenue for some of my stories. Jennifer Hattam, the environmental writer from the Bay area, spoke of the challenges of reporting in Turkey (“Environmental laws here generally seem to be – how shall I say it? – negotiable.” )

The last speaker, William Armstrong, talked about his project Turkey Book Talks, a podcast in which he reviews newly published books. Podcasts – not a bad idea. And he uses one of those crowd-sourcing websites to generate donations.

With everyone getting up, I went over to the wine table. Tarik was bringing reinforcements, whisking away the empty bottles. We talked for a minute about other upcoming events, as well as ongoing issues with Yabangee.

Later, I was a little drunk, disoriented – I don’t get over to Şişli often. Does anyone know how to get to the metro from here, I asked?

The two Syrian architects were leaving.

“We’ll show you,” they said.

Walking together through the dark streets, we talked of the war in Syria, of the refugee crisis, as well as their adjustment to life in a new country.

“I don’t get over to this (the European) side often,” I said. “Every time I do, I feel like a tourist.”

“Yes, that is the amazing thing about Istanbul,” one of them said. “It is a crossroads of cultures.”

“Indeed, it is. Well, see you around.” We were at the metro station.

“Yes, see you.”

I got the metro to the Marmaray, the train that runs beneath the Bosphorus and takes you back to the Asian side.

On the way, I had time to reflect.

When I lived in Prague, I used to occasionally go to poetry readings hosted by other expats, and I also of course frequented many of the watering holes where expats can usually be found. At some point, I figured I was better off avoiding them – expats, I mean. You have to find your own way, and I don’t believe you can ever really adjust to living in a foreign country if you’re always hanging out with other countrymen. But sometimes it is good to connect with others, those who are not only expats, but writers as well.

Today’s expats are not that far removed way from your Lost Generation expats sipping aperitifs at the Café Select in Montparnasse. We do have a fondness for drink (oh, boy!), but one of the things that was impressed upon me is the extent of which today’s expats have globalized – from Prague to Istanbul, to Shanghai, Beijing and beyond.

What’s different about today’s expats is how they are using the new media and other technologies to not only connect with each other, but also to find new ways to engage audiences. Like expats of old, some have left our home countries for political or artistic reasons, but many others – especially millennials – have done so purely because they have grown up in a globalized environment. They already know that with the wonders of a lap top, an Internet connection, and a bit of savvy, you can do your work from anywhere in the world.

Can you imagine a young Hemingway sitting in a café in Montparnasse, self-publishing “The Sun Also Rises” in audio or e-book format, then going on a podcast to discuss it? That’s probably what he would be doing if he were around today.

Of course, old Hem probably wouldn’t be in Paris (who goes to Paris to write anymore? Nah, he’d probably be here in Istanbul, or somewhere further East, I’m guessing).

Anyway, I came away with at least two or three new ideas that I hope to try in the near future.

That’s the important thing – for now.

When I got home, Özge was waiting up with a late-night snack.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“Not bad actually,” I said. “Not bad at all. I just wish you could have come.”

“No,” she said. “You need to get out sometimes and do things on your own.”

As always it seems, my wife is right.

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