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• ‘Where the Heart Lies’: A Film Student and Friend of Hunter Lewis Will be Shooting a Movie in Humboldt About the Tragic and Touching Story of a Treasure Hunt Gone Wrong

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Press release from the makers of “Where the Heart Lies”:

This Wednesday, May 29th, the Humboldt community is invited to a special screening at the Minor Theatre to honor the life and legacy of Hunter Lewis through the short film Where the Heart Lies directed by Brianna Chapman. Get your tickets at www.minortheatre.com before they sell out. All proceeds go towards submitting the film to festivals.

Hunter, a 21-year-old from Humboldt County, was known for his boundless energy and adventurous spirit. He meticulously planned an elaborate treasure hunt for his friends and family, reflecting his love for challenges and the outdoors. Tragically, Hunter went missing during a solo canoe trip to hide the final treasure, just off Trinidad State Beach, a place he cherished since childhood.

Brianna dedicated her Chapman University senior thesis project to sharing Hunter’s legacy. The two years of preparation for this ambitious travel shoot led up to just one week of filming in Humboldt, which Brianna described as “magical.” “The connection, love, and community forged during production exceeded everything I dreamed of. The cast, crew, and greater community united with Hunter’s spirit and created something beautiful.” Her co-executive producer and director of photography, David Murillo Galiano, expressed that “as a filmmaker, you hope to one day be a part of a project like this, where you can put your heart and soul into something you know people care deeply about, and I hope audiences feel the love and care we all put into this film.”

Co-executive producers David Murillo Galiano & Brianna Chapman on set at Moonstone Beach

The film was shot over six days in March 2024, with a crew of Humboldt locals as well as several key members from Southern California. The outdoor filming locations included Trinidad State Beach, Moonstone, and the Arcata Community Forest, which immersed the crew in Humboldt’s beautiful landscape and imparted a sense of adventure akin to Hunter’s real life treasure hunt. From hanging a camera 25 feet in the air for a rock climbing scene, to lighting a redwood forest at night, the crew was pushed out of their comfort zone to film in conditions unlike traditional Hollywood soundstages.

Sean Lindsey, the 1st AC and a close friend of Hunter’s, reflected that “it was a challenge for everyone to shoot this film on unforgiving outdoor terrain. We had so much necessary gear to haul over long distances to our shooting locations. We worked tirelessly, but passionately, ‘cause we were all doing this to honor Hunter. It was a labor of love. No challenge could overcome the drive within ourselves to make this film.”

Two of the shooting days were spent at Hunter’s childhood home, graciously offered by Hunter’s father Corey, who supported the project from its inception. “As Hunter’s father I could feel the love all the cast and crew have for my son and his story with all the pieces of my broken heart. It was a powerfully healing process.”

The cast and crew were bonded by this powerful love. Finn Mackimmie, the actor portraying Hunter, never got to meet him in person, but says he “got to know him through the memories and words of his closest people.” He said: “The amount of love felt for Hunter by the cast and crew was so palpable and his spirit was undeniably felt by everybody. He touched and transformed each and everyone of us and I hope this film does the same for anyone who watches it.”

Corey Lewis, Hunter’s father, on set with Alexandra Boulas, the actress portraying Hunter’s girlfriend Kinsley Rolph

The screening this Wednesday will be an emotional homecoming, bringing together friends, family, and community members to honor Hunter’s memory. Join us to celebrate the life and legacy of Hunter Lewis, a true adventurer whose spirit will forever be a part of Humboldt County.

Hunter’s father Corey said: “Many of us in Humboldt County have lost loved ones to the ocean and rivers that we love. This film and cast and crew shares our grief and our inspiration to live large like Hunter in the most beautiful way. I hope it will connect you to your lost loved ones.”

Note: The film will screen at 5:30 p.m., 6:30 p.m. and 7:30 p.m. Wednesday. Check The Minor’s website for showtimes and to buy tickets.

Democratic Assemblymember Jacqui Irwin, a former tech insider, is taking on the industry with a far-reaching bill that would require artificial intelligence developers to disclose what data they use to “train” their systems.

“Consumer confidence in AI systems has not grown at the same rapid pace as industry adoption,” Irwin said at a hearing last month. “Many consumers have valid questions about how these AI systems and services are created.”

The concern from Irwin about AI is notable since she may be the Legislature’s top expert on the tech industry and, occasionally, its champion.

As a young engineer at Johns Hopkins University’s applied physics lab, she was assigned to troubleshoot launches of the U.S. Navy’s Trident II nuclear missiles — making her the Legislature’s only actual rocket scientist.

She’s a former engineer for Teledyne Technologies, a global aerospace and tech conglomerate headquartered in Irwin’s hometown of Thousand Oaks.

She co-chairs the California Legislative Technology and Innovation Caucus and a national legislative task force on AI, cybersecurity and privacy.She also has been a favorite of Big Tech, once authoring legislation that critics accused of weakening California’s digital privacy protections on behalf of the tech industry to which she had close family ties. At the time, her husband was the chief operating officer of Amazon-owned Ring.The prominent lobbying group TechNet in 2017 declared her “Legislator of the Year.”

But now TechNet and nearly every other lobbying group representing major tech companies oppose her latest legislation, Assembly Bill 2013. The influential California Chamber of Commerce is also opposed to the bill, which the state Assembly voted 56-8 to move to the Senate last week.

Last month, the Chamber’s Ronak Daylami told the Assembly Privacy and Consumer Protection Committee, on which Irwin sits, that Irwin’s bill could expose tech firms’ carefully guarded trade secrets.

“While it may not be obvious on its face,” Daylami said, “the expertise and judgment, as well as the actual selection of data and datasets chosen to train a specific AI model, is itself proprietary.”

Would disclosure fend off AI bias?

But Irwin said her bill would give consumers a powerful tool to better understand the emerging technology, which has raised privacy alarms after it was revealed that tech firms used facial recognition, social media posts and copyrighted material such as artwork and news articles to train their artificial intelligence software.

Irwin said the requirement to disclose training data could also help ward against potential biases in the AI software’s decision making.

She said the issue piqued her interest at a recent meeting of the National Conference of State Legislatures where she heard a doctors’ group discuss using AI in dispensing medication. The problem, she said, was that it wasn’t clear whether such systems had inherent biases since the companies aren’t required to disclose the data they used to train their systems.

She wondered: What if it was like a clinical drug trial that only tested the medication on white suburban men, instead of a diverse group of patients whose bodies might react differently?“With these AI medical devices, you really should know what is the group that it was trained on,” she said.

Putting it more broadly, Hayley Tsukayama, a legislative advocate for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, likened the disclosure requirements to being able to read a list of ingredients that go into a meal.

“The ingredients list is occasionally much easier to parse than trying to taste a dish at the end and trying to figure out what’s in it,” she said.

Irwin owns Amazon and tech stocks

The AI disclosure bill is hardly Irwin’s first foray into regulating tech since she joined the Assembly in 2014.

Her office provided what it called a “non-exhaustive” list of 13 other tech and cybersecurity bills Irwin has authored, most of which passed. Some of them were also opposed by the tech industry, which has donated at least $288,000 to her campaigns over the years, according to the Digital Democracy database.

Since 2015, Irwin’s votes have aligned with TechNet’s position on bills 28% of the time, according to a Digital Democracy analysis.

Her most controversial tech legislation, though, was a 2019 bill that critics said would have weakened the state’s landmark California Consumer Privacy Act. The law gives Californians legal authority to order tech companies to tell them what personal information they have collected, and customers can tell the companies to delete it and not to sell it.

At the time, Irwin’s husband, Jon, was the chief operating officer of Amazon-owned Ring, raising the appearance of a conflict of interest given the Privacy Act regulated the company.

Irwin insisted there wasn’t one. She told Politico at the time it was offensive to assume she was working on behalf of her husband’s company, given her professional background and expertise.

Jon Irwin has since left Amazon to become COO of CENTEGIX, a tech company that makes wearable emergency alert devices and security systems for schools and other institutions, according to his LinkedIn page.The Assemblymember reported to state ethics officials last year the family sold Amazon stock, valued at between $300,000 to $3 million. State ethics officials allow lawmakers to report wide ranges of their stock portfolio value when they file their annual financial disclosure statements.

Irwin’s disclosure filings show she also acquired at least $60,000 in cryptocurrency, AI and semiconductor investments last year. In her interview last week with CalMatters, Irwin declined to provide a more precise figure for the Amazon stock sales or address her other recent investments in tech. She said she complied with the state’s ethics disclosure requirements, and that her and her husband’s investments don’t factor into her decision-making process.

“I make every decision based on what’s best for my constituents,” she said. “I don’t need anybody questioning anything that I do, so we are always very careful about every decision.”

Rather, she said she became interested in tech and cybersecurity legislation because her background made her a natural fit for it. And she’s even made it a point to educate her fellow legislators on cybersecurity.

“You can talk to any of my colleagues; most of them, I’ve grabbed their phones and told them, ‘Oh, my God, you know, your phone is tracking you; these apps are tracking you. Let’s turn off location devices and do a two-step authentication,’ ” she said. “In caucus, I get up and tell people how to make their phones more secure.” ’

Tsukayama, the legislative advocate for the Electronic Frontier Foundation, said Irwin definitely knows complicated tech issues as well or better than anyone in the Legislature, even if the digital consumer rights group sometimes opposes her legislation.

“We haven’t always agreed with her,” Tsukayama said, “but it’s rarely, you know, over her misunderstanding how the technology works.”

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CalMatters economy reporter Levi Sumagaysay and data reporter Jeremia Kimelman contributed to this story.

The CalMatters Ideas Festival takes place June 5-6! Find out more and get your tickets at this link.

CalMatters.org is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media venture explaining California policies and politics.

Half a billion dollars. That’s how much more California State University’s budget gap will grow in two years under Gov. Gavin Newsom’s proposed spending plan for next year, a fiscal chasm that may prompt hiring freezes, raid precious reserves and bring larger class sizes and fewer courses.“We have to do less with less,” said Cal State trustee member Christopher J. Steinhauser. “We are going to have fewer programs, fewer positions. And anyone listening to this meeting, if they think that we can do this without doing that, they’re really kidding themselves.”

Senior finance officers from Cal State’s chancellor’s office debuted the sobering figures at last week’s board of trustees meeting. The forecasted deficit could change — legislators and Newsom have until late June to finalize a state budget that could include more money for the university.Protecting Cal State, community college and University of California ongoing funding from cuts “wherever possible” is a priority, said David Alvarez, a Democratic assemblymember from Chula Vista and chair of Assembly’s budget subcommittee on education, last week.

“We got to stick with the commitments we’re making to the students of California in the budget,” added Greg Wallis, a Republican assemblymember from Rancho Mirage, at the same hearing.But if Newsom’s May budget update becomes law, Cal State would face a three-year operating deficit of $831 million through 2025-26 — more than $500 million greater than what was estimated last September, said Ryan Storm, an assistant vice chancellor at Cal State overseeing the system’s finances, at a trustees meeting last week.

Budget math

The yawning gap is the result of two forces: Newsom heavily scaling back his promises of growing financial support for Cal State due to the state’s multibillion-dollar deficit and ever-increasing labor costs fueled by recent 5% pay hikes to much of the system’s roughly 60,000 unionized workers.Other expenses include nearly $80 million in higher health care premiums to provide insurance to its employees in 2024-25.

Newsom’s May spending plans for Cal State, the UC and other state agencies are complex, prompting the Legislative Analyst’s Office to call them “opaque and unnecessarily complicated.”

After a mix of cuts in 2024-25 and far less new spending in 2025-26 than initially promised, Cal State would see new state revenues that are $470 million less than they anticipated last fall, according to summary tables Storm showed the trustees. A promise to backfill faculty raises to end a strike earlier this year added roughly $30 million to the system’s budget gap.

Cal State was already projecting a three-year budget gap of more than $300 million last September. That was even with the assumption of nearly $500 million more in state support through 2026 and roughly $200 million more in new tuition revenue after the board approved tuition hikes of 34% across five years starting this fall.Half a billion dollars is equivalent to the entire operating budget of San Diego State University, among the system’s largest campuses.

Campus strategies

Presidents of the 23 campuses at Cal State gathered in April to quantify what the more than $800 million budget shortfall would mean for student learning and hiring decisions. It was more of a thought exercise than an implementation plan. The presidents and system leadership assumed no new state spending in the next two years — despite Newsom’s May plans. It also assumed workers would get raises in 2024-25, but not in 2025-26.Campuses are considering increasing class sizes, reducing the number of available courses to reflect student demand and bringing down the number of part-time faculty and lecturers — actions that some campuses undertook this spring to close a combined $138 million budget gap. Other potential cost-cutting measures include leaving various positions unfilled, not replacing staff and faculty who retire and early-retirement programs at some campuses.So far the system is not recommending layoffs, but it expects the various hiring freezes and unfilled vacancies will lead to “a reduction of about 450 faculty and staff positions through 25-26,” Storm said last week.The campuses also intend to use more than $500 million in reserves through 2025-26, depleting 22% of the system’s one-time funds intended for emergencies.

The April meeting also calculated a projected 2026-27 systemwide deficit of more than $200 million — the cost equivalent of 12,500 classes taught, 1,500 faculty or 1,100 managers, which represents a quarter of all the managers at Cal State.

Effect on classes

Cal State trustees in March learned that campuses cut or suspended 137 academic programs and other areas of study in 2024 — a huge jump compared to 2023 and 2022, when only a combined 47 were cut or put on pause. This occurred “in light of changing enrollment patterns, workforce trends, and resource constraints,” staff wrote to the trustees. The number of new programs is also down. Campuses regularly create additional academic offerings in response to new industries and business trends. In 2024, central office staff were projecting 30 new programs — below the average of about 60 in each of the past two years.Assembly budget staff reported last week that Cal State officials warn “that timely services for students could lessen and class sizes could grow in the next two years” if the system receives less funding than anticipated.

In January, when campuses were planning for a smaller budget gap in 2024-25, Long Beach State’s president, Jane Close Conoley, told CalMatters that it was planning to address its then-projected roughly $10 million deficit in various ways:

• Not replacing its usual churn of 30 to 35 faculty retirements a year, savings of roughly $5 million
• Not filling open staff positions — savings of roughly $2 million to $2.5 million.
• Travel freezes, putting off purchases of equipment and pulling from reserves were other options.

In other instances, professors who’ve been running labs or research projects may be asked to drop those efforts and teach classes.

“So, another way we save money is to say, ‘It’s a great idea, but no, you have to teach,’” Conoley said.

A small glimmer of hope is that enrollment seems to be rebounding systemwide, which will generate more revenue for the system and help stanch the projected fiscal bleeding. The system enrolled the equivalent of 7,500 more full-time students this college year. By 2025-26, the system projects to grow its full-time enrollment by 4%, or nearly 14,000 — a change of fortune after Cal State experienced student declines the previous two years.

The system is also expecting one-time state money of $240 million to ride out the next few years, Storm said, part of a promise that Newsom made in January and affirmed in May.

But some campuses may see even less funding next year when administrators begin rerouting millions of dollars from campuses with declining enrollment to those that are growing — a plan conceived early last year. Less money could further impair the ability of campuses to attract new students, some in the system fear.

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The Calmatters Ideas Festival takes place June 5-6! Find out more and get your tickets at this link.

CalMatters.org is a nonprofit, nonpartisan media venture explaining California policies and politics.

Barbara (Sadie) Alice Ekenberg, passed away on March 27, 2024 at age 71. She was born December 2, 1952 in Colorado and was adopted and raised by her parents Kenneth Martin Mindrup and Connie Laird Mindrup at the age of three months old. She had one older sister, Gwen. Her family moved to Bozeman, Montana where she graduated from high school. Sadie had one daughter, Julia, from her first marriage. Being a beautiful, free spirit, traveling across the country meeting amazing people and making friends and memories everywhere she went. Finally, Sadie and Julia settled down in Newport, Oregon around 1975. In 1981 they moved to Humboldt County, California where she lived the remainder of her life.

Sadie had many different jobs over the years, but she loved and was most proud of the years she spent as a firefighter and EMT with California Department of Forestry & Fire Protection, stationed in Alderpoint. Being a resident of Rio Dell for the last 25 years, she had a strong connection to her community. She was an important member of her church in Rio Dell for many years and was the visionary of the free meals program she ran weekly at the church. She was passionate about helping people in need and impacted her community in so many ways. Sadie was the kind of person who would take the coat off her back and give to someone she just met. Some of her hobbies included sewing and gardening. She enjoyed sewing clothes for family and friends. She had a green thumb and had many plants and enjoyed having a garden when she had a yard. She loved animals, and always had many beloved pets throughout her life.

Sadie had only one child but would have had 12 if she could. She also helped to raise a stepdaughter, Betty Earley, and her goddaughter, Kaylei McCay, who she loved like her own. Everywhere she went she made many friends and was not someone who was easily forgotten. Sadie and her late husband Max had their time together cut short when he passed away in 2006, but their love was so deep, and she carried him in her heart just like we will carry Sadie in our hearts forever!

Sadie is preceded in death by her husband, Max M. Ekenberg, her sister, Gwen Mindrup Towey, and her parents Kenneth and Connie Mindrup.

Sadie is survived by her daughter, Julia Robertson of Idaho, her two grandchildren Roy Robertson and Rowan Paige both of Idaho. goddaughter Kaylei McCay, stepdaughter Betty Earley both of California

Sadie was buried at Ocean View Cemetery in Eureka. There will be a Celebration of Life on June 8, 2024, at 4:30 p.m. at Sequoia Park Group Picnic Area, Eureka. Please join us and bring your favorite potluck dish and a story to share about Sadie. Sandwiches, cake, and water will be provided.

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The obituary above was submitted on behalf of Sadie Ekenberg’s loved ones. The Lost Coast Outpost runs obituaries of Humboldt County residents at no charge. See guidelines here.

… I saw four angels standing on the four corners of the earth…

— Revelations 7:1 KJV

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What happens when a flat-Earther meets a hollow-Earther? Do they mutually annihilate? So they find comfort in dissing those who believe in the 2,5000-year-old nonsense that the Earth is spherical (“The enemy of my enemy is my friend”)? Or do they hammer out a compromise, a model of our home world that embraces both flatness and hollowness?

I was led into this problem by a recent post that popped up, noting that flat-Earthers are on the rise. Again. Seems it dies out every generation, only to resurrect, vampire-like, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, for a new bunch of brilliant minds to discover. There is, of course, the myth (that is, a myth about a myth) that says most people used to believe the Earth was flat (they didn’t), and that it took Columbus to prove them wrong. Or was it Ferdinand Magellan, who actually circumnavigated the planet between 1519 and 1522?

(Full disclosure: It was originally Magellan’s expedition, but he was killed in the Philippines two years into the voyage. Eighteen of the original crew of 270 completed the circumnavigation, led by Juan Sebastián Elcano in the ship Victoria.)

Lest you think flat-Earthers are a tiny fringe group, check out a 2018 YouGov poll, which found that 66 percent of millennials firmly believe that the earth is round, leaving 34 percent…where? Possibly in church, since the YouGov found a strong link between their belief and religion, with 52 percent of flat-Earthers considering themselves “very religious.”

Along with flat-Earth beliefs, we have been believing in a hollow Earth for a long, long time. Seems, virtually all religions have an underground component: Shamballa is an ancient city inside our planet, according to Tibetan Buddhist teachings; the ancient Greeks thought Hades was where we all went — saints and sinners — when we died; Jewish Kabbalah teaching references Sheol; Celtic mythology includes many underground lands, including Tir na n’Og; Hindus had Patala: while Dante’s Inferno had Lucifer’s fall causing a tear in the previously solid Earth.”

More recently, no less a scientist as astronomer Edmund Halley, he of the comet, proposed in the 1680s that Earth consists of four concentric spheres, the innermost of which is populated. French novelist Jules Verne ran with this in Journey to the Center of the Earth (1864), in which his doughty explorers rappel into Iceland’s Snæfellsjökull (inactive volcano), to be jetted out — unharmed!—by Italy’s Stromboli (active volcano). (The book is much better than the movie, especially when you’re about ten years old.)

Eschewing one-word book titles (Emma, Atonement, Gilead, Homecoming, Middlemarch, It…), Walter Seigmeister, aka Rosicrucian Raymond Bernard gave the whole game away with the title of his 1964 tome: The Hollow Earth: The Greatest Geographical Discovery in History Made by Admiral Richard E. Byrd in the Mysterious Land Beyond the Poles — The True Origin of the Flying Saucers. (He apparently died the following year in South America while searching for the opening to Earth’s interior.)

The general idea seems to be that, in lieu of North and South Poles, there are huge — 1,000 miles across — holes accessing the inner Earth, which is illuminated by a miniature sun. The reference to Admiral Byrd is his flights, over the North Pole in 1926 and over the South Pole 1929. You’d think that would put an end to the notion of access points at the poles. No such luck.

As the acronym goes (or used to), BBB: Bullshit Baffles Brains.

The train from Ankara to Istanbul takes about four hours. It’s always a smooth journey, first traversing the broad, rolling tablelands of Anatolia, passing through a series of tunnels as you enter the mountains, emerging onto verdant green hills. Suddenly the sea appears, running alongside the route, waving like an old friend, as nostalgic and familiar as children’s voices at sunset.

My mother-in-law Nefise (“Anne,” or mama) and I were meeting a potential buyer for our apartment in Istanbul. We’ve had the apartment on the market a few months, and this buyer promised to meet our listed offer and pay in cash – in this market, an offer too good to sit on. So there we were – in separate cars, a slight inconvenience caused by last-minute online ticket purchase – on a Monday morning, when most people were stuck at work, bound for Istanbul by train. I enjoyed my role as the husband entrusted with this important mission, accompanying Anne to meet the buyers in the great city. We even brought along a suitcase in the event that they paid literally in cash. The morning took on the aspect of a caper – a Monday morning caper at that! – as I imagined clutching the suitcase stuffed with millions of liras, glancing nervously from side to side, wary of sudden ambush.

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Actually I had mixed feelings about the journey, for in fact the sale had about it an air of finality.

Our life in the great city was finally coming to an end. For 15 years, the city had been home and in that time the thought of living anywhere else had never occurred to me. The sweep and majesty of the city by the Bosphorus, the imperial past and megalopolitan present seemed tailor-made for me, and was the inspiration for a decade of stories. It was where I had met my wife and where our son had been born.

But last year’s catastrophic earthquake, which claimed more than 50,000 lives in Turkiye, was the final straw for my wife Özge. The fact that Istanbul itself was not affected by the earthquake was no reassurance. The 1999 Istanbul earthquake killed tens of thousands, and experts warn that another deadly quake, The Big One, could hit any time. And a neighbor had our building checked by the municipality, which listed our building as unsafe in the event of an earthquake. The decision was made to relocate to Ankara, the safest part of the country in terms of seismic matters.

Over the past year, I’ve slowly adjusted to our new life. Ankara, the nation’s capital, is about as far from Istanbul as you can get. It is a land-locked city, surrounded by the lonely plains of the interior. Forget the sea, which surrounds and breathes through Istanbul – in Ankara, not even the whisper of a river passes through it. It is a city of spanking new skyscrapers, political structures, universities and shopping centers. The culture, like the air itself, is decidedly dry, political and academic. Of course, Ankara is not without certain charms: people are friendly as people are friendly in a typical American Midwestern town, the young people healthy and attractive, and there are many parks, trees, and in the central neighborhood of Tunus sit several streets lined with decent bars.

We live on the campus of the university where I work as a teacher. That is also a benefit, for the lojman is quiet and comfortable, sequestered by groves of tree-lined streets, and we need not worry about our boy Leo going out on his own to play in the nearby park with the other children. The nights are deep and tranquil, and our sleep untroubled by sirens and the other ceaseless din of Istanbul life. We look forward to Leo starting kindergarten at the school located conveniently across the street from the university preparatory building where I teach. I could walk my son to school each morning and pick him up in the afternoons. “A great place to raise a family,” if you will (a phrase I’ve always felt provincial folk employ as a euphemism for “dull.”).

I chide myself, remembering that the move was a practical one, the decision lined with benefits on all sides, especially for our son, his future. And yet, as the train approached Istanbul, I felt wistful, the old excitement stirring. The air as moist, fragrant, the sunlight groomed by the faint mist looming over the sails of the ships offshore. There was that feeling of weighing security versus excitement, with excitement winning every time, at least in the imagination. And arriving in Istanbul itself, feeling as one does in all great cities, from New York to Paris to Rome, why would one want to live anywhere else? A curious despair hovered: were we really, finally, trading it all in? And for what, a bit of security in some dust-blown provincial town? Where was the mystery in that? The frailty of life, the misgivings of romance, the chaotic nature of urban philosophy as transient as a silent street, the marketplace of people and ideas? The city I had fallen in love with … But we were not on holiday, I reminded myself as the train came to a stop at the Solutlucesme stop. We were there on family business and for one day only. We needed to complete all the matters related to the sale and be back on the train to Ankara by six p.m. Not much time to even see the city, let alone be sentimental about it.

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The emlak, or estate agent, was a woman named Gül. She was a people person, greeting us outside her office with blousy familiarity, as if she had known us for years. While we waited for the buyers to arrive, Gül invited us to have Turkish coffee at a table outside the office, chatting in Turkish with my mother-in-law about the apartment, about the sale details, the couple buying the place, about Istanbul, Ankara, about me and my new job, etc, our new life.

Presently, a car pulled up, and we were introduced to Hakan, a young man, early thirties, thin, amiable. He spoke English and offered to give us all a lift to the bank. He and Gül both had made jokes about the suitcase Anne and I were lugging around. Realizing that the transaction was going to be done online, Anne and I both felt a bit silly, and the empty suitcase was left in Gül’s office while we went to the bank. The transaction itself was quick, and we were in and out of the bank in less than half an hour, the bank app on my phone suddenly registering a sum of money I never thought I would ever see in my life.

By this time Hakan’s wife, Meltem, had joined us. She was an attractive, bright-eyed woman, a physician at a nearby hospital. She and her Hakan had that eager excitement of a young married couple looking to score the home in which they hoped to settle down and start a family. On the drive to the deed registry office, we talked about the apartment. I told them about the neighborhood, recommending certain restaurants, cafes. We talked about how great, how convenient everything was, with the metro and the Bosphorus and Kadıköy close by. I felt happy for the young couple, knowing that they would be happy in the apartment as we had been happy, but also bittersweet, remembering when we had first moved there in summer 2022, and I had looked from the balcony out to the sea and felt that we had found our home. It was like those Russian priests mentioned in “Tender is the Night,” the ones who always went to their retreat on the Mediterranean coast each summer prior to the First World War. “’See you next summer,’” they said. But this was premature, for they were never coming back anymore.”

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By 3 o’clock, the deal was done. Hakan and Meltem received the keys, and we watched as they took a joyous selfie, sent immediately on WhatsApp to anxious family and friends. We all thanked Gül for making the day so efficient and hassle-free. We all wished each other well and parted. Anne and I went up the street for a late lunch. We’d been on the road since half past four in the morning and were starved, so we greedily snapped up the Adana kebab served at the restaurant we used to visit so often. Afterward, we still had a couple hours left. Anne understood that I wished to have a beer in Kadıköy, while she wanted to have a coffee and rest in a nearby park. We arranged to meet at the train station.

On the short walk to Kadıköy, I reflected on how comfortable I felt on these streets. All those years ago, it was Kadıköy that had taken me in. The neighborhood was called Yeldeğirmeni, or “Windmill,” and it was there I had lived for several years before meeting Özge. I passed the bakery, the liquor store, or “tekel,” owned by two Kurdish brothers who used to give me beer and cigarettes on credit before payday. The markets and small shops that I used to pass every day on my way to get a bus to the school. The narrow, cobbled streets alive now as they were then, the young men hauling the garbage wagons on their shoulders, the young people, the young women with a faint perspiration making their skin glisten in the late afternoon.

I had beer at the small tavern where I’d always gone on a spare afternoon, when the work was done and Anne was looking after Leo. The bar owner expressed no big surprise at not having seen me in a long while. I mentioned that we had moved to Ankara, but he just placed the cold bottle of Tuborg in front of me and retired to the bar, leaving me to my thoughts. It was still quiet, the place would get busy in the evening, after people got off work and the Erasmus students were done with their classes.

Drinking the beer, looking out at the streets, I thought about how the day had started off as a “Monday morning caper,” and had ended up as this, a reflection on the city, on the life we’d had, and how that life was now over. But at least our balance ended up in the plus. I had another beer, and another, and soon it was time to get to the station. I paid and wished the barman well. “See you next time,” I said.

It was only a five-minute walk. I felt good, knowing exactly where I was headed despite the crowded streets and busy hour. There would always be Kadıköy, and Istanbul, it wasn’t going to float away. And we still had our summer house down on the coast, ready for our return in the summer holidays, so we still had the sea in our lives.

Along the way to the station, looking out at the Fenerbahçe stadium silhouetted by the approach of evening, I stopped and got Leo the local team’s famous gold and blue football jersey from a street vendor. When I arrived at the station passengers were beginning to board the train. Anne was already there and we stood together with the empty suitcase, relieved of duty, both of us tired from a very long and eventful day. It was time to get back to Ankara, where my wife and son, and our new lives, were waiting.

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

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