Living in Istanbul as a foreigner is a constant exercise in embracing contradictions. One minute it is serene, the next it is a full-blown street party. And after over 2 years living here, just when I thought I was getting comfortable, Istanbul decided to throw in an earthquake for good measure. Because, you know, why not keep things interesting?

On April 23rd, what started as a nice and warm spring day, filled with the usual symphony of children’s laughter and flags for National Sovereignty and Children’s Day, took a rather dramatic turn. A 6.2-magnitude earthquake hit, with its epicenter a mere 50 kilometers from my humble abode. The building swayed like a drunk sailor, and we had several aftershocks for two days. My cats, bless their little furry hearts, had a range of reactions: two went full panic mode and disappeared under different cabinets, one relocated from the sofa to the balcony as if for a better view of the impending apocalypse, and the fourth just blinked an eye before returning to dreamland. Clearly, the cat hierarchy of worry is alive and well in my household.

I’d experienced a few tremors back in Cyprus, but this one was the Big One (for me, anyway). Twenty-five to thirty seconds felt like an eternity, and trying to describe that feeling is like trying to explain Turkish or Italian bureaucracy – utterly futile. Luckily, the only casualties were a vase, a ceramic figurine, and my ability to relax for the rest of the day. A small price to pay for future dinner party anecdotes.

But here’s the interesting thing: after the shaking stopped, something truly remarkable happened. Our building and the neigbourhood came alive. The unwritten rule in Turkey is that when you feel the earthquake, you must leave your building for at least 2 hours. This is in case of stronger tremors.

First the elders in the building were checked on and then other doors creaked open, conversations commenced, someone, inevitably, brewed tea and someone else brought out kurabiye and fruits. Folded tables and chairs were unfolded on the pavements and inner garden. Here we were, a motley crew of different backgrounds and ages, sitting on plastic stools and sipping çay and just talking. In moments like this you can almost forget about the stress about “how many cats I can squeeze in to one pet backpack in 15 seconds”.

As the days settled back into their usual chaotic rhythm, I resumed my unofficial duties as “local guide” for visiting friends. Istanbul has a knack for making you incredibly proud to show it off, even if your only claim to local fame is knowing where the best simit is. That umpteenth Bosphorus tour still gets me every time: the minarets piercing the sky, the seagulls performing aerial acrobatics, the sunlight glinting off mosque domes and glorious Rumeli Hisarı. My friend snapped photos, and I snapped out of my daily grind, remembering why this city is an exciting, slightly exhausting, affair.

Being a yabancı here means you are always an observer, perched on the edge. You witness the drama and the tenderness. You eavesdrop on passionate debates in cafés and watch solidarity unfold during protests, holidays, and yes, even disasters. You are not quite part of it, but not entirely outside it either. And in those quiet moments between the ferry horns and the ezan calls, you realise that you belong in your own delightfully foreign way.

Don’t get me wrong, there are days when Istanbul tests my sanity. The bureaucracy or never-ending honking sometimes feels like a cruel joke, and even buying bread can become an epic quest of patience. But then I get a whiff of roasted chestnuts on Istiklal, or a street musician playing an up-beat tune in the Marmaray station, and it is enough for me. It is a city that occasionally frustrates me to no end, but then wins me back with a single, perfectly roasted chestnut.

The city teaches you a unique kind of resilience. You adapt. You learn to read unspoken cues in a new language, to magically guess the right stop on a dolmuş without asking (a skill I still sometimes fail at, much to the amusement of The Other Me). You start collecting your own personal favorites: a specific simit seller on the street corner, a little café in Bakırköy that feels like home, your favourite local pet shop with 4 cats living inside or a quiet bench on a promenade by the sea where you can just be.

And you learn that sharing is paramount here. Not just food, but time, stories, laughter, and even grief. It is in the shared tea after the earthquake. In the stranger who invites you to join their lunch in the park. In the shopkeeper who remembers your face, even if you are still “the foreigner who buys too much cheese.” My Turkish still sounds like a tourist trying too hard, and I still occasionally get lost in the city. But I am here. And day by day, the unfamiliar subtleties become a little more familiar, one dramatic earthquake, one shared cup of tea, and one slightly baffling dolmuş encounter at a time.