I Stole Their Furniture

There comes a time in every man's life when his parents move to Istanbul.

For the last twenty years, my father taught choir and art history at a Washington high school named after one of our less memorable presidents. Long story short, the environment was no longer welcoming -- something about the district bringing in bean-counting axe men to target the higher-paid employees, and what with dad having a doctorate ... -- so Dad resigned and he and Mom started looking for work elsewhere. And then the economy swallowed a turd and went tits up. But he did find work. At an international school in Istanbul.

Istanbul

Not Istanbul

.
Last week, right after Comic Con, I flew up to help my parents pack up the house I grew up in. During the hottest weather in recorded Washington history. It took several days, but we got it done, to my surprise. The house is now up for rent, and my parents' belongings are all in storage. And for the next two to four years, they'll be living and working in the heart of the former Byzantine Empire. And Ottoman Empire. And several other empires. That area got conquered a lot.

I don't have a pithy way to end this, so I'll conclude by saying we inherited a hide a bed sofa and overstuffed chair from my folks, along with some nice camping equipment and enough canned food to feed a small survivalist compound. And I've got my dad's rugby ball sitting on my external hard drive, within easy reach. My hand keeps drifting to it.

Good luck, Mom and Dad.