Between Green and Blue
After years of living in Istanbul, I moved to Göcek on the southwestern coast of Turkey, a place held between forest and sea. I wanted distance from the density of the city, but I was also drawn by the possibility of living closer to water and trees.
I arrived in summer. What first met me was movement: yachts filling the marina, visitors passing through, the town carried by the speed of the season. Over time, I began to understand Göcek through its shifts. In winter, the harbor empties, the streets slow down, and the landscape comes forward again. Parts of the shore that feel occupied in summer become accessible again, changing not only the atmosphere of the town but also my way of moving through it.
In the winter, Göcek takes on a quiet, peaceful character—far from the lively marinas and tourist crowds of summer. With the end of the season, many businesses and beaches close, and the town is left mostly to its locals. A deep calm settles over the streets and shoreline, making this the perfect time to experience Göcek’s natural beauty and serenity. In many ways, it’s when you get a glimpse of the town’s true soul.
This rhythm of transformation is also part of Göcek’s history. The chrome mines that once operated in the area were closed in 1993 and later converted into a marina and tourism complex. What had once been a site of extraction became a destination for leisure.
Even the name Göcek seems to hold this condition. Some trace it back to an ancient word meaning threshold or passage, while others connect it to the sea, a place where vessels drop anchor. Both meanings feel true.
Living there, I spent much of my time walking between the forests and the shoreline. Between the green of the hills and the blue of the sea, I began to think about belonging as something shaped by transformation, formed gradually through attention, repetition, and time.
