What Does Summer Mean to Us?

Everyone has their own definition of summer: a scent, a song, a taste, a memory.

For us, it’s something deeply rooted in where we come from.

In Hatay, the place where we were born and raised, summer begins early and lingers long. By March, the air starts to warm, nature slowly awakens, and by June, the heat arrives, thick, golden, and all-consuming. But for us, June was never just about the heat. It was the most beautiful time of the year. Schools were out, days were long, and the season of complete freedom and endless play began.

Our family, like many others in the region, would head to the mountains to escape the heat. Some thought children always preferred the sea, but for us, both places held something special. We loved the quiet, cool air of the highlands just as much as the beach days by the sea. Going up to the forested hills felt like a familiar ritual, one we looked forward to every year. Those summers were full of simple joys; days spent exploring the woods, collecting pinecones, building makeshift tents out of thorny bushes, sculpting clay dollhouses, playing hide and seek until it was too dark to see. We’d mix lemonade from freshly picked lemons from our garden, throw little 90s-style cassette parties with the other kids in our community, and spook each other with ghost stories that somehow always worked. We were never bored, not even once.

There was another version of summer that lived closer to the sea, at our grandmother’s summer house in a coastal housing estate. Life there had a different pace. We had seasonal friends (those transient summer friendships that came to life in June and gently faded by September). We’d ride our bikes, which always felt more fun there, read for hours, and drift off to sleep with the sound of waves in the background. The beach was a part of daily life. There were always guests: cousins, family, close relatives, distant relatives, friends coming over for beach days and big dinners. It felt endlessly full. Our parents came and went as work allowed, but that time belonged to our grandmother and us. She would make us laugh with her storytelling and her unconventional jokes (now considered offensive!). Times at that house felt like a blessing. Even when alone, it never felt lonely, only peaceful.

Weekend trips to another coastal town, Arsuz, were a special kind of magic. We’d count down the days. On the drive back, with sunburnt cheeks, salty hair, fresh corn in hand, and sleep gently settling in, we’d hum along to our favorite songs playing in Dad’s car. Those songs were the soundtrack of summer.

Summer, for us, still feels like those memories.

We may no longer be building tents out of bushes or riding through coastal lanes on bikes, but the feeling remains the same. It’s the scent of pine, the first sip of chilled lemonade, the warmth on your skin after a long day out, a breeze brushing in through the car window, and that beloved song, now playing on Spotify.

Time has passed, and we’ve grown, but what summer makes us feel has never really changed.

With Love,

Bengisu & Nagehan

---

“And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.”

― F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby