The number-one rule for house-hunting in tourist areas in Turkey is to always wait until winter, when, if you are lucky, someone will appear before you with a piece of property and an urgent need for cash.

In my case, it was a family of women, three sisters and their mother, who had inherited the house when their father/husband had passed away. As Demet, the sister-in-charge, explained, one sister had moved to Ankara, and mom and the other two lived in the “desirable” modern (concrete) section of town on the other side of the river. While they had fond memories of growing up in an old stone house, none of the sisters were read to tackle the project of redeeming their childhood home from the sorry state of affairs brought on by 15 years of neglect. Besides, they could use the cash. A mutual friend had told them I was looking for a house, and if I had the money, that was that.

Demet was up-front about the fact that the disco had dug underneath the house. In fact, she showed me two places in the floor of my future studio where the disco had broken through in attempts to dig a chimney for their fireplace during the years that the house was empty. From what I gathered, when Demet’s family discovered what had happened, they had words with the disco (and a notary), the holes in the floor were filled with concrete, and that was that – although Demet’s mom was still insistent that I buy the house and “sue the bastards.”

I did buy the house, but in the interest of good-neighborly relations, I opted not to sue the bastards. Instead, I had a little conversation with the psychopath. I informed him that while I was aware of the fact that he had dug under my house, I did not want to take him to court. Instead, I suggested that, as he had taken upon it to use the space under my house as a disco, I might use the space over his disco as a terrace. We both thought this a rather tidy, neighborly solution. Before returning to Ankara and my job as an editor at the local English-language daily, I did make the additional request that in the future he refrain from digging under my property. He assured me that he would, most certainly, comply with my wishes.

Time passed, and enough workmen wreaked enough havoc that the night came when I was finally able to spend my first night in my old stone house in Avanos. I still have fond memories of lying in my makeshift bed, staring up at my soon-to-be-stripped wood ceiling, and contemplating whether I should put up with the music coming through the window or if I should just shut it and swelter. After all, as a concession to economic necessity and the second-best view in Avanos, I had bought a house next to a disco, so I was expecting to have to compromise on some fronts. A little music was not going to be so bad.

That’s what I thought, until I discovered the difference between sound wafting through windows – even at two in the morning – and dunga, dunga, dunga echoing through stone, which didn’t occur until a few years after I bought the house. One day, having driven down from Ankara for the weekend, I encountered a workman wheeling a barrow full of dirt out of the disco. After about a second of thinking, “hmm, interesting, wheelbarrow full of dirt,” I realized that the dirt in that wheelbarrow was none other than dirt coming out from under my house – and that this was not a good thing.

I spent three days trying to get a hold of the disco owner with no success, so I got a hold of a camera and took some photographs of the workmen inside the disco, pickaxes in hand, chipping away at stone. The next day, the retired police commissioner came to introduce himself.

He explained that the workmen were simply doing a bit of cleaning – “shaving” the surface of the stone, as it were, and “bir sey olmaz”. “Bir sey olmaz” is a Turkish expression that I really despise. It means “nothing will happen”, and I despise it because something usually does. In this case, what happened was that the dunga, dunga, dunga began. Of more serious concern was the black smoke wafting through my house – from the inside. It turned out that some of the dirt being removed from under my house was for another fireplace gone awry, this time with a chimney that turned out to be my entire studio.

That was when I decided to take action. I went to the mayor’s office. I went to the district representative of the central government. I went to the local prosecutor. I went to the gentlemen at the title office, who surveyed my house and informed me that, while they didn’t have the appropriate equipment to confirm an underground violation, they could confirm an above-ground violation of about 30 square meters – or what I prefer to think of as my new downstairs kitchen, bathroom and guest bedroom. I went to the Institution for the Preservation of Cultural and Natural Treasures of the Province of Nevsehir, who went to the state prosecutor, who asked for eight month’s jail time for digging under – lo and behold! – a registered historical property. I went to a lawyer, and I went to the retired police commissioner, and I told him I intended to sue his socks off. This didn’t put him off in the least, which probably had something to do with a well-connected faith in the Turkish legal system.

My case is now in court, which meets (or is delayed) approximately once every three months. In the meantime, the psychopath’s brother has suggested that if I want to sleep, I should go back to America. The psychopath’s current tenant (and disco operator) has suggested that if I don’t want to be disturbed, I should rent my house to him. Once (after getting the ridiculous idea that I should just pay a visit downstairs and ask them to turn it down a bit), the psychopath beat me to a bloody pulp, after which the police paid him a visit – to drink tea. (At least that is what I heard. It was recommended that I not file a complaint, and the police never questioned me about the incident, of which they were informed. Of course, there is no proof that this incident ever took place, or of any “understanding” between my neighbors and the police; it’s just a rumor – like the rumors of drug trade, sex trade and the mysterious death of the previous tenant, who apparently hadn’t paid his agreed-upon rent.) While the state court found my neighbor guilty and sentenced him to eight month’s in jail, later converted to a monetary fine, the appeals court in Ankara overturned the verdict. Meanwhile, I got a call last week from Hatice the Younger, informing me that the police were looking for me, something, most likely, to do with a complaint about unauthorized construction on a registered historical property (did I mention that my neighbor went to my lawyer and offered a settlement: I pull my case, and he doesn’t have me sent to jail).

In spite of all this, I am convinced this story is going to have a happy ending. My lawsuit continues to creep its way towards justice. Sooner or later the judge will hear testimony from another neighbor, owner of the wall-less stone house in front of the disco, where, it turned out, most of the dirt from under my house was dumped, and from a former bouncer, who, so he says, got tired of sweeping up the dirt that came down every time the music went up. And the judge seems like a sensible woman who will know a pickaxe when she sees one.

In the end I should really be thanking both the police commissioner and the psychotic. If not for them, I would not be where I am now – looking out on a tangerine grove, the beach a 12-minute-walk away, the sun setting behind a smattering of Greek islands (where the devil holidays when he’s not on Mt. Erciyes), embarking on a brand new career as an author, and trying to figure out how selling my flat in Ankara (that’s another story) can get me enough money to buy a plot of land and build an old stone house in the fishing village/resort town of Gümüslük. This time, I can assure you, I am not planning on living next to a disco.

All in all, I remain cautiously optimistic, having armed myself with the advice of a real estate agent in Ankara (“check with the title office to ensure that the title you are purchasing belongs to the plot of land you think it does, and not one five kilometers away) and with an old Turkish saying, related to me by numerous well-wishers after I bought a charming old stone house in Avanos: “Evi alma, komsulari al” (“Don’t buy the house, buy the neighbors”).