Poor old Miranda must be feeling a little schizophrenic - for a month or more she was a floating student flat - overcrowded, under-tidied, noisy and disorderly.
For the last few weeks, she became more of a floating old people's home with my parents and cousins on board - still a full boat, but a little more sedate and sensible.
Did I say sensible?
Our crew (still struggling with the constant changes of plan and difficulties with their non-Turkish speaking passengers) thought my darling and I wanted to go to Oludeniz for a walk, but in fact, we wanted to go there because the 79-year-old and 72-year-old on board needed to go parapenting off the cliffs there.
Everyone says that the road up to the top is so scary that it is a positive relief to throw yourself off the top in a parapente knowing you don't have to drive back down again.
Everyone in Turkey wants to go to New Zealand and it is extraordinary how much they know about us.
One man proudly told us that he is saving money to go to Timaru as his friend told him what a wonderful place it is.
A huge batch of Queenstown brochures has just arrived with our latest guest and I know they will be as eagerly snatched up as the first lot we had.
Even the pilot who took my dad parapenting wants to come to Queenstown.
His name is Bulent Demir and he sends a big "Merhaba" to his pilot friend Gurbuz working in Wakatipu.
Because there is almost never any bad weather in the summer here, they work ridiculous hours, flying from sunrise to sunset - there are no "no-fly" days once the season starts.
I was a bit worried about my dear old dad's desire to throw himself off a high place.
He's been very out of sorts since a tacky English paper quoted a French woman who had "enjoyed" the attentions of Dominic Strauss-Kahn saying that things had been very brutal and that Mr S K was "as bad as a soldier".
As a soldier himself, my dad took that comment VERY badly and since reading it, has been wandering around in a slovenly fashion - even taking to strolling the streets with his shirt off AND unshaven.
Most unsoldierly.
My sister is worried he will turn up in London shirtless, and maybe even with a tattoo and a few piercings.
At least we know he won't be going shirtless in Queenstown - we all gaze longingly at the photos of the snow at home and dream of the cold.
I left one of the brochures about skiing in Queenstown at the front of the magazine stand in a cafe here, and it took about two minutes for someone to see it and pick it up to read.
Still on the subject of soldiers - this is a very good place to be one.
All males have to do 15 months of military service.
If you look at a map you will see how very many neighbours Turkey has and many of them are of the very difficult variety.
Soldiers get enormous respect, even when they leave the military and do something else.
We were whizzing back to the boat the other night in the dinghy when my mother started waving back to some nice men waving at us.
It was the coastguard and they weren't waving to be nice.
There was a lot of cross body language between our skipper and the coastguard which we could understand and a lot of the verbal sort which we couldn't.
He told us there was no problem, but when we got back to Miranda and he went down to get his black bag with the transit log and all the official documents and they escorted him back to the marina, we guessed there might be something tiny going wrong.
Half an hour later he reappeared all smiles.
Apparently they had wrongly accused him of going too fast out of the marina, but as a soldier who had been on an army boat, he is permitted to go faster than the general public.
All he had to do was get some local army bigwig to tell the coastguard who he was and everything was fine.
We feel a bit like children here - everything is a bit of a mystery and we never quite know what is happening but it does make things so interesting.
We have already worn out one dictionary and the latest one is starting to shed the odd page - always the page you need, unfortunately.
The Turkish names are brilliant - there are people called Ferrit and Farty and the lovely lady giving us pedicures last week proudly wore a necklace with the word "UFUK" on it.
I asked what it meant and she said it was her name.
I still get a kick out of the menus with their new words for everything - last night's one offered us "Mouse" for pudding, and to drink, German people could choose a nice refreshing glass of "Spite" while the English menu offered "Spit". Yum.
And when I'm not reading necklaces and menus, I am spoilt for choice on the book and paper front. Everyone comes to stay with bags full of the latest books, magazines and newspapers so my worry that I would run out of reading material has proven ill-founded.
This week's favourite read has been Goodbye Sarajevo.
Hana, aged 12, was evacuated to Croatia on a UN bus and her older sister stayed on in Sarajevo to look after the five younger children.
It was only meant to be for a few weeks, but the war, as wars often do, went on and on.
It's hard to decide if life was worse for Hana living so far from her family and feeling such an outsider, or if Atka had it tougher being shot at constantly and with almost no food, water, electricity, gas or firewood.
They don't moan at all about the situation, but things were really horrible, especially with friends and family being murdered and wounded so often.
They couldn't understand how life could have got so primitive when they were used to living in a modern world with The Simpsons on TV.
They are hugely grateful to New Zealand and to Atka's husband and family who organised for their whole family to come and settle here.
We really don't appreciate peace the way people who have lived through a war do, and reading this book is a real eye-opener for us in our lucky country, to see just how very lucky we are compared with so many other parts of the world.
The sisters are coming to Dorothy Browns in September to give a talk about the book and I can't wait to hear them.
