Istanbul (Part 2)

The first thing some visitors must do upon arriving to Turkey is to purchase a tourist visa. The countries picked for this game were selected from a hat. Slovakia, yes; Czech Republic, no. Australia, yes; New Zealand, no. Albania and Moldova, yes; Croatia and Montenegro, no. Americans must pay $20 or €15 (in that currency, not the native lira) for 90 days; Canadians must pay three times as much for the same. And they inform you that it must be in cash only precisely when you must pay, and at no other time during the hour you must wait in this line. There is precisely one ATM available, and it is purely in Turkish. 

Onur had expected I would arrive near his place at 7pm with my plane scheduled to land at 5pm. I exit the airport at about 7:15pm, and begin to follow his directions. What I came to learn is not that these directions reflect poorly on Onur, because they are quite accurate once you know what you’re doing, but they reflect badly on the planning of the city of Istanbul. My final destination was Söğütlüçeşme, difficult to say, but easy enough to spot. I took the metro six stops from the airport as directed, ok. At that station, I trustingly go towards the signs that say Metrobüs, and when the signs stop, I search for a metrobüs. I find a collection of buses, and one goes to Söğütlüçeşme. It leaves finally at 8:30pm, but so long as I am going where I need to, I am content. 

I take the only available seat and the bus leaves to begin its round. I have no idea how long it will take, and the traffic is thick. It’s clogged like Paula Deen’s arteries pre-diagnosis. As we merge onto one highway in order to merge onto another in order to, as it appears, cross the street, the bus fills and fills and fills. The portly man on the seat next to me, who got on with me three stops ago, now gives up his seat to a self-concerned middle-aged woman with an infant, and with nowhere else he can stand, holds the rail over her, leaning over her in a covering way. We continue to drive. I can no longer stand or move; there is no room to do anything. I see out of the corner of my eye, the infant has started to look at me, staring for a period so long that it’s unavoidable, that it becomes something I need to address. I look over, and smile. It’s eyes are wide, and it looks to its mother, and to me. Failing any other conclusion, it begins crying as loudly as it can. She tries to comfort the baby, and when it finally settles down, it begins to look at me again. I smile with teeth this time, and the baby again begins to wail. The woman tries to console the child again, but her bumping it and cooing it no longer work. She held the child up and this man helped her pass it to someone else on the bus, out of sight, to someone who heretofor has not had any interaction with this woman. I was too engrossed in the silence to be concerned.

 That is, until, I look over. And the portly man is staring at me. The woman, too. Unabashedly, unconscious of social permit. I look at them when I can’t ignore it anymore, and he says something directly to me – my worst fear is confirmed. I reply that I don’t understand any Turkish in my nice, lovely, arcane, foreign English. This doesn’t stop him. He commented again, and I could only reply the same. They, along with the man with a very Turkish moustache beyond them, begin to laugh. The woman still has not received her infant back from the crowd, nor do I see her reclaim it before I get off.

Two high-school aged girls are in front of me, and I ask them if they understand any English. They do, and I eventually establish they want to know my station, and I hope it’s so that they no I won’t trouble anyone with all my luggage. I show them on my sheet where I’ve written my directions, and the two girls study this intensely. “This bus. Not go. Söğütlüçeşme.” (In case you’re wondering, it’s Suh-goot-loo-chesh-may).

I have to ask her to repeat this, and point to the sign on the bus with the final station when she does, “It says Söğütlüçeşme. It doesn’t go?” Something in me tells me that I can argue hard enough so that her warning will be invalidated. I decide I’m tired enough to gently pursue it. I see the error eventually, and all I can think to ask is, “Why does it not go to Söğütlüçeşme?”

“Two Söğütlüçeşme.” She points to my sheet, where I’ve written “near Kadıköy Spor Tesisleri” just in case, “Not here. It is in different place. You should,” and by this time the people in our bus proximity have all tuned in, and they laugh at something and disrupt her repeatedly. Finally she manages, “You should go next place.” And she points out the door.

After I get off,” I choose my sentence structure to be as easy as possible, “where do I go?” If she’s telling me to get off this bus, I feel I’m owed further directions.

“Ask someone.” 

I put my head in my hands. But I only have a moment because we are now at the stop. I get off, and there is no name of the stop and no distinguishing landmarks. There is no metro station. No maps. There is only a footbridge which goes over the highway. I look back to the bus for consolation, but they point me onwards enthusiastically. The bus pulls away. I’ve been on the bus for an hour at this point, and I have no idea where I am. It’s nearly 9pm, and my phone is out of credit. I later learn the bus has been gradually taking me via highway in exactly the opposite direction I needed to go.