Turkish Woo

It is almost the 19th. Just shy a few hours forward, with Istanbul dust barely touching my feet. I have manage to abandon my usual self...my un-traveling self that is tethered to - I don’t even know what she is tethered to, only that it is so freeing when I set her free. 

The Istanbul airport was not what I imagined. I was thinking Egypt but it was so much more. The sheer volume of people working their way through customs...I must have walked a mile winding through the gates leading us to Turkey. Turkey has taken efficiency to a new level. Between the online visa application (complete with home printing) down to the quick look at my passport between sending me forward into the throng of people waving signs and drivers hawking their services.

Airports, on arrival, are my single most anxiety ridden places for me in a new country. Only the first time; but that first time...where do I go, how foreign (i.e. vulnerable) do I look, how much will I be swindled for a simple ride into town?

Exiting the airport is the moment when everything that I so routinely take for granted -knowing the language and how to navigate transportation, knowing what is a scam and having someone to call in an emergency-is noticeably absent. 

In Sri Lanka it meant a $40 taxi ride to the airport that should have been $11. In Peru, my father and I took off walking with no idea how far away our hotel was from the airport; our eventual taxi was, I’m sure, a markup but not airport markup. My first time in Ethiopia I just grinned and knowingly accepted the gouge. It was late and I didn't have the energy or confidence to argue the point.

Turkey was a little different. A friend mentioned a shuttle bus to a popular part of town (although not where I am staying) and as a side note, the metro in the same breath as corrupt taxi drivers. Landing at 5pm in the late dusk summer, and flying through customs allowed me the luxury of following signs to the metro. At the airport in SFO I googled the metro and read about the Istanbul kart and so I mimicked the people around me (no English) and followed the trail of people. Metro to tram to my own two feet and I found my hotel with little problem.

The clerk who checked me in was so friendly, too friendly I realized as he was trying to map out a trip for me that I have purposely refused to map out (when my sister asked for my itinerary, I sent her my flight plans...nothing more because there is nothing more). The clerk mentioned first a two-day tour in Cappadocia and then "their travel agency" making arrangements for me. I had to backpedal quickly.

Herb arrived shortly after - equipped with all sorts of helpful map apps and off we headed to dinner on the balcony of a swanky restaurant, the Bosphorous and sea fading to black as the sun finally set, the mosques, serving as ornamentation lighting up the surrounding hills, the slightest crescent moon -almost ethereal above us.

I had been dozing when Herb arrived, jetlag and general fatigue, but as we parted ways, an appreciative hug that our paths crossed so briefly so randomly, I was fearful that it was too early for sleep.

Walking from the tram station where we said goodbye I heard someone calling to me. I’m accustomed to people calling out to me. Accustomed to men in every country seeing me alone and trying their luck with the easy foreigner. I’m accustomed to them calling out and I am accustomed to ignoring them - no change to my expression, as if I am deaf or speak some unknown language. But for some reason I slowed down. I stopped. 

Mendo and Ramin were smiling affably. Mendo attempting to guess where I was from, naming every country he could think of. A shop owner joined in, "she's South African, it is so obvious." there was the requisite "Bob Marley" reference even without my hair being twisted and the shopkeeper called me the “dark side of the moon.” Ramin called me Obama's cousin. All the while Karen, a tall Canadian woman, laughed. Mendo invited me to join them and for some strange reason that sometimes strikes me when I travel alone, I did. 

We walked for a while, Mendo pointing out the New Mosque near the Spice Market where he works. We headed for Taksim Square on foot and then there was a decision to grab a cab. Footloose and Traveling-Matt-Fraggle me isn’t crazy, I did a gut check, much to the amusement of my Turkish companions who promised, “I am a vegetarian, I will not bite."

We made it to a small bar nestled on a side street of the square. The mellifluous sounds of a local guitar and an impassioned singer met us at the door of Muzur; we laughed, nibbled on food, and as the night grew late, Mendo motioned our departure lest we miss the last tram.

A world traveler, Mendo listed his favorite countries and talked about what he learned in each. He shared his opinion about Turkish men not knowing how to talk to women, how to woo - more or less. It allowed him to introduce the idea of sex without propositioning me. But by his own definition he had wooed...paid for taxies and food, regaled me with tales both foreign and domestic.

He tested the waters as we approached my stop. “Are you staying alone?” The ubiquitous and airy two cheek kiss. I told him I’d see him tomorrow at his shop. And I probably will...because true to his word, he did not bite.