Byzantium Calling – Part 2
I suspect that the Turkish railway system is much better now, but back in the day, smart travelers used the more reliable bus system to get around Anatolia. There were two daily buses making the 12-hour journey from Bodrum to Istanbul – one left at 7 am, the other at 7 pm. I had purchased a ticket for the evening departure so I could avoid another night sleeping on a cot, and take advantage of the relative coolness of evening. Traveling overnight also meant I wouldn’t sacrifice precious daytime sightseeing hours, and would arrive in Istanbul early, raring to go. Or so I thought.
Despite arriving an hour early at the dusty field that served as a bus station, the bus to Istanbul was already jam-packed. The only available seat was a small space on the very last row, directly in front of the aisle. In fact, the standard crew for Turkish long-haul buses was a driver and a “helper,” who occasionally passed out warm, scented towelettes, and could spell the driver if necessary. I’m pretty sure that remaining seat was meant for the helper, but no one complained. I glanced at the two men between whom I was sandwiched and noticed that one had a pack of cigarettes rolled up in the arm sleeve of his T-shirt, and the other was smoking. Looking around, many other passengers were exhaling clouds of smoke into the constrained environs. The windows of the Mercedes bus were fixed in place and could not be opened. At least the bus had an air handling unit on the ceiling, but after a while it was apparent that all it was doing was recirculating the air.
Ever the optimist, I hoped my fellow travelers would sleep as twilight descended. But as the bus rumbled into the night, it became more and more of a party on wheels. It occurred to me that for many of these Turks, this was a big deal – perhaps their first time heading to the big city. These folks had no intention of sleeping, and the bus soon morphed into an insomniacs’ social club, laughter and arguments punctuating the spaces in between cigarette puffs. Sleep was impossible, as was breathing fresh air.
Every few hours the bus would stop at some dingy roadside building, the Turkish equivalent of a highway rest stop, the available comfort stations no more than a hole in the ground with ceramic footprints on either side. At the first stop I was nauseous. At the next stop I had diarrhea. I knew inhaling all that smoke was making me sick, but I suspected I was also suffering gastrointestinal challenges from the meal my Turkish friends prepared back in Bodrum. As the journey continued into the wee hours of the morning, I leaned forward with elbows on knees, holding my head between my hands, trying to tune out the loud conversations and concentrating desperately so that the next bump in the road wouldn’t cause me to empty the contents of my stomach.
After an eternity the sky lightened, and the rural landscape gave way to city suburbs. Twelve hours after departure, we pulled into a bus stop overlooking the Bosporus and the Golden Horn. Everyone disembarked. As I bent to grab my backpack from the cargo area, I could no longer contain myself and ran to the side of the road and vomited. It was a miracle it didn’t happen on the bus.
Sick, weak, and sleepless, I knew I needed to cross to the European side of the Bosporus. Finding a passenger ferry, I was soon in downtown Istanbul, which bore a resemblance to lower Manhattan on a busy weekday. Businessmen, tourists, students, and residents meandered every which way in dense streams of humanity, not a sultan nor harem in sight. I asked anyone who looked like they might speak English if they knew where the youth hostel was, without success. At a tap on my shoulder, I turned to hear a middle-aged man say “Hey man, are you from the States? I love the States! I lived in New York City for 10 years.” I explained that I was sick and literally just got off the bus. “Listen – I’ve got a shop a few blocks away, and I can give you something to drink. I also know a great hotel and I can book you a room,” was his reply.
What luck! How fortunate to find a sympathetic and helpful person in the midst of this busy hive of activity. At my Turkish benefactor’s shop, he did indeed pour me a Coke, and dialed the hotel to reserve a room. As I rested, he told me about his shop. His carpets were the “best in Turkey,” he said, and I could buy one and sell it for twice as much back in western Europe. It was then that I realized he was no simple good Samaritan – he did me a favor, and now he expected me to buy a carpet in return. I explained that I was backpacking on a budget, and besides, I couldn’t possibly carry a rug with me. “No problem,” he said. “I can ship it to any place you desire!” Not taking no for an answer, he motioned his employee to continue unrolling carpet after carpet at my feet. At that moment, the bells on the shop door jingled, and an unsuspecting couple entered. With his attention diverted, I grabbed my backpack and the piece of paper with the hotel information, croaked “thanks,” and sprinted by the incoming tourists. It took every ounce of strength I had left.
The hotel turned out to be the Pera Palace Hotel, an elegant, venerable Istanbul institution. Agatha Christie lived in room 411 and wrote Murder on the Orient Express there. It was way over my budget, but I was very weak and needed a quiet, private place to crash. I slept for 18 hours, waking up once to try to shower, but my wobbly legs would not cooperate. After a couple of nights I recuperated sufficiently to check out, and was able to find the youth hostel, conveniently located near some of the city’s major attractions. Over the next few days I actually did some sightseeing, visiting Topkapi Palace and the grandiose Blue Mosque, and sipping tea at leafy sidewalk cafes. But as exotic and fascinating as Istanbul was, I yearned to get back to the comfort and familiarity of western Europe. The question was – how?
One option was a long, slow three-day train ride through former Soviet satellite states. Alternatively, getting back on a bus to travel anywhere was out of the question. That left flying as the only viable option. There was a small travel agency near the hostel, and according to the map on their wall, Vienna, Austria seemed to be the closest western European city. I told the fellow at the desk I wanted to buy a one-way ticket, and showed him my student ID card (I had taken some night classes recently). He quoted a student fare of $150. Sold! I handed him my VISA card, which resulted in a blank stare. Same with my American Express card. He only took cash – Turkish lira to be precise – of which I had very little. I asked him where I could pay with a credit card and he pointed me in the direction of the main office of Turkish Airlines.
The airline office consisted of a few surly agents behind plexiglass windows who must have flunked out of bank teller school, their faces never cracking a smile and their voices never changing inflection. When it was my turn, I showed my student ID and asked to buy a one-way ticket to Vienna. After punching a few computer keys, the agent droned: “$300 U.S.” Shocked, I asked why it was so much. In his monotone voice he explained that the student discount was only good up to a certain age, which I had surpassed. I couldn’t afford the full fare.
There was really only one course of action: acquire enough Turkish lira to purchase a student ticket from the travel agent back near the hostel, and pray he doesn’t look too closely at my student ID card. This strategy was not only risky, but complicated. First, I had to find the Istanbul American Express office. Second, write a personal check in the amount of $150. Third, receive American Express Travelers Cheques. Fourth, find a bank and cash the Travelers Cheques. Fifth, take the wad of cash to the travel agent and buy the ticket. It took hours, but all was going well up to the point of exchanging the Travelers Cheques, when one bank after another rejected them. Exasperated and feeling desperate, I finally noticed a very small American Express sticker in the window of a bank I hadn’t yet visited. The teller, who bore a striking resemblance to the surly tellers at the airline office, stared at the cheques, stared at me, and after a dramatic pause, whispered: “Please sign.” I guess the seventh bank was the charm.
A thick stack of lira notes in hand, I returned to the small travel agency and although it was almost 8 o’clock in the evening, the same fellow was behind the counter. Waving the cash, I smiled and asked him to write me a ticket. Issuing the ticket was a slow, manual process. He collected documents and information from me and filled out various forms and other pieces of paperwork. I expected him at any moment to tell me I was too old for the student discount, but whether he was simply inattentive, or more likely, just didn’t care, no such words were uttered. I left the travel agency with my discounted ticket for a flight to Vienna, leaving the next morning. The next day, as the airplane’s nose pitched upwards and the wheels left the runway, I felt a deep sense of freedom and relief – from what, I’m not really sure. Little did I know that a flight headed to Vienna that same morning had been hijacked. Fortunately, it wasn’t mine!
© 2021 L. Wechsler. All rights reserved.