I arrived at the small airport on the Asian side of Istanbul after connecting in Frankfurt this evening to realize that my image of this airport as a quieter, less crazy one than the huge Istanbul Ataturk Airport was about to be destroyed. I have never seen such a mob as the one in the lines for Passport Control at Sabiha Gokcen Airport this evening. I was welcomed back to Turkish culture by immediately feeling the sense of urgency in the air, people watching each other to see if someone "cut" in "line"( as if the mob could be identified as a line of people anyway). With the body heat and body odor starting to flare up, I began to oddly wish I was at Ataturk airport, something I thought I would never wish for. Two ladies who had scooted their way up in line and were now at my back frantically discussed in Turkish, "you see that child and woman way up there? We were right behind them before! How did that happen?" Then some more mumbling and discussion and suddenly one of the women shouts to a grandmother further back in the line, holding a new baby who is crying that cute newborn cry, "Why don't you move to the front of the line? It's such a shame, we are all Muslims here, we will let you through." The grandmother holding the baby, and the new mother beside her seemed grateful to the woman for suggesting it and started to make their way forward. Of course at this point everyone was looking, because staring is a favorite pastime here. As the women and the baby made their way past the two women and myself, they got stuck in the mob again. From that time, until they were successfully through passport control, I had to listen to the women behind me complain about how rude people are, in a tone of voice that implied that they were the only thoughtful ones in the place. "Look at this, such a shame, such a shame."
Patiently waiting my turn with my brand new passport in hand I felt a little sad that the agent would not be able to see my one year school visa from 2001 and the numerous other Turkish tourist visa entries filling my now expired passport. This is the eleventh time I have entered Turkey since my first visit in 1998. I guess I am what you could call, a Turkophile. There is something about the chaos, the beauty, the unwritten traditions and ancient playgrounds that captured me the first time and have made me a prisoner of the beautiful melancholy that is Istanbul.
To my surprise, when I reached the counter, I had the same experience I normally have when I enter this country. The agent asked me upon seeing my American Passport, "did you buy the visa?" To which I automatically replied in Turkish, "yes, I bought it." I guess my brain switched, because it wasn't my plan to answer in Turkish. A little smile came to his face, like many people who first hear a blonde haired blue eyed tall American girl speaking their language, and we then conducted the typical conversation consisting of how did you learn Turkish, "I studied here for a year," wow, very good, your Turkish is great. (I could be slaughtering the language and they would still say this, so sweet).
Where am I now you ask? Well, for tonight, I'm staying a hostel in the ever-bustling Taksim. This was a result of last minute planning and the unfortunate incident of my Turkish cell phone refusing to recharge minutes, saying the SIM card was inactive. I had planned to stay with one of my participants (who became a close friend) from last year's summer work and travel program. Not being able to recharge my phone, I made my way to Taksim, parked myself at a coffee shop with a wireless connection and tried to work out my predicament. I called Ebru from Skype and explained the situation. I told her I'd stay at a hostel tonight and meet up with her tomorrow since it was already late and I was tired. I love Taksim because although you are one of thousands of people walking down this "Freedom Boulevard," no one stares at you. I was more than ready to leave Istanbul last summer after staying in the Old Town with the American ladies I brought here for a cultural and educational tour. You see, in Old Town, the only people walking down the street are tourists, and the sharks, I mean shop keepers, can shout out and bother you as much as they want. Somehow they never get tired of hearing themselves harass people. Does it make them feel powerful? Do they think it's appropriate?
Anyway, making my way through the crowds of young people, the blaring music changing every 50 feet as I passed one restaurant or night club after another, I found the Chambers of the Boheme, an inconspicuous old building, one among many in this historical district. After being showed to my room and given my key having made no reservations and having been given no instructions on how to register or pay, I decided to go back downstairs and see what they needed from me. Ahmet, happy to welcome me, invited me to sit down as he played his computer game. "Would you like anything to drink?" Water sounded good to me, but he said I could have anything, "tea, coffee?" So I went with the coffee. One quick phone call later and our coffee was on its way. "What are we doing?" I wondered to myself. Oh yeah, I'm in Turkey. "Don't get antsy with the process, just go with the flow," I reminded myself. Our conversation led to him wanting his son to come to the US on my summer work and travel program and then asking, "Rebecca, benimle evlenir misin?" (will you marry me?). (Apparently just a joke, repeating the commercial that was on t.v., but I told him "no" just make it clear.). Still into his game he let me know that he'd make a copy of my passport eventually, and I could come back down and get it later.
I have this four bed room to myself. The night club next door is playing my favorite Turkish songs. Intermittent group shouts of chorus lines makes me smile and reminds me that I'm back in a singing culture, where no party seems to end without people breaking into song. I'm tired but happy. And I feel safe.
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