Flight companions and ground transport challenges

When I found myself seated between a large man and a small boy I couldn't help but worry about the eight hours to come. Though I'd signed up for a window seat when I booked the flight, somehow over the ensuing weeks my place had migrated to the middle of the plane. Also, I had developed diabetes, as the flight attendants insisted I accept a diabetic dinner and breakfast, though I assured them I had not asked for such special treatment.

I need not have been concerned about my seat mates, as they proved polite and companionable; the large man took our shared armrest, but I didn't mind, seeing as how the small boy wasn't large enough to contest for the other one. He was about four and did not show the least impatience over the course of the flight. During the night he slept leaned against his mother, occasionally stretching and pushing a socked foot against my leg, which I found reassuring.

Two other young boys, seated four rows ahead, proved less charming. They took turns crying for much of the flight, both in a particularly unpleasant manner: a petulant screaming that would go on for ten or fifteen minutes at a time, pause briefly, and then commence again. I'm sure they were tired, but I also felt they were being selfish. I dozed through their screams, not really too bothered since after all nothing whatsoever could be done. A few of the other passengers, though, could not contain themselves. Several times someone emitted a loud, frustrated "shhhhh!" and once some one said, "SHUT up!" These remonstrances were mixed in with the parents' own, but none seemed to have the least effect.

I arrived in Amsterdam at eleven in the morning and walking towards customs found myself behind the couple with the two crying children. The boys stopped walking and clung to their mother's legs, and dropped to their knees and indulged in yet another set of tantrums. I thought they would've been worn out. The father said, "stop crying! stop crying!" But they did not relent as I passed them and happily passed out of their lives forever.

I had a window seat on the second flight, three hours to Istanbul, and a six-year-old behind me kicked and pushed his feet against the back of my seat at regular intervals. His Turkish parents seemed to consider this behavior reasonable. The mother held a younger boy on her lap, and whenever he was thwarted (which was often) he would let out a scream that was shockingly painful for anyone in the vicinity.

Two airports serve Istanbul, and I flew into the distant, secondary one. I had been worried about how to get from the airport to my hotel in Istanbul (the guidebooks hadn't offered sufficient details). I could've simply taken a taxi, but that seemed giving in right at the start. Outside the terminal were a number of different sorts of buses, but no signs. I walked up and down forlornly, hoping, but when that didn't work I asked one of the bus drivers, "Sultanahmet?" (the part of the city I needed to get to). "No," he said, "no Sultanahment." But he pointed to another bus and said, "Taksim." As close as I could get from the airport; I got on.

A man collected the fare after we startd (13 Turkish lira, about $8). The traffic was heavy on the way into the heart of the surprisingly hilly city. Where the cars and buses slowed to a stop-and-go pace people stood on the shoulder trying to sell bottled water and bouquets of flowers. Men offering small bread rings, piled on a single stick, stood between the lanes.

Dark had fallen by the time I reached Taksim Square, a busy hive of shops and people, cars and buses. And no signs. I wandered about for some time before finding a ticket booth beside a jumble of buses. I asked the unshaven man behind the glass, "Sultanahmet?" and he said, ""61B." I had to ask him to repeat it a couple times, but I was glad he spoke enough English to accommodate me.

It took some looking, but I found the bus and got on. Soon we crossed the Golden Horn, just east of the Bosphorus; lit up freighters and ferries filled the waterways. The bus driver was friendly and helpful, and at a stoplight I showed him my map and asked where I should get off. The map confused him, but eventually he decided I should stay on until the end of his line. When I got off he gestured down the street, rather apologetically, as if he wished he could give me better directions.

I was getting close but was still anxious. Signage difficulty was becoming a theme; sometimes, I found, Istanbul streets are marked by signs, but often they are not. I wandered in what I thought was the correct direction (also, the streets aren't straight). A man at a food stand must've recognized my confusion because he asked in English and unbidden if I needed help. His directions did help, but soon I found myself on a dark and empty street, heading down a long hill. "Shit," I said out loud.

But the lights and people soon reappeared, and I came to what I thought was Ebbussud, the single street I'd been looking for (no sign), and it was, and after a few more minutes I stepped into through the glass doors of the Erboy Hotel. Three stars, plush red chairs spread around small glass tables in the tiled lobby. A man at the desk checked me in. I was exhausted, but I listened politely while he showed me a city map and described in detail some of the main tourist sites as well as the pleasures of various day tours.

My room was small, on the second floor, with a balcony door, a wrought iron balcony grate, but no balcony. The doorway overlooked a narrow alley filled with restaurants where people were still dining; the sound of voices, of cutlery on plates, and of Turkish music wafted into the room. The television had channels not only in Turkish but English, German, Spanish, Italian, Russian, and a few others I think. I discovered nothing about the room, though, until I got the lights on, which seems like it should have been easy enough but wasn't. At first I thought they were faulty, as none of the switches worked. But eventually, when on the verge of returning to the front desk, I discovered a card slot on the wall by the door: put in the door card and lights come on. But one must leave the card in; if removed, the lights go off after a few minutes, as I soon found out. This short episode struck me as just about right: I didn't yet even know how to turn the lights on in Turkey.

Finally I lay down on the wide bed, twenty full hours after leaving home. Amazing that I could come so far in so little time, but it hardly seemed little while I was on the way.