My Second First Impressions of Istanbul

My first view of Istanbul in 2007 brought with it giant red flags fluttering on sides of buildings and giant words in a language I learned two or three words of before my arrival.  I found myself on a long stretch of highway in a van that held three people –
all of whom knew very little English (and what I could decipher was garbled and sounded a bit like an “ohmm” done in a vibrato).  My fingers clutched the armrest, and my eyes never wavered from looking straight ahead.  This did not prevent me noticing how like a car-chase scene things were outside; how frequently cars, buses, vans, and dolmuş swerved like snakes on crack.  I barely had time to appreciate the view as we crossed the Bosphorus. 

After I met the lojman landlord, Mustafa Bey, and realized that no one spoke English anywhere, I sat in my room in the fetal position sucking my thumb, and I wondered what the hell was going to happen to me and if the school who hired me really was just some operative that lured Americans into the country and did tests that might involve limb-elongation, mutilation, or public nudity.  Thankfully some of the residents of the lojman peeked out of their vibrant ivory doors and mumbled hellos.  I grew right at home, as well as one could in a place that truthfully resembled a sanitarium, at least on the bedroom floors.  Things went up from there.

My second first impressions of Istanbul were slightly different, but they did involve heading onto the highway and getting a weird taste in my mouth.  Up until I had landed, I tried to figure out what exactly lured me back to Istanbul after such a long absence from these Anatolian shores.  It was plaguing me like the day after a night of drinking bad tequila.  Returning to the opening moments of the first day should be the best place to begin, just to see what I would come across as Turkey welcomed me back with sweaty, rakı-infused arms.           

As I walked off the plane and into 28-degree sunlight barreling onto me, I had to take off the coat that was a necessity in London merely hours ago.  My brow created salty rivulets that ran down and made me look like a nervous, beer-gutted, 40-year-old man who has nothing better to do than ogle female passersby.  I finally made it through passport control and soon was ordered to send my suitcase through a giant X-ray machine that reminded me eerily of what I would be encased in for an MRI.  Things were going a bit rockier than I’d hoped.

I managed to get some lira and headed off through the pollution-clogged roads near Sabiha Gökçen and onto – again – highways chockablock with horns, merging traffic, and swearing, gesticulating drivers.  After turning onto a main road on the way to Kadıköy, we stopped and didn’t move for a minute or so.  Not a big deal?  Well, not to everyone.  A dolmuş driver became visibly mad that we had stopped in front of him, grew madder because he couldn’t weave around onto the sidewalk because pedestrians were blocking it, and grew madder still because a melon truck was parked alongside the bus, blocking the way onto the sidewalk where he most certainly would have gone if he had gotten the chance.

Like the title character in Centipede, we slithered through the ranks of soot-painted vehicles and arrived at the otogar near the ferry docks still in one piece.  Whew.  My suitcase and two other bags prevented me from being first off the bus.  Before me were two elderly people.  As the woman in front of me stepped over the threshold, the driver decided that everyone was off and closed the door, wedging her nicely like a makeshift doorstop.  I’m sure she was incensed beneath her burqa but I obviously couldn’t tell.  All of us in the back shouted at him to open; he did with a grumble, and I left lugging my bags to the nearest taxi.  I had no urge to lug all this back to Moda.

The first bloke I queried gave me a blank look as I told him the name of the street; I enunciated it ashamedly a second time.  Then, I decided to go for the nearest main road: Moda Caddesi.  Still nothing.  Moda Starbucks?  For the love of Allah, do you even know where that fucking place is?           

Nope.

His face taut with confusion, he ran over to some guy drinking çay and smoking, most likely, his 42^nd cigarette of the day.  The reaction was a shake of the head and a shrug.  I made my suitcase into an Ottoman (you know, the piece of furniture) and sat waiting for some semblance of knowledge I come to expect a cabbie to have.  The wait was in vain; I yearned to string both imbeciles up like you see kokoreç.  With those desires bubbling up within my normally comatose frame, I received my cue to head off on my own.  I reached a few hundred yards when my back began to dislike my brain.  Another taxi noticed this and pulled to the side.  He picked up my Wyoming-sized piece of luggage and asked where to go.  I informed him my street; he didn’t know that.  I gave him Moda Caddesi.  He nodded with a pained expression on his face and entered the cab.  I clarified that he only had to drop me off at the Moda Starbucks which was at the end of the street.  At this, he made it vehemently clear that he had the knowledge of where to go.

So I guess the journey from the airport to my place did not hold the magical and majestic tones that I had hoped would grace this article.  Both entrances into Istanbul were not heralded with cornets or flagons of wine in celebration, but mainly with people who couldn’t understand me and lots of frightening images of how one should never, ever, ever drive.

It finally came to me in a moment of clarity the next day right as our landlord dropped an industrial-sized bag of goods from an old resident in one of his apartments who had left unexpectedly.  Pork.  Normally one would be deprived of this type of meat while living in Istanbul unless you are willing to mutilate your wallet in order to afford such luxuries.  Well, this resident had the cash to spare and left it to catch ridiculous freezer burn.  There was no hidden charge to claim it, no hike in rent, no deals on the side.  Just honest-to-God pork.  For free.

How this victory felt in receiving nearly-untouchable food is tough to describe.  Both of my housemates were gob-smacked when they saw the new arrivals.  It was simply unheard of, simply jaw-dropping, simply – if I may be so modest – life-altering.  The expletives  “Oh my god!” and “Fucking hell!” were continuously repeated until they were some crass mantra said just to say something.

Then, a few days later, I had the treat of eating sausages.  Actual pork sausages.  And it was heavenly.  No better adjective could be used.  Sure, to some it’s just a piece of meat that’s been grilled over a tiny barbecue on a lonely terrace in Acıbadem.  But when it’s something I love so much to eat, and that thing is not easily attainable, how glorious it is when you have it for that short amount of time.

In a few weeks, I’ll be back looking for a can of Guinness somewhere in Istanbul (for a decent price as well); in the meantime, I’ll be swimming in Efesian waters until I taste a bit of the stout that stole my heart many years ago.

-- Kevin Risner