At the start of the Bayram holidays, when some people kill a sheep, a cow or a camel and offer the meat to the less fortunate, at a time when over 3000 US servicemen and women and countless Iraqis have been killed in Iraq, as Saddam is hanged, as 2007 looms, I sit down at my quiet Saturday morning eggs in my apartment in Bursa before stepping out in the gushing cold air. Today I'm headed to Kapadokya.
It's the cold, early morning hustle and bustle with people going places and me too. It's a chilly wait on the metro station bench, an awkward seat on the train with stranger stealing glances from stranger, and an exposed moment among the Turks when my girlfriend calls me and I'm speaking English. Then, it's a hop on the endless circulation of the city's shared taxis to the long-distance bus terminal. And there, surrounded by the random collection of characters and personalities that only a long-distance bus terminal could cluster I order a tea, a warm cup of familiarity in an otherwise sea of strangeness. My adrenaline is pumping. I am alert. I am traveling.
I am waiting for my girlfriend, who is being dropped off unwittingly by her parents. They think she is traveling alone to meet with a group of college friends in Istanbul. I feel like I'm in one of those French films in the 60's waiting for a secret rendezvous in a European train station. But no, I'm actually here waiting for a secret rendezvous in a Turkish bus station.
The minutes digitally increase on my cell phone. I'm holding it in my hand because I can't feel it vibrate in my pocket. Also, it's cheap, so the ring is annoyingly stupid. Where is she? More tea? No, it'll just get my heart rate up and make me more anxious. Where is she? BRRRRRRR. The table rattles as if the plate-tectonics under me are shifting. No, that's my cell phone.
"We're going to Kapadokya!" She sings in a fairly boppy little tune. "We're going to Kapadokya!"
And with that a new hit single is born. It will continue to play on the airwaves in our minds for the next few days. We're going to Kapadokya.
Eda arrives with a kiss for both cheeks and her luggage. Days later, in "a couple moment" she will accuse me for not bringing soap or shampoo, depending on her to carry it, which may or may not be true, and come to think of it, not a bad idea. But of course, being a good southern gentleman, I'm happy to haul one of her suitcases through bus stations, airports, and across the city of Istanbul. But all that's foresight, because now "We're going to Kapadokya!"
It's the cold, early morning hustle and bustle with people going places and me too. It's a chilly wait on the metro station bench, an awkward seat on the train with stranger stealing glances from stranger, and an exposed moment among the Turks when my girlfriend calls me and I'm speaking English. Then, it's a hop on the endless circulation of the city's shared taxis to the long-distance bus terminal. And there, surrounded by the random collection of characters and personalities that only a long-distance bus terminal could cluster I order a tea, a warm cup of familiarity in an otherwise sea of strangeness. My adrenaline is pumping. I am alert. I am traveling.
I am waiting for my girlfriend, who is being dropped off unwittingly by her parents. They think she is traveling alone to meet with a group of college friends in Istanbul. I feel like I'm in one of those French films in the 60's waiting for a secret rendezvous in a European train station. But no, I'm actually here waiting for a secret rendezvous in a Turkish bus station.
The minutes digitally increase on my cell phone. I'm holding it in my hand because I can't feel it vibrate in my pocket. Also, it's cheap, so the ring is annoyingly stupid. Where is she? More tea? No, it'll just get my heart rate up and make me more anxious. Where is she? BRRRRRRR. The table rattles as if the plate-tectonics under me are shifting. No, that's my cell phone.
"We're going to Kapadokya!" She sings in a fairly boppy little tune. "We're going to Kapadokya!"
And with that a new hit single is born. It will continue to play on the airwaves in our minds for the next few days. We're going to Kapadokya.
Eda arrives with a kiss for both cheeks and her luggage. Days later, in "a couple moment" she will accuse me for not bringing soap or shampoo, depending on her to carry it, which may or may not be true, and come to think of it, not a bad idea. But of course, being a good southern gentleman, I'm happy to haul one of her suitcases through bus stations, airports, and across the city of Istanbul. But all that's foresight, because now "We're going to Kapadokya!"
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