After complying to the weary life of a stagnant Canadian for long enough, the bite by which the proverbial bug of travel doth inflict had become more of a relentless gnawing, a rabid erosion of the flesh, unappeasable by anything less than the wayfarer’s topical suppressant: a boarding pass. In other words, it was time to exchange my familiar confines of Kelowna, BC for the warm and lustrous unknown of South Africa. Two glorious weeks would be spent exploring beatific Cape Town in the hopes of befriending all the tropical penguins... or at least getting drunk enough on South African wine to believe they had befriended me, and perhaps even offered to accompany me home. But I digress. First, I would have to get there. Fifty three hours of getting there to be exact.
Have you ever sat on an airplane, looked around at your fellow passengers and wondered what this eclectic bunch of strangers would be like in the event of a sudden disaster? An emergency landing on icy pacific waters, a tragic crash on a deserted island… Who would survive? Who would see their maker? Whose rippling forearms would sweep my unconscious body protectively against his (or hers for that matter, I am prone to waver) chiseled chest, whisking me fearlessly away to safety…
I find this pre-take off routine quite settling, and practice it as often as I can. On the first of what felt like three hundred fights to come, traveling Kelowna to Vancouver, I scanned the fuselage in search of my selfless hero and the secondary characters that may or may not die off, depending on the severity of our impending doom. The plane was on the smaller scale and barely half full. The chair beside me, like most others, was empty, which boded easy access for my potential saviour, thus boding quite well for my general survival. Sitting across the aisle from me was 16D, a middle aged asian gentleman with a neck pillow closely the same size as his entire torso and a fanny pack, which he had stowed abidingly under the seat in front of him. He had delicate wrists and a look of permanent confusion. His chances of survival were slim. Directly in front of me, 15A and 15B, were father and son, matching in classic black and white Adidas trackers, and for the amount they spoke of Arsenal and Tottenham statistics, I had briefly convinced myself that this was actually a British Airways flight and I was in fact headed home to my beloved Londontown. But then the stewardess started speaking in french reminding me of the emergency exits and my current task at hand…
The pimple faced, ripely pubescent son, I also deemed condemned. If he couldn’t even place his carry-on safely in the overhead bin without help from his daddy, how, I thought, was he going to start a fire amid a snowy mountainside, or find his safety floatation device before the plane plummeted to the ocean’s fatal depths, inevitably taking him and his ridiculous tracksuit with it.
His father, on the other hand, held the promise of leadership. He wore his outdated nineties suit with pride and confidence, which made me believe he could proudly and confidently boost our morale in the darkest of times; see us through the bouts of starvation, the doubts of mortality, the tribulations of my newly blossoming love affair with the chiseled superhero (let’s call him Jack for the sake of whatever small amount of loyalty I still hold to Lost.) Relationships are hard enough on their own without adding the weight of whether you’ll live to see the end of each day. The guidance of a wise, yet kind hearted father figure would be of utmost necessity.
It was 15C, however, who really grabbed my attention. For the first time in all of my hypothetical aircraft catastrophes, I found myself three seats away from an off the clock stewardess. This was a game changer. Our chances of orderly survival had just skyrocketed. 15C would surely guide us calmly through a proper brace for impact, be fumble free when opening the emergency doors, enable the bouncy slide while coolly reminding everyone to remove their footwear; all things we should be able to do ourselves if we’d bother to read the safety manuals or listen to the rants of obnoxious flight attendants in varying languages. However, the longer I stared at said stewardess, her acrylic nails sifting through strands of bleached hair, pulling at split ends with the same intensity one might contract when resolving world hunger or calculating the square root of nine-hundred (it’s thirty, but math is hard), the more I began to doubt her capacity for our mortal success.
I was about to give up hope and succumb to my imminent demise when through my peripherals I saw a stirring several seats down. A ruff of brown, wavy locks wound softly at the crown of a seemingly large head-- referred to by some as a man bun-- paraded itself like feathers from a testosterone charged peacock from the top of what looked to be 9B. The man bun ascended, revealing a strong neck and wide, tenacious shoulders. I watched as the body attached shuffled with only mild awkwardness out from the seats and into the aisle where it stood, sturdy and tall. Very tall. So very tall. As arms the size of rippling tree trunks effortlessly grasped a burgundy rolley case from the overhead bin, I knew I had found my salvation, my conquistador, defender of consciousness, provider of life ever after.
Now that I had ascertained my survival, and had allotted a select few worthy enough to survive alongside, I briefly pondered our foreseeable existence on one of British Columbia’s many deserted islands… The inevitable next step was to wean out who would be the first to be eaten when what minuscule resources we conjure become quickly diminished. More times than not, if I’m being honest, it’s usually me. I give myself no special privileges just because I’m the creator of these fantasies. I am at risk just like any other. And because I have an almost perfect fatty meat to muscle ratio my candidacy can’t exactly be denied. I thought about the twelve in-case-of-emergency granola bars I’d stuffed in my bag and wondered if I’d be the kind of person to reveal their existence to my fellow survivors, divvying up the rations, perhaps even sacrificing my own for the one token pregnant woman and her at risk fetus. Or would I guiltlessly slink far off into the forest and devour them all before anyone was the wiser? OR, would I use them as leverage for greater things; a black market exchange for a toothbrush (I’d say it got lost in the crash but I really just forgot to pack mine), or condoms (always a necessity on a deserted island-- pheromones be ablaze in critical situations and I wasn’t about to sacrifice my vagina for whatever enormous offspring my eight foot superhero might produce. I’d like to say it was a challenging call to make, but we all know I’d probably just eat them.
My second flight, headed to Istanbul-- after a seven hour layover in Montreal where I spent the majority of my time silently reviling the French Canadians and their intolerably obnoxious dialect (I'm allowed to judge, I once had a passionate love affair with one)-- was nine hours. These nine hours were spent in the middle seat of the middle row in between a three hundred year old Indian woman who smelled like three hundred years worth of Indian spice, and a slightly younger Pakistani woman who didn’t smell like marinated masala, but who had no teeth. Being an international flight, meaning unlimited complimentary alcohol, my plan was to get rip roaring drunk, pass out, and wake up not remotely fresh faced, but with zero recollection of the painful flight. This did not happen. Two midget bottles of wine and three whiskeys later I was entirely conscious and balling my eyes out over a David Bowie documentary. This did not please the three hundred year old Indian woman. But the Pakistani lady showed empathy by rubbing my arm and flashing her gummy smile. We had briefly bonded when earlier, her minimal understanding of the English language had caused her great stress when it came to ordering the chicken over the rigatoni. Again, we bonded when I showed her that she could hang her purse on the tiny coat hook on the back of the seat. And finally, our relationship was solidified when she stretched her legs across the empty seat between us, motioning me to do the same and before falling asleep, mildly intertwined, she patted my leg, and smiling she said, My daughter...
The rest of my flight, rightfully, was but a blur. Next thing I knew I was standing at Turkish customs being handed my stamped passport, listening to a relatively good looking agent speak at me in Turkish, then respond with but a giggle when I inquired as to what exactly he had said. Ten minutes later I was boarding a HavasBus bound to make the most out of a ten hour layover in the city centre. As I gazed eagerly out my window at the swiftly passing city outskirts, I couldn't help but feel a set of dark eyes lingering on me from my left. These eyes continued to linger for the forty minute journey to Taksim Square-- a tourist hub (ie: the safest place for a wee white girl to explore alone at night) and my intended destination. I stood to exit, and these eyes, now attached to the body of a dark haired, dark skinned 30 something man whom I'd soon learn was Iranian and called Yassir, smiled in acknowledgment and in the most gentlemanly manner, allowed me to exit before him. The minute we made eye contact I cursed myself, for I knew that this would not be the last of Yassir. Not ten feet from the bus, I hear the dark man asking,
"Are you Russian?"
This is not the first, nor the second, or even third time for that matter, that I've been mistaken for this eastern nationality and I can only assume it's because I may very well be the reincarnation of Anastasia.
"Canadian." I respond, knowingly but unable to not enable his conversation.
"Canada! I love Canada!" Yassir says with what sounds like sincere enthusiasm.
"Have you been?"
Pause.
"No."
"Right."
Yassir has now closed the ten foot gap between us and asks me what I'm doing in Istanbul. Without my prompting he tells me he is here to shop. To get new clothes. Specifically shoes and sweaters. When I tell him I am only here for the evening on a layover, he immediately demands we go for dinner. He knows a delicious Iranian restaurant he will (not could, or can, but will) take me to. Instead of telling him off I hear myself respond,
"To be fair, if I'm only in Turkey for an evening I think it'd only make sense to--"
"Eat Turkish food!"
We're already finishing each other's sentences.
"No problem, no problem. I know just the spot." By now we had reached the heart of Taksim Square. It was pouring rain and I had just stepped my seasonally inappropriate sandalled foot into one of several puddles yet to be unwelcomingly penetrated. I had two options: a) blow off this self titled 'non-practicing muslim' and continue, solo, with the list of places I had responsibly mapped out days prior or 2) give my mother yet another brush with cardiac arrest by doing what I do best… push the grace of God to the ultimate limit and once again risk getting my kidneys sold on a foreign black market for the sake of attaining a decent local meal with a complete and not remotely trustworthy stranger.
I justified my choice by stating the following, with much conviction…
"Fine. But we have to stay in this area. It's the only area I've mapped out."
"No problem, no problem."
And just like that, my faith was assured and off we went; Yassir, myself, and my relentless death wish strutting our way through the soaking streets of Istanbul. (Sorry, Ma.)
Between ducking under passing umbrellas, running through death defying traffic, and doing everything not to drown in the Turkish rain, Yassir managed to introduce me to some kind of mindblowingly delicious roasted Turkish street nut (which I would later learn was literally just a chestnut), purchase me a much needed umbrella and a not so needed flower crown, and convince me to get in a cab after I was adamant that I would not leave the immediate area.
"No problem, don't worry. Five minutes." As the cab bordered on ten minutes, and then twelve, I began to scroll through the selection of heading options for my forthcoming tombstone…
1) Herein lies the world's most naive traveler, and the last of its blind trust. May she rest in piece (spelling intended because I will be found in pieces)
2) From the depths of this dirt lies the ultimate demise of the delusional (I've always been a fan of alliteration)
3) Fucking idiot 1989-2017
BUT, as my ever tested luck would have it, we do finally arrive at what is actually the most splendid area of the city. Right off the water, next to a harbour of ferry boats, sat this multi story building, its entrance nestled in a dimly lit cobblestone alleyway, littered with tiny cloaked tables and fairy lights from neighbouring cafes, and for the first time, I felt like I was back in Europe.
"Come, come." Yassir takes my hand and guides me through the doors of a restaurant which plainly looks to be in the middle of heavy refurbishing. Sawdust covered the marble floor, chainsaws were scattered at random, tables were turned on themselves, half broken chairs stacked atop, plywood piled high in every corner. "This way…" He continued to lead me up a set of dark stairs that showed no sign of allowable entry, but because somewhere in life I'd managed to gain this innate ability to give little to no regard for any type of rationality or reason, I followed, resolutely.
The top floor was constructed of an entire wall front of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbour with not a single patron inhabiting the lining tables. An endearingly enthusiastic and enthusiastically chubby Turk greeted us from across the room as if he'd known us for years (he had not).
"VIP seats for VIP customers!" He pronounced, as he unlatched the windows aligning our table, letting the sea breeze burst through the empty floor. "Two Turkish Chai! On the house! For my very special friends!"
With two traditional Turkish chai, he brought two unnecessary menus, for when we tried to order, we were immediately told what we wanted was no good and that we'd much prefer to have this instead. Thankfully, what he had pointed to along with his confident declaration was lamb kebab. I love lamb kebab.
And so we sat, Yassir and myself, eating traditional Turkish kebab, drinking traditional Turkish tea, looking out onto traditional Turkish landscape; had he been attractive I might have found this to be the utmost romantic. But he was sweet, and kind, and for the rest of our dinner we spoke about his family, and my family. He showed me photos of his nine siblings. He told me about his two nephews, Muhammad and Ali. I laughed at the reference, and he looked at me blankly, which made me think these were just typical names for boys in Iran and neither were chosen in the hopes of them floating like a butterfly or stinging like a bee. And just as I had nearly convinced myself of the evening's complete innocence, my spontaneous Iranian, the uncle to Muhammad Ali, asked, most sincerely, for my hand in marriage.
Now I won't lie, I did allow the idea to sit with me for a fair moment or two. He did own a very reputable cell phone repair shop, offered to share our time between Canada and Iran and Dakar (where he was currently residing, and where, for the life of me I could not locate on a map), plus he had exquisite taste in restaurants…
Alas, I could not deny that I simply wasn't ready to be tied down, and so I had to part with Yassir (despite the noble fight he put up, bless him) and off I went, well fed, unscathed, and back to navigate the unknown streets of Istanbul, not Constantinople.
By the time I had cut ties with my Istan-boyfriend, there was little time to complete the list of things I had wanted to accomplish. First, was Istanbul's "one and only traditional irish bar".. also known as U2, which only further proved its legitimacy…
But Bono had deceived me, and it was closed. As was the Church of Saint Anthony of Padua (because obviously my main priorities in a city such as this would be ordering a questionable guinness in a poor excuse for an Irish bar and experiencing the only catholic church in a muslim country). And of course the most prioritized destination on the list… A turkish Jazz bar.
However, refusing to succumb to the world of cell phone data, I swiftly found myself at a random Turkish cafe no bigger than a closet where, in return for use of its wifi I agreed to try Turkish raki: a relatively strong Turkish version of Greek ouzo that, because of my limited time frame, I downed in one gulp.
I was now traditionally Turkey drunk, swaying obliviously down the windy cobblestone streets of Istanbul in search of not so traditional Turkish Gypsy Jazz. Eventually, to my plastered surprise, I found it. But not before stumbling upon a hole in the wall art gallery that defined itself by turning old Van Gogh's into abstract backgrounds for Turkish landscape. In a raki haze I bought half their supply.
When I finally arrived at Nardis Jazz Cafe, the gypsy jazz had already begun. The door was vaguely labelled, and a cast iron gate lay intimidatingly across it. A very large Turkish man led me through a narrow hallway of exposed brick and into a small room with few tables surrounding an even smaller stage. The place was full, save for two empty stools at the bar.
"One is taken, one is not." Was all he said before disappearing behind another brick wall. I sat in the stool which didn't encompass the remnants of an occupier: a bowl of half eaten peanuts, what looked to be a barely touched vodka soda, and a handful of bloody tissues… Naturally.
The band consisted of three players: a very pretty guitarist, a bassist, and a saxophonist. I had found three beautiful Turkish musicians channelling Django Reinhardt in a bar that served the best whiskey sours I had ever encountered, with only the mild risk of contracting hepatitis from the stool next to me. I had found the closest thing to heaven this side of the Atlantic… Atlantic? Sure.
Just before the band took an odd, but welcomed shift to one of my favourite Coltrane tunes, a man finally reinhabited the adjacent stool, his right index finger cautiously erect, his left hand holding a plaster which I watched him awkwardly struggle to adhere with his nine remaining working fingers.
“May I?” He looked at me, half startled, then smiled helplessly.
“If you wouldn’t mind.” He had short, black, tightly curled hair and a narrow baby like face. He wore a burgundy sweater vest, and under, a creaseless dress shirt finished with a crisp bowtie. I was still drenched in rain remains and three day old airplane clothes.
“Dare I ask…?”
“Bar fight. You should see the other guy.” The injured man did not hide the pride in this witty response, internally congratulating himself with an externally overt smile.
“Glassing someone in a jazz bar, how very classy.” His face tightened and he shook his head vigorously.
“I am only joking. I didn’t do anything. The glass, it just broke. I sat it down on this…” he brushed the bar top with his free hand, “ever so gently and it shattered. Just like that.” The man’s voice was soft but tentative.
“Sure, that’s what they all say.” I winked, and he exhaled a nervous laugh as if he’d been holding his breath since our fingers had met. “You a fan of jazz?”
“Not really. I’m from Saudi Arabia.”
“Do Saudi Arabians not like jazz…?”
“Oh! Haha, no. Hahaha. I mean, I’m just here visiting. Saw this place on accident.” The band had stopped playing and were now speaking to the intimate crowd. “Do you speak Turkish? Can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Nope. But it’s kinda nice though. Not knowing.”
“I don’t know either. I’m from--”
“Saudi Arabia.”
“Yes. Haha.” The band began to play again and we both ordered another round; me: whiskey sour number three, him: water with ice. Not vodka soda. We spoke about the things we’d done and seen, my short layover, his fourth visit to the city.
“May I ask you for your facebook?”
“Only if you promise not to propose.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“There are restaurants here I think you would like. I would like to make you a list. For when you return.”
“That’d be lovely.” His name was Eyad and he was lovely. With an array of potential eateries and a new cyber friend, it was time to leave Nardis, leave the odd mix of european cobbled streets and middle eastern vibes and continue southbound. Still without wifi, I asked the whiskey sour genius behind the bar if he would call me a cab. He wouldn’t. But told me there was a place down the road where cabs lined the streets. I told him I was directionally challenged and that he needed to be more specific. He looked at me as if he suddenly didn’t understand english and walked away. And so I walked-- stumbled-- “down the road” in search of “where cabs line the streets” and saw none. I did, however, see three men standing outside a hotel, and because I am nothing short of resourceful I politely inquired,
“Sorry good sirs, would you happen to know where I could get a taxi?” One of the men, the one randomly cradling a full bottle of Jagermeister replied that he would call me one, while immediately whipping his flip phone from his pocket, as if he were unholstering a pistol. How incredibly kind, this Jager man, I thought.
“Do you often stand on street corners with a full bottle of Jager?” I nodded at the bottle resting against his chest and he laughed.
“Only on weekends.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Would you like some?” I’d like to say I hesitated briefly, but that would be a lie.
“Yeah, go on then.” He poured the lid to the brim then cheers’d me with the bottle and chugged while I lid-shot. Not two seconds later my taxi arrived and I was gone.
The last eleven hours of my fifty three hour, three time zone, multi city escapade consisted of passing out in front of the national geographic channel and periodically waking up to the most pertinent information necessary to survive in South Africa: Animal Fight Club.
Fact. Crocodiles can snap their jaws eight times faster than a human can blink.
Fact. Male teenage elephants left to wander alone without a positive adult influence become punks (narrator’s word, not mine) and deliberately seek out rhinoceroses to bully. Rhinoceroses are generally known to be harmless creatures and want no trouble. The elephants know this; they’re just being dicks. These punk ass teenage elephants will literally pretend to be on an innocent stroll then BAM! Runs right into the unsuspecting rhino-- weighing the same as a school bus (my dad drives a school bus so I figure I have a fairly decent understanding of this immense impact.)
Fact. Rhino horns are not attached or grown from bone, but are formed from fused hairs that grow continuously from their skin.
Fact. I could sit on a tortoise and not crush it. So could an elephant. Not that I’m comparing myself to an elephant, by any means, but apparently I only weigh sixty pounds less than a baby one…
These useful facts helped guide my final flight to a seamless conclusion and when I finally landed on South African soil, I felt nothing short of prepared for what lay ahead, wild or otherwise…
Have you ever sat on an airplane, looked around at your fellow passengers and wondered what this eclectic bunch of strangers would be like in the event of a sudden disaster? An emergency landing on icy pacific waters, a tragic crash on a deserted island… Who would survive? Who would see their maker? Whose rippling forearms would sweep my unconscious body protectively against his (or hers for that matter, I am prone to waver) chiseled chest, whisking me fearlessly away to safety…
I find this pre-take off routine quite settling, and practice it as often as I can. On the first of what felt like three hundred fights to come, traveling Kelowna to Vancouver, I scanned the fuselage in search of my selfless hero and the secondary characters that may or may not die off, depending on the severity of our impending doom. The plane was on the smaller scale and barely half full. The chair beside me, like most others, was empty, which boded easy access for my potential saviour, thus boding quite well for my general survival. Sitting across the aisle from me was 16D, a middle aged asian gentleman with a neck pillow closely the same size as his entire torso and a fanny pack, which he had stowed abidingly under the seat in front of him. He had delicate wrists and a look of permanent confusion. His chances of survival were slim. Directly in front of me, 15A and 15B, were father and son, matching in classic black and white Adidas trackers, and for the amount they spoke of Arsenal and Tottenham statistics, I had briefly convinced myself that this was actually a British Airways flight and I was in fact headed home to my beloved Londontown. But then the stewardess started speaking in french reminding me of the emergency exits and my current task at hand…
The pimple faced, ripely pubescent son, I also deemed condemned. If he couldn’t even place his carry-on safely in the overhead bin without help from his daddy, how, I thought, was he going to start a fire amid a snowy mountainside, or find his safety floatation device before the plane plummeted to the ocean’s fatal depths, inevitably taking him and his ridiculous tracksuit with it.
His father, on the other hand, held the promise of leadership. He wore his outdated nineties suit with pride and confidence, which made me believe he could proudly and confidently boost our morale in the darkest of times; see us through the bouts of starvation, the doubts of mortality, the tribulations of my newly blossoming love affair with the chiseled superhero (let’s call him Jack for the sake of whatever small amount of loyalty I still hold to Lost.) Relationships are hard enough on their own without adding the weight of whether you’ll live to see the end of each day. The guidance of a wise, yet kind hearted father figure would be of utmost necessity.
It was 15C, however, who really grabbed my attention. For the first time in all of my hypothetical aircraft catastrophes, I found myself three seats away from an off the clock stewardess. This was a game changer. Our chances of orderly survival had just skyrocketed. 15C would surely guide us calmly through a proper brace for impact, be fumble free when opening the emergency doors, enable the bouncy slide while coolly reminding everyone to remove their footwear; all things we should be able to do ourselves if we’d bother to read the safety manuals or listen to the rants of obnoxious flight attendants in varying languages. However, the longer I stared at said stewardess, her acrylic nails sifting through strands of bleached hair, pulling at split ends with the same intensity one might contract when resolving world hunger or calculating the square root of nine-hundred (it’s thirty, but math is hard), the more I began to doubt her capacity for our mortal success.
I was about to give up hope and succumb to my imminent demise when through my peripherals I saw a stirring several seats down. A ruff of brown, wavy locks wound softly at the crown of a seemingly large head-- referred to by some as a man bun-- paraded itself like feathers from a testosterone charged peacock from the top of what looked to be 9B. The man bun ascended, revealing a strong neck and wide, tenacious shoulders. I watched as the body attached shuffled with only mild awkwardness out from the seats and into the aisle where it stood, sturdy and tall. Very tall. So very tall. As arms the size of rippling tree trunks effortlessly grasped a burgundy rolley case from the overhead bin, I knew I had found my salvation, my conquistador, defender of consciousness, provider of life ever after.
Now that I had ascertained my survival, and had allotted a select few worthy enough to survive alongside, I briefly pondered our foreseeable existence on one of British Columbia’s many deserted islands… The inevitable next step was to wean out who would be the first to be eaten when what minuscule resources we conjure become quickly diminished. More times than not, if I’m being honest, it’s usually me. I give myself no special privileges just because I’m the creator of these fantasies. I am at risk just like any other. And because I have an almost perfect fatty meat to muscle ratio my candidacy can’t exactly be denied. I thought about the twelve in-case-of-emergency granola bars I’d stuffed in my bag and wondered if I’d be the kind of person to reveal their existence to my fellow survivors, divvying up the rations, perhaps even sacrificing my own for the one token pregnant woman and her at risk fetus. Or would I guiltlessly slink far off into the forest and devour them all before anyone was the wiser? OR, would I use them as leverage for greater things; a black market exchange for a toothbrush (I’d say it got lost in the crash but I really just forgot to pack mine), or condoms (always a necessity on a deserted island-- pheromones be ablaze in critical situations and I wasn’t about to sacrifice my vagina for whatever enormous offspring my eight foot superhero might produce. I’d like to say it was a challenging call to make, but we all know I’d probably just eat them.
My second flight, headed to Istanbul-- after a seven hour layover in Montreal where I spent the majority of my time silently reviling the French Canadians and their intolerably obnoxious dialect (I'm allowed to judge, I once had a passionate love affair with one)-- was nine hours. These nine hours were spent in the middle seat of the middle row in between a three hundred year old Indian woman who smelled like three hundred years worth of Indian spice, and a slightly younger Pakistani woman who didn’t smell like marinated masala, but who had no teeth. Being an international flight, meaning unlimited complimentary alcohol, my plan was to get rip roaring drunk, pass out, and wake up not remotely fresh faced, but with zero recollection of the painful flight. This did not happen. Two midget bottles of wine and three whiskeys later I was entirely conscious and balling my eyes out over a David Bowie documentary. This did not please the three hundred year old Indian woman. But the Pakistani lady showed empathy by rubbing my arm and flashing her gummy smile. We had briefly bonded when earlier, her minimal understanding of the English language had caused her great stress when it came to ordering the chicken over the rigatoni. Again, we bonded when I showed her that she could hang her purse on the tiny coat hook on the back of the seat. And finally, our relationship was solidified when she stretched her legs across the empty seat between us, motioning me to do the same and before falling asleep, mildly intertwined, she patted my leg, and smiling she said, My daughter...
The rest of my flight, rightfully, was but a blur. Next thing I knew I was standing at Turkish customs being handed my stamped passport, listening to a relatively good looking agent speak at me in Turkish, then respond with but a giggle when I inquired as to what exactly he had said. Ten minutes later I was boarding a HavasBus bound to make the most out of a ten hour layover in the city centre. As I gazed eagerly out my window at the swiftly passing city outskirts, I couldn't help but feel a set of dark eyes lingering on me from my left. These eyes continued to linger for the forty minute journey to Taksim Square-- a tourist hub (ie: the safest place for a wee white girl to explore alone at night) and my intended destination. I stood to exit, and these eyes, now attached to the body of a dark haired, dark skinned 30 something man whom I'd soon learn was Iranian and called Yassir, smiled in acknowledgment and in the most gentlemanly manner, allowed me to exit before him. The minute we made eye contact I cursed myself, for I knew that this would not be the last of Yassir. Not ten feet from the bus, I hear the dark man asking,
"Are you Russian?"
This is not the first, nor the second, or even third time for that matter, that I've been mistaken for this eastern nationality and I can only assume it's because I may very well be the reincarnation of Anastasia.
"Canadian." I respond, knowingly but unable to not enable his conversation.
"Canada! I love Canada!" Yassir says with what sounds like sincere enthusiasm.
"Have you been?"
Pause.
"No."
"Right."
Yassir has now closed the ten foot gap between us and asks me what I'm doing in Istanbul. Without my prompting he tells me he is here to shop. To get new clothes. Specifically shoes and sweaters. When I tell him I am only here for the evening on a layover, he immediately demands we go for dinner. He knows a delicious Iranian restaurant he will (not could, or can, but will) take me to. Instead of telling him off I hear myself respond,
"To be fair, if I'm only in Turkey for an evening I think it'd only make sense to--"
"Eat Turkish food!"
We're already finishing each other's sentences.
"No problem, no problem. I know just the spot." By now we had reached the heart of Taksim Square. It was pouring rain and I had just stepped my seasonally inappropriate sandalled foot into one of several puddles yet to be unwelcomingly penetrated. I had two options: a) blow off this self titled 'non-practicing muslim' and continue, solo, with the list of places I had responsibly mapped out days prior or 2) give my mother yet another brush with cardiac arrest by doing what I do best… push the grace of God to the ultimate limit and once again risk getting my kidneys sold on a foreign black market for the sake of attaining a decent local meal with a complete and not remotely trustworthy stranger.
I justified my choice by stating the following, with much conviction…
"Fine. But we have to stay in this area. It's the only area I've mapped out."
"No problem, no problem."
And just like that, my faith was assured and off we went; Yassir, myself, and my relentless death wish strutting our way through the soaking streets of Istanbul. (Sorry, Ma.)
Between ducking under passing umbrellas, running through death defying traffic, and doing everything not to drown in the Turkish rain, Yassir managed to introduce me to some kind of mindblowingly delicious roasted Turkish street nut (which I would later learn was literally just a chestnut), purchase me a much needed umbrella and a not so needed flower crown, and convince me to get in a cab after I was adamant that I would not leave the immediate area.
"No problem, don't worry. Five minutes." As the cab bordered on ten minutes, and then twelve, I began to scroll through the selection of heading options for my forthcoming tombstone…
1) Herein lies the world's most naive traveler, and the last of its blind trust. May she rest in piece (spelling intended because I will be found in pieces)
2) From the depths of this dirt lies the ultimate demise of the delusional (I've always been a fan of alliteration)
3) Fucking idiot 1989-2017
BUT, as my ever tested luck would have it, we do finally arrive at what is actually the most splendid area of the city. Right off the water, next to a harbour of ferry boats, sat this multi story building, its entrance nestled in a dimly lit cobblestone alleyway, littered with tiny cloaked tables and fairy lights from neighbouring cafes, and for the first time, I felt like I was back in Europe.
"Come, come." Yassir takes my hand and guides me through the doors of a restaurant which plainly looks to be in the middle of heavy refurbishing. Sawdust covered the marble floor, chainsaws were scattered at random, tables were turned on themselves, half broken chairs stacked atop, plywood piled high in every corner. "This way…" He continued to lead me up a set of dark stairs that showed no sign of allowable entry, but because somewhere in life I'd managed to gain this innate ability to give little to no regard for any type of rationality or reason, I followed, resolutely.
The top floor was constructed of an entire wall front of floor to ceiling windows overlooking the harbour with not a single patron inhabiting the lining tables. An endearingly enthusiastic and enthusiastically chubby Turk greeted us from across the room as if he'd known us for years (he had not).
"VIP seats for VIP customers!" He pronounced, as he unlatched the windows aligning our table, letting the sea breeze burst through the empty floor. "Two Turkish Chai! On the house! For my very special friends!"
With two traditional Turkish chai, he brought two unnecessary menus, for when we tried to order, we were immediately told what we wanted was no good and that we'd much prefer to have this instead. Thankfully, what he had pointed to along with his confident declaration was lamb kebab. I love lamb kebab.
And so we sat, Yassir and myself, eating traditional Turkish kebab, drinking traditional Turkish tea, looking out onto traditional Turkish landscape; had he been attractive I might have found this to be the utmost romantic. But he was sweet, and kind, and for the rest of our dinner we spoke about his family, and my family. He showed me photos of his nine siblings. He told me about his two nephews, Muhammad and Ali. I laughed at the reference, and he looked at me blankly, which made me think these were just typical names for boys in Iran and neither were chosen in the hopes of them floating like a butterfly or stinging like a bee. And just as I had nearly convinced myself of the evening's complete innocence, my spontaneous Iranian, the uncle to Muhammad Ali, asked, most sincerely, for my hand in marriage.
Now I won't lie, I did allow the idea to sit with me for a fair moment or two. He did own a very reputable cell phone repair shop, offered to share our time between Canada and Iran and Dakar (where he was currently residing, and where, for the life of me I could not locate on a map), plus he had exquisite taste in restaurants…
Alas, I could not deny that I simply wasn't ready to be tied down, and so I had to part with Yassir (despite the noble fight he put up, bless him) and off I went, well fed, unscathed, and back to navigate the unknown streets of Istanbul, not Constantinople.
By the time I had cut ties with my Istan-boyfriend, there was little time to complete the list of things I had wanted to accomplish. First, was Istanbul's "one and only traditional irish bar".. also known as U2, which only further proved its legitimacy…
But Bono had deceived me, and it was closed. As was the Church of Saint Anthony of Padua (because obviously my main priorities in a city such as this would be ordering a questionable guinness in a poor excuse for an Irish bar and experiencing the only catholic church in a muslim country). And of course the most prioritized destination on the list… A turkish Jazz bar.
However, refusing to succumb to the world of cell phone data, I swiftly found myself at a random Turkish cafe no bigger than a closet where, in return for use of its wifi I agreed to try Turkish raki: a relatively strong Turkish version of Greek ouzo that, because of my limited time frame, I downed in one gulp.
I was now traditionally Turkey drunk, swaying obliviously down the windy cobblestone streets of Istanbul in search of not so traditional Turkish Gypsy Jazz. Eventually, to my plastered surprise, I found it. But not before stumbling upon a hole in the wall art gallery that defined itself by turning old Van Gogh's into abstract backgrounds for Turkish landscape. In a raki haze I bought half their supply.
When I finally arrived at Nardis Jazz Cafe, the gypsy jazz had already begun. The door was vaguely labelled, and a cast iron gate lay intimidatingly across it. A very large Turkish man led me through a narrow hallway of exposed brick and into a small room with few tables surrounding an even smaller stage. The place was full, save for two empty stools at the bar.
"One is taken, one is not." Was all he said before disappearing behind another brick wall. I sat in the stool which didn't encompass the remnants of an occupier: a bowl of half eaten peanuts, what looked to be a barely touched vodka soda, and a handful of bloody tissues… Naturally.
The band consisted of three players: a very pretty guitarist, a bassist, and a saxophonist. I had found three beautiful Turkish musicians channelling Django Reinhardt in a bar that served the best whiskey sours I had ever encountered, with only the mild risk of contracting hepatitis from the stool next to me. I had found the closest thing to heaven this side of the Atlantic… Atlantic? Sure.
Just before the band took an odd, but welcomed shift to one of my favourite Coltrane tunes, a man finally reinhabited the adjacent stool, his right index finger cautiously erect, his left hand holding a plaster which I watched him awkwardly struggle to adhere with his nine remaining working fingers.
“May I?” He looked at me, half startled, then smiled helplessly.
“If you wouldn’t mind.” He had short, black, tightly curled hair and a narrow baby like face. He wore a burgundy sweater vest, and under, a creaseless dress shirt finished with a crisp bowtie. I was still drenched in rain remains and three day old airplane clothes.
“Dare I ask…?”
“Bar fight. You should see the other guy.” The injured man did not hide the pride in this witty response, internally congratulating himself with an externally overt smile.
“Glassing someone in a jazz bar, how very classy.” His face tightened and he shook his head vigorously.
“I am only joking. I didn’t do anything. The glass, it just broke. I sat it down on this…” he brushed the bar top with his free hand, “ever so gently and it shattered. Just like that.” The man’s voice was soft but tentative.
“Sure, that’s what they all say.” I winked, and he exhaled a nervous laugh as if he’d been holding his breath since our fingers had met. “You a fan of jazz?”
“Not really. I’m from Saudi Arabia.”
“Do Saudi Arabians not like jazz…?”
“Oh! Haha, no. Hahaha. I mean, I’m just here visiting. Saw this place on accident.” The band had stopped playing and were now speaking to the intimate crowd. “Do you speak Turkish? Can you understand what they’re saying?”
“Nope. But it’s kinda nice though. Not knowing.”
“I don’t know either. I’m from--”
“Saudi Arabia.”
“Yes. Haha.” The band began to play again and we both ordered another round; me: whiskey sour number three, him: water with ice. Not vodka soda. We spoke about the things we’d done and seen, my short layover, his fourth visit to the city.
“May I ask you for your facebook?”
“Only if you promise not to propose.”
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“There are restaurants here I think you would like. I would like to make you a list. For when you return.”
“That’d be lovely.” His name was Eyad and he was lovely. With an array of potential eateries and a new cyber friend, it was time to leave Nardis, leave the odd mix of european cobbled streets and middle eastern vibes and continue southbound. Still without wifi, I asked the whiskey sour genius behind the bar if he would call me a cab. He wouldn’t. But told me there was a place down the road where cabs lined the streets. I told him I was directionally challenged and that he needed to be more specific. He looked at me as if he suddenly didn’t understand english and walked away. And so I walked-- stumbled-- “down the road” in search of “where cabs line the streets” and saw none. I did, however, see three men standing outside a hotel, and because I am nothing short of resourceful I politely inquired,
“Sorry good sirs, would you happen to know where I could get a taxi?” One of the men, the one randomly cradling a full bottle of Jagermeister replied that he would call me one, while immediately whipping his flip phone from his pocket, as if he were unholstering a pistol. How incredibly kind, this Jager man, I thought.
“Do you often stand on street corners with a full bottle of Jager?” I nodded at the bottle resting against his chest and he laughed.
“Only on weekends.”
“It’s Monday.”
“Would you like some?” I’d like to say I hesitated briefly, but that would be a lie.
“Yeah, go on then.” He poured the lid to the brim then cheers’d me with the bottle and chugged while I lid-shot. Not two seconds later my taxi arrived and I was gone.
The last eleven hours of my fifty three hour, three time zone, multi city escapade consisted of passing out in front of the national geographic channel and periodically waking up to the most pertinent information necessary to survive in South Africa: Animal Fight Club.
Fact. Crocodiles can snap their jaws eight times faster than a human can blink.
Fact. Male teenage elephants left to wander alone without a positive adult influence become punks (narrator’s word, not mine) and deliberately seek out rhinoceroses to bully. Rhinoceroses are generally known to be harmless creatures and want no trouble. The elephants know this; they’re just being dicks. These punk ass teenage elephants will literally pretend to be on an innocent stroll then BAM! Runs right into the unsuspecting rhino-- weighing the same as a school bus (my dad drives a school bus so I figure I have a fairly decent understanding of this immense impact.)
Fact. Rhino horns are not attached or grown from bone, but are formed from fused hairs that grow continuously from their skin.
Fact. I could sit on a tortoise and not crush it. So could an elephant. Not that I’m comparing myself to an elephant, by any means, but apparently I only weigh sixty pounds less than a baby one…
These useful facts helped guide my final flight to a seamless conclusion and when I finally landed on South African soil, I felt nothing short of prepared for what lay ahead, wild or otherwise…
Chelsea, Chelsea, Chelsea, if your mom hasn't had a heart attack yet!!!! Love your stories, but please be safe!! WRITE THE BOOK.
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