All through my journey from Toronto to Istanbul I have been trying to shake a sinking feeling, a creeping inclination that I have chosen the wrong location, that my reason for traveling is not solely about seeing incredible places. I suspect my formative purpose has been usurped by a neurotic need to impress others by gathering exotic stamps on my passport.
Of course the fact that I took an ill advised afternoon nap and woke up late does nothing to assuage the feeling that this whole thing is a mistake. As Cayelle drives me to the airport and throughout my journey, I allow my rushed feeling to morph into a personal inquiry into my judgement.
I chide myself for becoming complacent and lazy, for taking this experience for granted. I feel that my overconfidence may bite me in the ass.
By the time I land in Istanbul, the feeling in my heart is palpable. I've gone too far and I don't really know what I'm doing here.
Turkey is a VOA (Visa On Arrival) country, so I have to line up for an entry visa before clearing customs. Above me is a large board that shows the entry fees for about 100 countries. As I wait in line, I peruse the board and compare prices. Many EU and Arab countries are free. For countries that pay, the top rate is twenty bucks, with two exceptions: The Maldives and Canada.. For some reason Canadians are charged $60 along with the Maldivians (?)
The reason for my gouging may elude me, but the gouging itself does nothing to improve my nicotine deprived mood, however it is not as if I have choice. I fork out the $60 US and move to the customs lineup; which is huge. My position is made even more bleak by the fact that four women push by me to join family members ahead.
In the moment I am quietly outraged, but I later learn that it is perfectly acceptable in the culture. Women are allowed to jump the cue ahead of men. Oops.
While the visa lineup moved briskly, customs was slow. After clearing customs, I head into the baggage area, grab my suitcase and enter the main concourse.
I'm tired, cranky and in dire need of a smoke.
Fortunately, I paid for an airport pickup. I like a soft landing, but amongst the sea of dudes holding up names on signs I fail to see my own name. Screw this. I'm tired and cranky and I need a smoke.
As I draw in my nicotine fix, the dreariness of the night envelopes me. The rain is relentless, and I feel like a wayward soul in a strange deluge. I stamp out my smoke and head inside, where I immediately am forced to accept a new truth.
You don't get in or out of a Turkish airport without passing through security. Shoes, belt off; laptop out, remove jacket, empty pockets.
I'm back in the terminal, but a tad flummoxed.. I pull the number of my hotel from my bag and head to the tourist information booth.
The dude there calls the hotel, the hotel calls the dispatcher, the dispatcher calls the driver and eventually I land at the hotel.
But I still can't shake the feeling that I'm somehow off course, like a lost kitten in the rain.
http://www.goyestoeverything.com
