Vagabond Beth

I embarked on a six-month adventure to Turkey with the overconfidence of a truly novice nomad. Having lived abroad the year prior, I had some Western European backpacking experience which I was sure had prepared me for all future adventures. My first impression of Turkey is best summed up in one word: chaotic. After over 24 hours of travel, two stopovers, and an appalling amount of Starbucks, I arrived in Istanbul. I was quickly confronted with the reality that English is not the local dialect. With luck I met a group of girls and we decided to share a cab. An unmarked white van driven by three burly “no English” Turks was our taxi destiny. Picture said van merging onto a six-lane highway, disregard anything you ever learned about safe driving (signal lights, speed limits, seat belts, clearly divided lanes) and you have a sense of the driving in Istanbul. I knew people drove like this in some places, but I was not aware that Istanbul was one of them. We drove for over an hour, three men at the helm swerving/speeding/smoking. I vividly recall thinking that we were either being abducted or were doomed to die on this highway, but my new friends were asleep and I was too fatigued to protest so I kept quiet and eventually we made it safely to our destination. I was checked into my new residence by clever use of diagrams and hand-gestures. The dorm situation was initially pretty stressful as I was assigned to a room with three chain-smoking Turks and their hamster.
I committed myself to learning at least a functional amount of Turkish, and to my delight a few simple phrases opened doors for otherwise impossible local connections. I was soon invited to a birthday dinner at a fresh-from-the-Bosporus fish restaurant. We downed raki and meze and belted traditional tunes with accompanying tambourine. As the evening progressed the entire restaurant was smiling, dancing, and singing.Through interactions with locals I came to learn that if you make an effort to know someone, they will often invite you in.I discovered that holes in the walls of seemingly unfit structures can be the best bars. I learned -too late- that “Cig Kofte” translates to “raw meat patty” and is definitely not fit for vegetarians. I came to understand that travel is a deeply personal experience, and that you get out what you put in. People can generalize about their time in a place, but in the end you need to experience it for yourself, and the best way to do that is without ego or expectation.