“Yah.. I’ve got a funny feeling about my bag…” I had textedmy sister at 1:00 am as I lay awake in that crummy Cyprus hotel with bad pistachios.
“What? Why?”
As I checked in for the flight to Istanbul from London * ahem * I mean London to Izmir to Ercan toIstanbul, the check-in lady looked puzzled. Why didn’t I just book a direct flight? Look, lady, I don’t know, that’s just the itinerary it gave me for that price. She ghosts a confused look behind her thickly knit eyebrows. According to my ticket, Ercan isn’t listed as a destination, only Izmir and Istanbul. After discussing the situation with three people while my sprouting anxieties and I are plainly being ignored, her coworker assures her that she can simply put a note on the sticker and add it as a note so those handling the luggage know. I’m no expert (and check-in lady has made that clear), but attaching a note doesn’t totally imply a promising solution.
“Um… Should I recheck my bag anywhere? Because I totally can. That wouldn’t be a problem.” God I sound obvious.
“No it will arrive.”
“So it will arrive in Istanbul? I just want to double-check.”
“Yes.”
She looks annoyed.
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So here I am on the Asia side of Turkey, Sabiha Gokcen.
I am expecting to bring 24 years of experiences and items freshly acquired after reading countless travel blogs, including but not limited to:space bags; one large gray quick-drying towel; two universal travel adapters;black diamond headlamp; and a hostel sheet. I made damn sure to bring my laptop with external hard-drive, just in case, and my kindle pre-loaded with books to keep me busy for a year. Many of those travel blogs, books on the subject, and friends from afar seriously warned of the consequence of over-packing. Dutifully, I liberate myself from that cute dress I would have undoubtedly worn only once as well as that super philosophical book that would have probably given me the most insight to life and universal consciousness,but not for the 6” x 8” x 1” it would have cost me.
I did a little jig, though I was hardly relentless back home before my trip. The fact that I’ve collected what I most definitely need (so they say), and rid myself of what I would have wanted, must make me a martyr and therefore more spiritually prepared than the average person, right?
And it’s gotten me pretty far. At least right now, I can say I have actually mastered theLondon Underground. I ate mushy peas, I know what a flat white is, I can arrange a train ticket for myself and not get on the wrong train before I meet an old (or new) friend, I can hold my own in a big city. I can plan a trip. I can spontaneously meet new people in a little town in Switzerland and eat at the local Thai restaurant,then hit the Irish pub after to grab a beer with the guys from the skydiving company. I can make my own way.
Despite the rough episode in Cyprus, where I twiddled my thumbs while I floated into a potentially dangerous situation, I casually laugh at myself, “Hey! At least I got to see a little of Cyprus… for free!” And really, part of the adventure is realizing the realities of it,right? Maybe that’s not the most appropriate reaction and doesn’t emphasize the importance of being aware but hey, I’m in Turkey now and that’s all I care about.
… So where the hell is my bag?
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I double-check the baggage claim monitor. Walk back to carousel 1. Check the monitor. Walk to carousel 1. If I ever didn’t mind looking like a dumb tourist, it was now, and it was here at this airport without everything I planned on arriving with me.
I don’t see anyone else from my flight and that German couple is long gone… probably off somewhere with their stupid luggage and speaking stupid German to each other.
Now, standing at Sabiha Gokcen, I remember check-in lady and I am annoyed.
Suddenly, that inventory of travel essentials and mere 24 years lacking of experiences I felt comfortable standing on the shoulders of, have left me feeling once again like a little girl in this large and quickly-emptying baggage claim terminal. My shaky time in Cyprus and the resonance of vulnerability flood my memory.
I’m not the first person to arrive at their final destination bagless and even at this moment, I am assured that I will get it back somehow. But all I want is to breathe that sigh of relief that I’ll get to unpack and settle. I would have soon got to read and write and eat baklava and drink all the Turkish coffee I want. I’d get to take pictures and do yoga and reflect on my past while envisioning my future. That one-week of nomad-ing aroundEngland and Cyprus proved to be less-thrilling-more-stressful than I anticipated.
I walk from carousel1 to check the baggage claim monitor one last time. With my tail between my legs, I saunter over to the Pegasusservice desk and let them know of the situation while I text my host already waiting for me in Taksim.
“Bag problems,sorry.”
He calls and it isthe first time I actually hear his voice, which is different than I imagined but then I guess I didn’t really know what I imagined. He sounds foreign.
Duh.
“Hello, Robyn. How are you?”
I tell him where I’mat and apologize for the late hour. It’s already about 10 pm, and I have arrived about two days later than originally expected anyway.
He is kind and he assures me that he will wait and it’s no problem; it has happened to him before. I let that comfort me.
The lady looks up from the computer. Although our conversation is in broken English and my first attempt at explaining things with gestures I never knew I had in my made up version of sign language, I know she can at least understand me from my frantic interlude and lack of luggage.
“Do you have a bag ticket?” I can only assume she means either the sticker on my boarding pass or that thing they strapped to my camera bag….
…
…..
…….
………
fuck.
(If you know me you might have guessed it. It is with a humble heart that I admit this to the world: This girl left her camera on the plane. I’m used to forgetting things, but this time it broke my heart.)
FUCK.
Sadly forgotten under seat 26A on flight PC 519, my Canon Rebel EOS T2i, which really was my little buddy, and recently purchased macro and wide-angle lens adapters, are gone and I know most likely forever. There goes my probability of being a national geographic photographic prodigy. There goes my ability to share stunning photos of the adventure everyone will want to go on. There goes my plan to take pictures of the souvenirs-I-would-have-bought-but-won’t-becauseI’m-not-ready-for-that-stage of-life-but-still-like-to-imagine-that-I-didplan. There go the videos I shot in Oxford and Cyprus and Birmingham and Colorado. There go my pictures of the Great Hall from Harry Potter. There goes my uppity nomad life.
If the universewanted to teach me a lesson on materialism, that was it.
So I manage to scribble a claim for my bag with Pegasus and through watering eyes, hint at the prospect of getting my camera back. I already know it doesn’t look good, no matter how much they pretend to try and care about my things. They call and, “they said they can’t find it.” Although I know that plane is probably in the middle of take-off and on its way to London Stansted. I know where my camera is, but I also know at this moment that it’s lost in the ethereal no-man’s-land of airport lost property. I know the only thing to do is admit defeat and try more later. For now, my host is waiting for me in Taksim. Maybe he’ll know what to do.
And I have all the important things, I know my dad would remind me that. I’ve got a cell phone, my wallet, and my passports. I’ve got all my fingers and toes and clothes on my back. I’ve got connections and if I really wanted to, I could get right back on a plane and isolate myself in an English-speaking cocoon somewhere in the BritishCommonwealth.
So, with only my carry-on, I finally exit Sabiha Gokcen and enter very oh so very unfamiliarIstanbul.
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I recognize “Havatas”across the street as the shuttle I have been instructed to take. It will go directly to Taksim, and that’s where Umit has been waiting for about an hour already. Armed with gestures and my purse, I point to a bus and ask, “Taksim? Is there room?” A bunch of people seem to be waiting at the bottom and I don’t know why.
The guy mumbles something and avoids eye-contact, I think because he knows I’m speaking English and he doesn’t know English and doesn’t want to make the inability to communicate even more obvious for both of us. I think I should be the one embarrassed, this isn’t my country after all.
But whatever he said, only thing I can do is figure it out for myself and I’m going to have to get used to that. I walk onto the bus, take a seat. No problem. Okay I got this.
“Ok on bus. No bag…” I text my host.
“ok. Waiting for you.”
A girl takes a seat next to me. I am glad it is a girl because I’ve been told to be careful while I am here BECAUSE I’m a girl. Whether that is true or not, now is nota good time for me to confront preconceived notions. She looks stylish, maybe she’s not from here? I know that’s a generalization too.
I read online that it is 12 Turkish lira and I pull out my card, 5 Turkish lira I got as change for the non-creepy taxi driver who took me back to the airport the next day,and a 10 Euro note a coworker gave me.
“Buy yourself a cup of coffee or something. My treat.” Jaylene told me as she handed me the note on my last Friday at the library. It had been at her housein Colorado for years and she thought she might never use it. I casually slipped it in my back pocket. 10 Euro isn’t much but when it’s been tucked away and preciously guarded for a long time, you know you can’t show enough appreciation. I fantasized using it for a glass of Kolsch in Cologne or maybe for sorbet at Soleilis in Arles.
A man comes around the shuttle for payment but no one is handing him cards. I’m officially 7 lira short and my heart sinks a little more. In half-hearted gestures I make sounds to the girl next to me while pointing at my card. I think she says no and the man comes around and I make the same sounds and gestures. I feel like an idiot. I think he says no and points outside.
“ATM”
The girl next to me is holding a 50 Turkish lira note. I have a good feeling that she felt sorry for me and was about to offer to pay for me.
But instead, the man points to the 10 Euro and I skeptically hand it to him. He gives me 5 Euro back.
“Airport” he says and continues to the back of the bus to collect the other passengers’ money.
I breathe a sigh of relief and plop my head on the window. Jaylene, if you are reading this, know that that 10 Euro note helped this lonely girl get into a big city and it is now back in circulation.
The shuttle ride is about an hour and I feel guilty that my host has been waiting for a very longtime. My first sights of Istanbul are just as mysterious and exotic as I thought they’d be. Maybe because it’s already about 10:30,but the sea of enchanting lights and reflections floating on the Bosporus are exactly provide the refreshment I needed to start my adventure. I am going to be here for a while and I am going to like it.
I am glad the girl next to me didn’t pay for me because it was a long ride and I didn’t want to feel obligated to awkwardly smile at her every time she wanted to look out the window. Taksim is the last stop.
“I think I’m here” I text my host.
I see a man outside the window, casually leaning against the stonewall. Even though I’m not sure of his face, I think that’s my host, Umit.
I wave. He waves back. I don’t know how he saw me or could be sure it was me. I get off the bus and actually I am thankful that I don’t have to wait for my bag so I go straight to him.
“Hello. I made it.” I sigh.
“Hello, Robyn. It’s nice to meet you finally.” I want to hug him because after the last couple days, I wanted to hug anyone that was at least kind of familiar tome. Instead I extend my hand and Umit gives me what I come to learn later as a customary Turkish greeting which is a two-cheek touch. Is that even the best way to illustrate it? You know… what they do in France and Italy and stuff. That first greeting with Umit came naturally, but now I can never be sure when to use this and when not to. The rest of the time it’s been kind of intermittent.
In Colorado, there is no face touching, just hand shaking and an occasional hug for the appropriate times. We’re all too freaked out about touching in America I think. Maybe it’s the stranger-danger culture we live in but I can tell it has made me a less-affectionate person.
Nevertheless, I’ve relieved to finally meet my host, whom I will be with now for three months. Taksim, I learn, is a pretty central(and touristic) area in Istanbul but we will be driving to his home in Belikduzu, which is pretty far outside the city on the west side. As we talk about my bag as well as my shit time in Cyprus, we walk fast crossing busy streets and alongside open cafes. I keep pace with him because he knows the city and if he’s walking fast and I don’t want to get smashed by a car. Being a pedestrian, I had read, is quite the experience here in Istanbul.
And it’s something that I will be doing because I’m here for quite a while. Though I’m without my bag, but will hopefully get it soon, I’m here to experience Turkey and I remind myself that. The last thing I’ll do is exclaim that wow the universe is really teaching me something because it’s only been one day that I’ve been without my bag and camera and it is only really the first day on my adventure. But so far, things are very different and it’s a wake-up call that things will be different. Time will tell what the universe has in store for me.
