Well, I had been stressing for quite a few days about my upcoming flight to Turkey. I had purchased the ticket on Ty’s tablet while we were in Mexico; I was angry with myself because, on its tiny screen I had difficulty reading the information and, even though I had said to myself “That flight is one I definitely don’t want because it has such short transfer times”, in fact that stupid flight was exactly the one I clicked on in my rush to buy the ticket. Visions of being left behind in Amsterdam as my KLM flight to Istanbul was winging its way eastward danced in my head, and not in a nice way, either.
I attempted to check-in online the day before the flight, but because I hadn’t entered the passport information when I bought the ticket (because my passport, inconveniently, was expiring), half way through the process I discovered that without this crucial bit of info, I could not check-in online. Nor could I select a seat, another thing that I had wanted to do so that I could make sure of getting a spot on the aisle close to the front of the plane for speedier exit … sigh. Major cock-up.
So … I got to the airport four hours early, checked in at the self-serve kiosk, and found out that my assigned seat was a middle seat right in the back of the plane (of course). Luckily, because I was so early I was able to change my seat at the kiosk to a more congenial row 26 aisle seat …. closer to the target. Even more happily, the plane left on time, and, since it wasn’t full, I was able to move to an even more strategic seat on the aisle row 16. We had a smooth flight over the North Pole and arrived in Amsterdam a bit early; I leapt out of my seat the moment the seat belt sign was turned off and hustled myself and my carry-on bag down the hallway to my connecting flight, already boarding at a gate somewhere far away … after a speed walk through the terminal I arrived at a long line sneaking its way through the security clearance with 5 minutes to spare before the gate closed – huzzah!
Unfortunately, the Istanbul flight left late and confronted strong head winds on the way east, Ataturk International was exceptionally busy, with every gate full of planes and others waiting to taxi in, and we had to wait to park at the gate. When I had originally booked the Bodrum flight, I had had enough time to transfer, but the airline had changed the departure time twice after I had already purchased the ticket, each time moving it earlier. As a consequence, I had only one hour to get off the KLM plane, through passport control, into the domestic terminal, and onto the next plane … Once again the mad dash down the airport hallways, rushing past folks clogging up the moving sidewalks, only to arrive at an unbelievably crowded passport control point, full of a surging mass of international humanity. Unlike other big airports – Mexico City, for example, where people with connecting flights can go through a separate streamlined transfer passport control process – here everyone has to trudge through the same slow snake of a line towards the control booth – scheisse! It was not at all looking good for my connecting flight to Bodrum. While I walked slowly through the line, the group of eastern European men behind me kept trying to budge into line in front of me; not feeling very charitable and not willing to ignore it, I told them that actually I was ahead of them and proceeded to push my way past them as the minutes ticked inexorably by.
After receiving a desultory look at my visa and a loud clang of a stamp in my new passport, I raced through Ataturk International in the direction of the Domestic Terminal, along a seemingly interminable series of hallways as the time was running out and “Last Call” for the Bodrum flight flashed on the Departure screen. By this time I was a ball of sweat, and the ol’ legs were not as strong as they might have been. I was losing steam and starting to give up on making the flight. But with a superhuman effort I ran up to the Atlasjet counter yelling “Bodrum – help!”. An employee took pity on me, I was tossed a boarding pass, conducted to the front of the security line, through screening, had my bag carried down to the bus, radioed the plane that I was on my way and the door held open for me as I stumbled up the stairs, into the cabin, and collapsed in a sweaty, stinking heap into my seat at one minute before departure (not a good look) – huzzah!
In an interesting turn of events on the flight, I was having a nice chat with a very pleasant Turkish woman heading to Gundogan from Frankfurt and the fellow sitting on my other side heard me say I was from Canada. He asked “Which city?”, I responded “Vancouver”, he asked, “Where in Vancouver?”, I replied “Downtown – what about you?”, he replied “Yaletown”, I said “No kidding – where?, he answered “The Elan – 28th floor”. I was stunned – we were actual neighbours! The Elan is the building right across the street from our place – we could have seen one another through our windows! How small is the world! Originally from Iran, resident in Vancouver for 14 years, Dema is now a financial planner in Dubai but still considers himself Canadian. It was a lovely end to a long, long day to meet these nice folks.
Eljay retrieved me from the airport and drove me to our digs for the coming weeks, the Old Stone House, in tiny village of Gokcebel, a lovely drive of about 45 minutes along the beautiful coast of the Bodrum peninsula. After a nice glass of cold white wine, and some homemade soup, I was ready to hit the sack. Over and out for now!