My trip to Bulgaria...

This was written on March 26, of this year. I am posting this here because it so accurately characterizes many of my previous travel experiences in Turkey, and it does so from the perspective of having anticipated the trip's failure (which was, at the time, a first). I'll make an effort to post a, yet unwritten, follow-up of the actual trip.

26.03.2008, 11:27

Those of you who knew that I was going to Bulgaria this morning will find it odd that I've already completed a story about the trip. Here's the secret to my celerity: I missed my bus.

Actually, the service shuttle, that should have taken me to the bus station, left me behind.

This morning is one that started yesterday evening with the prediction, to my room mate Emrah, that I would "wait in the appointed place, at the appointed time" and still miss the shuttle, which would be both late and somewhere else. This sort of thing happens often enough, to me, that I've become good at predicting not merely that something will go wrong, but also the manner in which it will go wrong.

In fact, I even explained to Emrah, that there would be an argument with the driver, or the person who issued my ticket, or someone else, who would tell me that I had misunderstood/been late/been in the wrong place... which is to say, that I was wrong, and not the people or person who gave me poor instructions or didn't show up on time. Blaming the victim is popular in Turkey, too.

So, at 7:20, with all the optimism of a person heading to Bulgaria for three hours, and a packed lunch and books I wouldn't read, and looking forward to falling asleep as soon as I was on board, I waited across the street from the Boğaziçi University South Campus gate. This is important, because last night, both the person who issued my ticket and myself spoke to the service shuttle driver, and we each confirmed twice (four times total) that the shuttle would pick me up across the street from the Boğaziçi University South Campus gate at 7:20.

At 7:25, I knew that I would not be picked up and that I would miss my bus. It wasn't fatalism or pessimism, but experiential knowledge informed by many missed buses, only a few of which I can claim responsibility for.

Still I waited. Despite knowing I was stuck, I chose hope, and remained at the corner, across from the Boğaziçi University South Campus gate for another ten minutes. This impulse to reject one's fate is, perhaps, one of the more peculiar features of the human experience (I could, but prefer not to, cite a list starting with Global Warming and the Iraq War, but alas, time). I waited, consciously yielding to the Fates, but also having no other course of action in mind.

I was also pissed. I never have fun when I'm right about something... which is to say that I am right about only the wrong things.

At 7:35, I dabbled in reversing destiny. Also, I had gotten bored of waiting and knew I would be awake for several more hours (I'm not a morning person, so this is a rare day). I ran home, had Emrah call the bus company, and we both spoke to a man yelling about the shuttle, that it definitely passed Boğaziçi University, but that I shouldn't be waiting there anyway, because the service shuttle leaves from a place nearby there, a "yazı hane", which is a local bureau office. I should emphasize the yelling and the tone, both of which implied that I was a fool, but were additionally difficult to understand. It was at this point that I began to feel victimized.

On Emrah's advice (which I love, because he uses the phrase "As much as I know..." to introduce facts about which he is unsure, although they are almost always correct) I sought out the departure point for the MetroTurizm shuttle bus, and found only a sign and an empty parking spot. The place is less than 100 meters from South Campus, but it is in no way across from the gate, nor visible from there. On the way there, I think I saw the MetroTurizm shuttle disappearing around a bend... can't be too sure though. I jumped at every shuttle that came by this morning, which was a lot of jumping. Shuttles exist for schools and companies and large workplaces, and it seems all of them use the same orange and blue logos and have the word "Turizm" written on them somewhere.

I called the bus company again, with my last phone credits. They connected me to the same man I had spoken with before, who I thought was the shuttle driver. In a breath, he was yelling at me again, and I realized something: When an adult yells at me I really don't like it, because I both feel I'm being treated like a child, and also that the person is absurd (and therefore, probably wrong about whatever information or situation has led them to yell). When I'm yelled at in a foreign language, however, these feelings are coupled with the knowledge that I probably won't understand what is said, and that I am also helpless to have any good comeback or means to assert myself. In Turkish, I can jump from polite, daily language, to swears that Turkish sailors don't use, but I lack the acceptable middle-ground for this sort of a situation.

So, I just got louder and told the man not to speak to me that way, and to stop yelling. At the same time, I thought about the various curses I learned at Beşiktaş matches, things to say about his mother and her affinity for the village donkeys and traveling bands of gypsies. It ended up, that telling him not to yell was sufficient to sate my ego.

I hung up the phone, and got on a city bus heading for Taksim. I figured that, while I was awake, getting my ticket changed would be wise. When the bus got to Beşiktaş, it occurred to me that, rather than go all the way to Taksim, I could go into the office there, which is exactly what I did once I peeled myself out of the bus (rush hour gets crowded here).

The man behind the desk was on the phone, and he had a familiar voice and manner. When he got off the phone, I began my rehearsed explanation for needing a new ticket. He cut me off to clarify that I needed a new ticket, and asked if I was coming from Etiler. At about the same moment, we both realized that we had each yelled at the other over the telephone.

He began yelling about the "yazı hane" before I could react. Taken off guard, and now face to face with the man who had harshed my traveler's mojo, I did something uncharacteristic. I started humbly explaining that this was no way to speak to customers, much less foreign guests of his country. In fact, I asked if he always yelled at people this way. I went on to say that I had spoken with the driver the night before, and been in the right place at the right time, that I didn't want his explanations because I had found the "yazı hane", and I just wanted the same ticket for the next day.

He stopped yelling, became polite and, more importantly, quiet, and issued my ticket.

It all happened in Turkish, haltingly, but still, it felt pretty damn good.

Tomorrow morning, at 7:20, I'll be leaving from the Etiler bureau office by a service shuttle to the central bus station. I'll tell you about it when I get back.