Back to the States for Some Beach Time

 

I had a bittersweet time leaving the apartment in Istanbul.  I knew it was time to leave, but I'd had some bad and mostly good times there.  I will always remember that place and would rent it again if I ever return to Türkiye.  But, alas, it was time for yet another long international travel day.

The first cab I hailed didn’t work out.  The driver and I had a serious communication problem.  He didn’t take cards, I only had 900 lira on me, and the drive to SAW would be at least 1000 lira.  He agreed to take me then changed his mind about a mile later and I ended up getting out.  After dragging all my stuff to try and find an ATM, I eventually just hailed another cab and convinced him to take me to a machine.  Money in hand, we finally got on our way to the airport.

Judging by every other experience I’d had with passport control, I expected a hassle over my visa.  Sure, I was leaving the country, but I had also extended my stay for an extra week and I didn’t know if that would be a problem.  I mentioned before that a visa should last for 90 days.  I had stayed for one week initially, left the country for a month, and then returned for another 14 days.  Technically, I should be okay … and it turns out I was.  The guy looked at the visa, stamped my passport and wished me well.  Whew.

I expected to get a hassle about the rug.  My initial plan was to have the shop send it directly to my storage facility, but now that I had it in my possession, it was all about dragging it through multiple airports to get it back to the states.  I thought I’d have to pay some tariff or check it for an extra fee.  Instead, no one even mentioned the rug, not the Turks, not American customs.  No one cared.  That was a relief.  Of course, I couldn’t enter the states completely scot-free.  There had to be some issue.

The last time I returned to the states, I was routed through JFK.  Now it was time to experience the other notorious airport in the area, Newark.  The only flight I could get out of Türkiye (that did not go through CDG because screw that airport) was through Rome, then Newark, then on to Atlanta. Surprisingly, the first two flights went very well.  The problem only arose when I got off the plane in Jersey.  I didn’t realize that I had to claim my bag and re-check for my last flight.  When I figured this out and tried to get back to Baggage Claim, they wouldn’t let me in because I came off an international flight.  But it’s still my bag and I want it now.  I stood in line for the United customer service, got out when I thought I could access the bag from a different way, realized nothing in life is that easy, and got back in line.  After a few minutes, one of the reps asked me the problem, told me there was nothing they could do about it, and told me to go catch my next flight.  I would have to file a claim after I got to Atlanta.  Sounds fun.

Racing across an unfamiliar airport, lugging my rug in an increasingly unstable plastic bag, wondering about my checked bag, and worrying about missing my flight, I kept thinking about how much happier I’d been in Türkiye the day before.  As much as I love to travel, love exploring new places, the travel days themselves just seem to suck more and more out of me each time.  The day had me thinking, once again, that I really wanted a permanent home base abroad that would make these trips back to the states unnecessary.

Sigh.  Being back in the U.S., boarding a connecting flight, meant that, once again, I’d have to go through security.  The line was horrific.  There was a woman elbowing her way through the line because she was late.  I said, “so am I” and this wonderful man in front just said to go on through.  He even helped me get through the dividing ropes.  Didn’t help, though.  I got through security and raced to my gate only to see my plane behind a closed door.  Boarding had ended and I had officially missed my first flight during this journey.  Welcome to America!

The gate attendant booked me for another flight in a couple of hours, warning me that the gate may change before boarding.  It did but it wasn’t too far to get to the next gate.  Then the plane got delayed.  Oy.  I had arranged for a rental car in Atlanta, but the way things were going, there was no way I’d get to the desk before it closed.  Instead of worrying about that, I spent the time texting customer service about my bag, which wasn’t easy because I had lost my claim check.  I swear if my head was not attached … the one time I really needed to save one of those luggage tags is the first time I had no idea where it went. 

Finally, I caught my flight and dutifully waited at Atlanta Baggage Claim for a bag that never arrived.  I made a claim with the lost and found, who told me that they’d contact me before 2 p.m. the next day with any info.  I had indeed gotten to the airport after midnight, so the rental place was closed.  After fumbling around in the wrong place, I eventually found my way to the taxi stand.  One very expensive ride later, and I checked into the familiar Fairfield Inn. 

The next day brought good news.  The airline had found my bag.  Yay!  I called an Uber this time and was met by a lovely woman named Larissa.  We spent the next 45 minutes talking about everything: her Brazilian roots, my travels, her singing career, and the declining state of the U.S.A. at the moment.  I was almost sorry when we got to the airport; that was one of the best conversations I’ve had in a while.

Claimed my bag and my rental car and headed back north.  I did all the normal administrative things while in the country; I checked my mail, dropped off souvenirs at the storage facility, and planned my next move.  Before I knew it, I was back at the airport.

Sitting in Atlanta airport, eating some truly mediocre food and listening to some downbeat jazz, put me in a contemplative and melancholy mood for some reason.  I missed Istanbul. And, as much as I hated to admit it, I missed Zaza.  We had been in constant contact while I was in SE Asia and then, of course, the physical contact once I was back in the city. It was a thrill to get his daily texts and endearments, even if it wasn’t real and without them, I was going through serious withdrawal.  And, yeah, I know that old saw that says ‘don’t be sad it’s over, be glad it happened’ yada, yada, yada.  Didn’t stop me from missing the interaction or from wishing it had ended differently.

A short hour of flight (which still put me right to sleep) and I landed in South Carolina.  I didn’t realize that the tiny airport was actually on Hilton Head Island and not on the highway.  I’d always driven to the island, so this was a happy surprise for me as I had a shorter cab ride to my motel.

I love Hilton Head.  This was the seventh time I’d visited the island.  I love the trees and the people on the bikes, the pristine beaches, and the laid-back island attitude.  But this time, something felt … off.  Hilton Head no longer felt like a destination, it became just a way station between other places.  I didn’t feel like I belonged there anymore.  I stayed in a motel I’d stayed in three times before, even helped a newcomer find the beach, but even the familiar nature of the place was not enough to soothe me as it usually did.  It had me on edge.

It didn’t help that it rained a couple of days while there.  It didn’t help that one of the few times I was able to get into the water, I had to cut my time short for non-weather reasons.  I’d heard other people in the water complaining about jellyfish stings.  I thought ‘oh, that’s too bad.  But I’m sure it won’t happen to ow oW OW!’ I ended up running out of the sea, batting my legs to try to alleviate the burning sensation.  Great.  Like it wasn’t bad enough that the mosquitos were going to town on me, now the ocean was attacking me as well.  I get it.  I’ve rejected the U.S. and now it’s turning one of my favorite places against me.  And, yes, I am taking all of this very personally.  With all the animal attacks, I got especially paranoid when passing any smaller body of water for fear of gators.

And there’s more!  What I’d feared in returning to the states for a longer period of time has now happened.  Europe has completely changed my palate.  American food is now bland as hell and it gave me an upset stomach.  Great! (Except for the ice cream.  That was still delicious.)

I rented a car for the last two days of my stay.  Ah!  Much better.  I didn’t realize just how much of my enjoyment of the island involved driving through it.  I have always driven there so I didn’t think much of it, but it is an integral part of the Hilton Head experience.  I know, biking is big there but so is the island.  With my hotel being at the farthest end of it, biking to the other side just isn’t feasible.  There is a shuttle, but its route is limited.  The one day I took it, I got off too early and tried to walk to the book store which was a really stupid idea.   A car on the island is still the way to go.