Despondent and Disconnected in San Jose

 

I don’t think I went into Costa Rica with the right frame of mind.

The general feeling of wrongness that started when I entered the states continued as I planned my next move after Hilton Head.  My initial plan when beginning this journey was to take the entire year off before establishing a new job/home situation.  But then I was sick in Türkiye, making me long for a home.  I hate watching my bank account dwindle with nothing coming in.  The thought of getting another job makes me wince and yet the thought of finally doing what I’ve always wanted to do, have a writing career, makes me cower like a scared bunny.  All of it contributes to a general air of yuckiness. 

Costa Rica is big with expats and American retirees as well as digital nomads.  I knew, though, that I really preferred Europe to South or Central America which is why I’d originally had no plans to visit there.  But, I figured, while I was in the states, I could dip down and see what all the fuss was about.  Also, spending a month in the country would reset my Schengen days so I’d be free to return to Portugal for three months without needing a short-term visa while I arranged for a year-long visa. Again, not the right frame of mind in which to visit a new country.

Then there’s the whole Istanbul situation.  I still missed the city terribly.  I started to wonder if I should scratch the plan to move to Portugal and move there instead, even if only for a short while.  But I had done no research on the country and had no idea what that would entail.  I was already cowed with the thought of dealing with Portuguese bureaucracy and I had already had enough run-ins with Turkish passport control.

And, of course, there was Zaza.  Also missing him like crazy.

So, this was where my head was at when I made the new plan.  Then it was back to the tiny Hilton Head airport to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  And watch it rain from the waiting room.  It was only a short flight to Charlotte, a necessary one since flights out of HHH only went to a few places like Atlanta and New York. I would have fallen asleep even on that flight had I not been so annoyed by the wait and by the staff who insisted that I consolidate my gear before boarding as only two carry-ons were allowed.  This included the purse on my shoulder and the passport holder around my neck.  Lady, they’re on my body!  I’m not storing this stuff.  It only pissed me off further to find out during the flight that there was some extra storage space in the overhead bins.  Sigh.  Plane travel.

After an hour, we landed in Charlotte. Waiting to exit the plane, a British woman struck up a conversation with the male flight attendant.  He mentioned how he’d worked for the company for over 30 years and that, at 63 years old, he needed to work long enough to pay off his mortgage at the age of 72.  I had to turn to look at the guy since he didn’t look anywhere near 63 years old (black guy).  He also said how much he hated Charlotte airport.  We had left Hilton Head ten minutes early and yet we were disembarking 15 minutes late.  Also, everyone on the plane had insanely tight connections and he couldn’t understand why the airline had made them.  I had to agree.

I ran through Charlotte airport to get to my next gate as there was only 45 minutes between my flights.  It didn’t help that I had to go to the restroom the entire time and had no chance to stop.  I made it to my gate and got in line just as they called my group number.  We barely got in the air when I made a mad dash for the tiny bathroom.  Isn’t it just so much fun that the tinier the airplane, the more a trip to the restroom makes it feels like you’re dropping trou in a hurricane?  All part of the travel experience, right?

From there it was onto Miami.  Now, this airport and I have history and it’s not a good one. I’ve only been through there on two separate trips and each time we were delayed for some reason.  My first trip through had me stuck in the airplane for two hours after landing because of a storm.  The second time, I was stuck in the airport for five hours because of a storm in Houston that had held up my flight crew.  And, shocker, there was a problem on this flight as well.  There was a lightning strike nearby and the airport had to shut down briefly in case there was another one.  Fortunately, this was a short delay that only held us up for a few minutes.  Okay, Miami.  This time wasn’t too bad, but you haven’t redeemed yourself with me yet.  I will continue to keep my eyes on you.  You still might end up on the no-fly list for me just like CDG (screw that airport).

I honestly don’t know how Miami airport keeps operating with all the storms and delays.  I’ve said it before and I’m saying it now; stay out of Florida, kids.  That state doesn’t like anybody.

My sense of unease about this destination only increased when I landed in Costa Rica.  I turned my phone on only to realize that Google FI, while acknowledging that I was in the country, still hadn’t turned my roaming service on.  Panicking a bit since I needed the phone to find the apartment, I didn’t notice that the practically non-existent line for passport control had disappeared and it was my turn at the desk.  When the guy asked where I was staying and I explained my phone sitch, he helpfully guided me to the airport’s wi-fi.  After regaining my internet connection, I got easily through passport control, copied the apartment info to my notes, and went hunting for a cab.

After some missteps in finding the place in the dark, we reached the high-rise called Latidud Yoses. The guy at the front desk didn’t speak much English, but he knew my name and helped me fill out some paperwork before taking me around the windy path to the elevators.

The apartment is on the 19^th floor and is nicely laid out.  The kitchen was well equipped, and the sofa and bed were comfortable.  I couldn’t throw toilet paper in the toilet, but after several months of travel, that little detail didn’t even phase me anymore. 

San Jose is not a pretty place.  Don’t let the killer view from my apartment fool you.

And I know I’m comparing the city unfairly to Istanbul.  They are on opposite sides of the planet, different climates, different people.  But I had gotten used to the gorgeous buildings and numerous points of interest in the Turkish city.  In San Jose, there are … buildings. The area around my high-rise was a mix of industrial looking places and small, private homes.  Just not very inviting.

In my wanderings, I did find some nice green spaces.  Also found a living mall.  I will say that the city is compact and easy to walk except for one thing; the sidewalks themselves.  The infrastructure in this city is sorely lacking.  The walkways are uneven, crumbling, and full of holes.  Not the first time I’ve encountered that in my travels, but it is really noticeable here.

I hated crossing the street in the city.  Crosswalks are rare, people drive fast (lots of horn honking), and the sidewalks are difficult enough to navigate on their own.  The walkways are made much worse when stepping off them.  There are huge gaps between the asphalt and the sidewalks.  If you’re not careful, you can easily slip into these gullies or misjudge the leap and break an ankle.

This sentence became my calling card and shield:  Perdoname, mi Espanol es muy malo (pardon me, my Spanish is very bad).  It’s weird, though.  I speak more Spanish than I do Turkish and yet I felt more comfortable in Türkiye.  I feel like I should be more fluent in Spanish, being American, but since I’m not, I just feel dumb.  In Türkiye, no one expected me to know the language, so it was somehow better (?).

I will say that the money is pretty. Called colones, 536 of them is the equivalent of 1 USD.   The bills are colorful, have neat clear panels, and they’re covered in animals.  Costa Rica also uses American electrical outlets so no need for an adaptor.

The apartment is across the street from a Starbucks, walking distance to several restaurants and a pretty big grocery store.  This was made all the better because … they carry my wine!  God bless them!  It was way too expensive ($16 vs $11 in the states and $5 in Portugal), but that didn’t stop me from sucking down three bottles while in the city. 

And I needed that wine because that’s all I got for positives of San Jose.  I spent the first few days in a funk thinking about needing a job, money, a home. I was just in a bad head space.  The weather was also a contributing factor.  I knew that it was the rainy season there (just like in Thailand) and it did rain a bit, but that wasn’t the worst part.  The rain and wind kept the temperature hovering around the high 60’s.  In August.  I was not prepared for such cool weather at the tail end of summer.

Since it had been bugging me for a while, I did something I never thought I’d do.  I contacted Zaza.  As I’d blocked his primary number, I texted the second number he’d used to contact me, asking if everything had been a lie.  He responded within minutes on a phone I found out belonged to one of his cousins.  That was telling – a good sign that he might actually care.

We spoke that night over video.  I was used to seeing him smile at me so it was very jarring to see him looking stern and a bit sad.  He called me by name (or at least his pronunciation of my name, “Dephna”) which I immediately hated because of the distance it implied between us.  I wanted him to call me sweetheart again. He assured me that he didn’t come on to me for money and that I’d hurt his feelings when I walked out and blocked him.  I told him how I attracted vampires and as much as I didn’t want to think that about him, when he asked for money, it just set off all my defenses.  I really hadn’t meant to hurt him, I was just protecting myself.  We came to a shaky understanding after that conversation.

I unblocked him and we started talking again.  It doesn’t feel the same as it did before, but I’m still thrilled to get a text or call from him, grateful for the lifeline.  Of course, it also means I’m now in a long-distance relationship with a man I don’t know when or if I’ll ever see again.  One set of issues just replaced another.

I also reached out to my stepmom.  I try not to do that as she has been having some health issues and I don’t want to bother her with my problems.  Sick beats sad, I know that.  But I did feel better after talking to her and I’m still so thankful to have someone in my life who cares.

Reestablishing my now two lifelines did improve my mood a bit.  It didn’t warm me up to the city, though.  As much as I liked the apartment, I had to get out of San Jose.  Time to see what else the country had to offer.

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.

Randomness on the Road Part 2

 

Some more little incidents that have happened to me over the last three months that didn’t make it into the other posts.  Enjoy!

I thought for sure this was a guy creeping on me in Amsterdam.  It took me a while to realize that it is a mannequin for a mask shop.  Still felt like the guy was staring at me.

Is this a joke?  Or a misspelling?  I don’t know but I saw this in a window in Greece and had to take a picture of it.

I’ve had a single song stuck in my head for the entirety of my travels.  Night and day, the thing plagues me.  It’s a good song, but so annoying.  Maybe I should treat it like the video in the movie The Ring.  If I just share the annoyance … Dominic Fike - 3 Nights (Official Video) - YouTube

If you’ll remember, I discovered my favorite wine in Portugal, Casal Garcia Vinho Verde.  I’ve searched for the wine in every country I’ve visited and so far have only found it in one – America.  I idly went into Total Wine expecting to be disappointed and yet there it was.  I’m sure I’m not the only woman who’s ever been in a liquor store hugging a wine bottle while on the verge of tears – but I’m sure I was the only woman who put the bottle back on the shelf and left the store empty handed.  It was my last day in the states.  There wasn’t enough time for me to chill the bottle and drink the entire thing in one night.  It was tempting though.

I may bash America a lot (deservedly so), but there are three things I’ve come to appreciate about it. One is the powerful passport.  I can travel quite freely to most other countries without a visa or any restrictions which is incredibly convenient.   Two would be the USPS.  This institution is beloved for a reason.  Lots of locations, easy to find and access – all things I’ve found to be quite difficult in other countries.  Either the post office is hard to reach or the hours change on a whim.  I truly enjoy the ease of using the American system.  The third and final thing I like about the U.S. is a policy it enacted years ago that makes it truly stand out from Europe.  When the U.S. started to crack down on public smoking back in the 80’s, the rates of death started to drop.  The number of new smokers went down (until, of course, Big Tobacco invented vaping).  I have a distinct memory of taking the bus to high school for the first time in 1987 and being stunned at the number of teachers and students who were outside smoking.  The very next year, smoking was banned on school property and since then, I’ve seen fewer and fewer people who smoke.

In Europe, unfortunately, smoking is still big.  I mentioned that it’s still legal to smoke in restaurants in Bulgaria.  In Istanbul, most of the cafes are open air so there are plenty of smokers there (as there are everywhere.  I swear, when a kid is born in Türkiye, the boys are given a cigarette while the girls are given head scarves). Smoking rates are high across Europe despite the sometimes graphic images on the packaging. 

I don’t know when I started to notice this, but once I did, I made a habit of snapping a picture of any new image I could find.

The pictures are enough to gross me out and I don’t even smoke, so the fact that smokers deliberately buy products with this imagery on them proves how much smoking is an addiction.

This is possibly the biggest freaking dog I’ve ever seen.  It was just wandering the streets of Istanbul.

I have no idea what this was about.  I was in Raffles City in Singapore and this line of uniformed people just marched into the mall and headed up the escalators.

Then, people in a different uniform would follow.  Some were cops, some were military, but no one gave an explanation for why they were there.  All I know is that the top floor of the mall was a convention center, so I suppose there was a huge meeting going on there.  Still don’t know why they chose to march in like this.

And in tech news: air conditioners are run by remote in several of the countries I’ve visited.  There may also be a separate unit for the bedroom and the living area.  It’s also common practice to turn them off when out of the apartment.  Makes sense and is a contributing factor as to how Europeans use less energy than the U.S.

I’m always happy to see English on any appliance I encounter.  Otherwise you get this. 

Or this one in Thai.  I just kept pushing buttons until the machine started to make noise.  Seemed to work out okay.  Nothing exploded anyway.

I usually try to book apartments with a washer when I can.  Dryers are rare in Europe.  The only time I’ve encountered them was in the public laundromats in Greece and the washer-dryer combos in Lisbon and Dublin.  Instead, most places in Europe have these dealies to dry the clothes.

Set the thing up on a balcony or back porch and you’re good to go.  I had enough room in the Sofia apartment to set it up inside as there was nowhere outside to put it.  In Sunny Beach, I had this unique contraption on the tiny balcony.  It was like a chandelier for underwears.  Interesting.

There are markets in Phuket where you can buy living fish then take them over to a nearby restaurant and have them cook them.  It’s the lobster tank in fancier U.S. restaurants, but for any kind of fish you want.  Can’t get any fresher than that.

There’s a store chain in Singapore called Gentle Monster.  I spotted a couple of these stores in malls and each one of them had a different sculpture in the entrance.

These were some of the weirdest moving mechanical … things I had ever seen.  It made me wonder what the store sold.  I never would have guessed that they carry eyeglasses.  What that has to do with the name or the sculptures – I couldn’t tell you.

One last song to leave with you.  I’ve always considered this my theme song.  It hit me one morning on my journey that I’m finally living it.  Imani Coppola - Legend of a Cowgirl (Video) - YouTube

Remix Wrap Up

 

Once the Zaza portion of the trip was over, I decided to get back into the tourist thing.  I didn’t think I’d sleep after what happened with him, but I still managed to get some rest.  Time to learn the tram system in Istanbul and see where it would take me. 

The T1 Tram route goes between the areas where most tourists stay to the big points of interest like Topkapi Palace and the Grand Bazaar.  After bit of walking to get to the station, it cost 50 TL to buy a 1-day pass. I decided my first stop would be Dolmabahce Palace, a huge building with expansive grounds located along the coast on the Asian side of the city. 

You can’t take pictures inside the palace, which is a shame because there was a lot to see.  There’s a huge chandelier in the grand ballroom, all sparkly and gorgeous.  Harem rooms, sweeping staircases, meeting rooms, a Turkish bath, and everywhere there were ornately painted ceilings and gigantic rugs beneath expensive furniture.

The gardens also made for a nice place to hang out for anyone who’d paid their entrance fee.  There were benches and sitting areas all around as well as a couple of cafes.  Look!  More koi!

The palace’s paintings had been moved to their own separate gallery that you could visit on the same ticket (also no picture-taking).  There were multiple gates like this one, making great framing devices for the water.

After the palace, I, of course, found my way to another park along the tram line.  Gulhane Park is adjacent to Topkapi Palace and is a great shady area to take the family.  The interactive fountain was neat.

Looking around on Google Maps to see what else of interest was in the area, I found an actual living mall called Historia.  In Istanbul. I was so accustomed to the old city with its uneven cobblestone streets and the shops and restaurants being right next to or underneath apartments that it never occurred to me that there would be a modern mall anywhere near the city.  No dead stores that I could see, just the entire top floor left unoccupied.

As I mentioned earlier, I stayed in the Balat neighborhood, famous for its colorful buildings and abundance of shops and cafes.

There are murals all over the city and this neighborhood is no exception.  I loved hunting down as many of them as I could find.

The streets are always busy with both tourists and locals, and I loved staying there.  It was also very close to the water.  No official beach, but The Golden Horn is nearby along with a pier full of boats.  Walking along the water was one of my favorite ways to enjoy the hot and sunny weather I had for the entire trip.

On Sunday, my last full day in Istanbul, it seemed like every family in the neighborhood was out in the park barbequing.  Whole families with kids and dogs were just gathered in clusters around some smoking meat and it was heartwarming to see.  I love how important family is to the Turks as it makes for a safe environment for everyone.  I could hear children screaming in the streets at 10 at night.  I didn’t want to hear them, but it’s a testament to how no one has anything to fear even in such a densely populated city.  Well, other than the risk of getting clipped by a passing motorcycle or run over by a cab, but then everyone faces that same danger.

I headed back to the tram with the intention of seeing the Basilica Cistern, another tourist attraction.  The line to get in was too long to be standing in the hot, July sun so I went back to Gulhane Park to walk around.  I stopped by the same restaurant that I’d visited the day before for lunch.  The folks working there remembered me (I love that) and welcomed me back.  I was a little wary of being in this part of town as it wasn’t far from Zaza’s shop and hunting grounds.  The last thing I wanted was to run into him, not knowing what would be worse; being greeted with anger and outrage or more sweet talk instead of the apology I deserved.  Turns out, I didn’t have to worry about seeing him in person. 

As I was eating lunch, I got a text from a number I didn’t recognize though I could tell it was from Türkiye.  That ‘hi’ was followed by ‘it’s Zaza.  Where are you?’ I hadn’t heard from him since blocking his number the previous Wednesday.  As I stared at the phone in shock, it started to ring.  Are you kidding me?  I honestly couldn’t believe he was trying to contact me.  Why?  Did he still think there was a chance he could shake me down for money?  I declined the call, but I didn’t block this number.  I had to admit to some curiosity as to what he might say next.  Wouldn’t change my mind about anything, but …

Despite the outcome of my fling, I still love Istanbul.  If my first trip didn’t cement it, the last two weeks did.  The place is in my heart now and you can’t pry it out of there with a crowbar.  There is a sense of magic to the city that is all its own and I don’t think you have to lose your virginity there to experience it.  Highly recommended.  Everyone should go.  Just be careful of the men.

Thus ends the second leg of my travel journey.  Well … I didn’t see ANY of that coming.  Two trips to a city I now adore, finding out that Thailand is really not a good fit for me, Amsterdam, Singapore, Bulgaria, … Zaza … sigh.

For multiple reasons, it’s time for me to go back to the states.  I don’t want to go, but the visa application for Portugal needs to be started on home soil, so I’m looking to start that process.  I am that rare creature; the homebody who loves to travel.  Being sick in that comfy apartment made me long for my own place.  Still want to travel, but I need someplace of my own now.

The Remix Part 2

Not so tense a wait after a while as my long travel day caught up to me.  I started to doze off on the couch when I finally got a text from him.  He’d been negotiating a price on a rug with a foreign couple and it had taken longer than he thought.  He sent me the address of the shop and asked that I meet him there.

It was so good to see him in person and be back in his arms again.  He is a great hugger.  I was so relieved that he really did want to see me again and it wasn’t just idle texting.  We ate at the shop – well, barely ate in my case, I was so nervous.  Then it was back to his apartment.

After a month of dreaming, I was back on that balcony.  I can’t explain how powerful that place is in my memory.  It’s the view of the water, the calls to prayer, the music coming from all over the city, the birds flying overhead, Zaza’s arms around me.  This is where I had my first kiss from a man who said he couldn’t stop kissing me because I was so delicious.  Istanbul will always be magical to me because of Zaza and that balcony.

The first night went really, really, really well (the man is a machine).  And guess what? Turns out I’m straight.  Not that I really questioned that, but I never had anyone around to test it on.  It seems that having a hairy man put his strong hands all over me … works for me.  Who knew?

We’d planned to meet the next night, but after wandering the city all day, I was wiped.  The next night he was tired.  I was starting to think that the first night was all we would get.  And while I understood the fatigue (I mentioned from my first trip that Istanbul is exhausting – I really can’t imagine working everyday all day in that hot sun), I couldn’t help but be disappointed.

We finally met up again that Friday when I walked to the shop.  Some tea and hospitality and I was ushered back down into the main rug room.  With his cousin standing nearby, Zaza began to display some of the rugs as he’d done the first day we’d met.  The rugs are still as beautiful as always, but I was giving him the side-eye.  After two days of no contact, I didn’t walk all that way just to be given a hard sell on a rug.  But a salesman gotta sell, so I sat through the pitch.   He unfurled rug after rug, asking me what size and color I preferred.  I had to admire the passion with which he approached the demo.  He would tell me how long it took to make a particular rug, what some of the patterns meant, and what materials went into their creation.  

The one I chose was, of course, one of the more expensive silk ones.  Those things have fascinated me since the first time he showed me that they appear to be a different color depending on how you look at them.  He supposedly gave me deal because “you’re not a customer, you are family, you are my woman”. I’m still going to have that thing appraised when I get a chance, see if I overpaid for it.

From there he led me to his favorite restaurant around the corner.  Up way too many stairs until … oh.  Yeah.  The climb was worth it. 

Being near his apartment, the restaurant had the same great view and a cozy atmosphere. I ordered some shrimp and fries, mentioning to him how I had a serious French fry problem.  He introduced me to raki, a mysterious clear liquid that turned milky white when the waiter added water.  I asked Zaza if I would have gone blind had the water not been added. He immediately said yes.  Taste-wise, raki is just watered-down ouzo.  I’ll stick to white wine next time.

We lingered for a while as Zaza arranged for a hotel room.  He had texted me before my arrival that he wanted to rent a room for my first night in town with a big bed and a shower.  It didn’t happen that first night, but on this night, he had his cousin staying at his place so we wouldn’t have any privacy.  After having his relatives find the place, we settled into a nearby hotel.  I had to laugh.  When he asked why, I just gawked.  “You just had your relatives scout out a place for you to screw your girlfriend.  That doesn’t seem strange to you?”  He just shrugged.  To him, family was just relied on to do for you, no matter the task.

My life has gotten so weird!

The next night we went back to the rooftop restaurant to have wine for me and a beer for him.  I was surprised when the waiter later set down a plate of fries.  Zaza had ordered in Turkish so I had no idea what he’d said.  I didn’t ask for them – he ordered them simply because he knew I liked them.  I grinned and started to eat, enjoying my wine, the amazing atmosphere, and the good man beside me.  And then, being the ginormous goober that I am, I started crying. Over French fries.  He didn’t understand why and I got why he was confused.  But I was genuinely touched.  He keeps explaining to me that this is just part of his culture, the man takes care of his woman.  I keep trying to explain to him that I’m really not used to being treated so well.  I cry from happiness – if he keeps being sweet, I will be sappy.  That’s just how it is.

A couple and their three kids sat at the table next to us.  Listening to them was confusing as they spoke English with a British accent but would randomly switch to French.  I didn’t have time to wonder as one of Zaza’s co-workers, another cousin (I swear the man is related to half of Istanbul), sat with us.  After a while, he struck up a conversation with the woman at the other table.  Turns out, she’s British, her husband is French, and they live in France.  She met him as a solo female traveler, so she and I shared tales of wanderlust.  We all had a great chat about travel and Zaza’s Kurdish roots.  And from the picture, you can tell that they have no problem sharing some illicit substances with their kids.

You know what sucks?  Squat toilets.  Zaza’s place is not really an apartment.  It’s a room up five flights of stairs with no kitchen and no air conditioning, just a mini fridge, and a little cubbyhole with a shower attachment.  The toilet is located outside of the room and is obviously only meant for urination.  I shudder to think about doing … anything else the human body requires.

And my thoughts were leaning toward being ill with only that toilet around.  That night at dinner, I felt the scratchy throat I’d caught in Singapore start to affect my voice.  I thought the mild irritation was getting better as I reached Türkiye.  But the runny nose, persistent annoying cough, congestion, and headache over the last couple of days were good indicators that I was indeed sick (damn it).  Having a cold is annoying.  Being sick in the summer is even worse.  Having a cold in the summer while traveling is just ew.  Being sick in the summer while far from home and trying to get my swerve on … yeah.  Not exactly making for the sexy.

There are three things that you really don’t want to deal with when traveling: assault, incarceration, or illness.  Assault includes theft of any kind, getting kidnapped, mugged, or worse.  Incarceration is pretty self-explanatory.  It’s best not to have any interaction with foreign cops if you can avoid it (although, travelling outside of America means there’s less of a chance that you’ll be shot).  Illness includes injury, hospitalization, or the nightmare of a summer cold when you really want to spend time with someone and not get them sick.

I woke up at Zaza’s on Sunday morning and one of the first things he said was that my voice was bad.  I said I needed medication, hugged him goodbye, and headed back to my apartment.  I then spent the day on the couch fading in and out of consciousness with some breaks for cough drops and nose-blowing.

A word about this couch.  This thing is deadly.  Filled with goose feathers, if you lay on this couch for more than a minute, you will be out for the count.  You’ll wake up hours later and not know what the hell happened.  A nice place to recuperate from illness.  I just needed to figure out how to get it in my suitcase.

Monday was only slightly better.  I got out a bit more, but still had to concede that Istanbul is no less exhausting when you’re sick – it’s actually worse.  I had to limit my time outside because it was so draining.  It didn’t help that it was hot as balls in July and the level of UV rays was high. I decided to extend my stay in the apartment for another week.  It wasn’t only about a man.  Dealing with another airport and the stress of travel days was just too much for me to consider while still sick.  The apartment was great, top 5 for my coziest stays on the road, and I wasn’t too eager to leave it just yet.

That Tuesday was just plain fun.  Zaza delivered my rug to the apartment with the intent of breaking it in in a NSFW manner.  We didn’t get around to that, but we did … other things.  It was playful and sexy and all the things I wanted this fling to be … in the short two hours we had before he ran off to be with family again.

On Wednesday night, I walked to the shop and we sat outside for a while then went back to the rooftop restaurant.  I asked him to sing when we got back to his place (Kurdish men are known for their singing and I knew he could sing from earlier).  I lay on the couch, enjoying the view, the breeze, the birds, and the good singing, feeling very relaxed and content.

And then he asked me for $3800 to get him out of military service.

Good feelings gone.

Suddenly, some of the behaviors I’d observed since meeting him made more sense.  There was always a distance between us that I couldn’t breach no matter how hard I tried.  Yeah, the sex thing was there, but when I’d ask him any real questions, try to spark up some conversation, I’d get nowhere.  Since we first started texting, it was all sweet talk (which I ate up) and no questions about the places I visited or what I’d seen.  I chalked the lack of intellectual curiosity to him being raised poor in a different environment.  But there was no effort made to learn more about me as a person. 

Since the first time he led me to his shop and later to his apartment, it was always with the same fast swagger while barely looking back to see if I was following.  Once I was back in the city, it was the same.  No handholding or making sure I didn’t stumble on the notoriously uneven cobblestones of the city streets.  I thought it was a Muslim practice of not showing too much affection in public.  But no.  I’d seen women in full burkas holding hands with their boyfriends or snuggling together on a blanket in the park.

Then there was the fact that he never called me by name.  In the texts and in person, I was my sweetheart, my chocolate, my caramel, my lover – never Daphne.  As much as I enjoyed the terms of endearment, I do know what love-bombing is, a psychological manipulation technique.  It just had me thinking that he couldn’t remember my name even after texting for a month – and despite the fact that the hotel across from his favorite restaurant bears my name.  He seemed surprised when I pointed it out.

There’s just nothing I like more than being played for a fool.

I gave him one last hug, told him I now feel stupid, and left the apartment.  He was calling after me in confusion that quickly turned into offense and how upset he was that I was leaving.  My phone pinged a couple of times while I hailed a cab.  I ignored them, glad that he’d only texted me and hadn’t followed me out.  The last texts he sent were about how he’d never forgive me for leaving and that I’d ruined his evening.

B!tch please.

I banned him on WhatsApp while cabbing it home and just sat there in numb silence.  I knew this was just a short-term thing, I had every intention of ending it to avoid the stress of long-distance relationships, I just had no idea that this was how it would end.  I thought his interest in me was a fetish thing (which is bad enough), but to think he only saw the letters A.T.M. on my forehead?  So much worse.

The most I can say is that it was fun while it lasted.  I’m glad he delivered my rug so I didn’t have to deal with any of those people again.  Now instead of being a reminder of him, it will just be a reminder of the beauty of Türkiye.  I will still, very proudly, display this work of art on the floor of my new home.   

There.  That’s much better.

I have always attracted vampires (and always will); people looking to either siphon off my light (or in this case, my money) or snuff that light out completely.  Some are just more appealing than others.

Istanbul the Remix

Yeah.

You remember that guy I met in Istanbul?  The one I thought of as a one-night stand who has instead appointed himself as my Turkish bodyguard? The one who’s been ‘blowing up my phone’, like the kids say, since we met?

The guy who essentially RUINED MY TRIP TO SE ASIA.  I’m trying to enjoy exploring a new country, trying to scope it out as a suitable place to live and all I can think about is him and all the filthy things he wants to do to me (that man is not shy).  I’ll be trying to write and he’ll call me and make me think about nothing more than how soon I can get back to Istanbul and him. 

Freaking Türkiye man!

Yeah, that guy.  Well, he is a honey-dripping bastard.  After a month of talking on WhatsApp, Zaza convinced me to postpone my plans to head to Australia.  I decided instead to go back to Istanbul for a week and be delicious.

I’m not trying to marry this dude.  I have my own plans that don’t involve moving to Türkiye and being fit for a burka.  As sweet as Zaza is, he’s still too short, he smokes, and he lives in a crappy apartment (with a great view) in Türkiye.  But the stuff that comes out of his mouth is just pure … delight.  Yes, I will go full-on sappy and call him my Turkish Delight.  And I plan to enjoy the hell out of him while I can.  I only had to go to the other side of the planet to find someone who likes me, so I figure I’d better take full advantage of the situation. 

Besides which, having never had a fling in my life, I think it’s fair time I flung.  I can fling.  Who says I can’t fling?

I started to do some research on Türkiye on YouTube.  I was mostly interested in picking up some of the language or getting tips on what else I should visit.  I was shocked at the number of videos I found regarding dating Turkish men.  Particularly, black women dating Turkish men.  I had no idea this was a thing.  Yes, Zaza told me he was into black chicks (as were a couple of his relatives who were married to black women and living in the U.S.), but I didn’t realize the extent of this … fetish?  Phenomenon?  I don’t know.   

My research is how I figured out this was not to be a great love of my life.  Turkish men are known to be sweet talkers, persistent, jealous, and workaholics (more on that later).  They also have the reputation for being major Mama’s boys.  They fully expect their girlfriends/wives to be their substitute mom.  And while I am 13 years older than the man … naw, my friend.  I have no interest in being anybody’s mother.  Doesn’t mean this ‘thing’ can’t be mutually beneficial.  His Turkish ego is stroked by the fact that he deflowered the American with the big breasts and I get hugs and sweet talk.  It works out for both of us.

But first, getting there.  And it was a bear of a travel day that started at Changi in Singapore.  At least it was a good start.  That is a well-designed airport.  The place was meant for the comfort of the travelers and, while not as pretty as the jewel, Terminal 4 has its own advantages.  Have I ever mentioned how much I love koi?  They are so fun to watch!

From Changi it was 2 hours back to Bangkok.  Can’t say I was looking forward to going back to Thailand, but my flight to Türkiye was out of BKK, Bangkok’s big airport.  I had arrived at Don Mueang and dreaded the idea of dealing with another rude cabbie.  I almost did the happy dance to find that there was a shuttle from one airport to the other.  It was already parked at the gate when I arrived and I didn’t even have to pay for it.  Yay!

Suvarnabhumi (BKK) is one of the top 10 biggest airports in the world.  I swear, half of the population of Thailand was in there waiting for flights.  There was even an entire football team just milling around.  I had plenty of time to observe everything since my flight from Singapore arrived at 4 p.m. and my flight to Dubai didn’t leave until 1:30 a.m.  Not ideal but it was the best I could arrange under the circumstances.

While BKK is not a great airport, it looked like heaven compared to Dubai.  The airport is almost as sprawling as BKK, but it wasn’t meant to be comfortable.  It was barely functional in that I arrived on the tarmac and had to walk awhile just to catch a bus to my departing terminal.  After that long ride, which took me all over the airport, it was another long wait in a hot, overly crowded waiting area.  When my flight was finally called, it was onto another bus to take me to the plane.   Because of just how inefficiently designed the place felt, I gotta say that Dubai sucks (this opinion applies only to the airport – I know nothing about the country).

Finally arriving in Türkiye, in the smaller SAW airport this time, it was on to my first concern upon returning to the country; my visa.  If you recall the issues I had with Turkish Border Patrol on arriving from Bulgaria by bus, I wasn’t entirely sure the visa would still be valid.  E-visas applied for online are valid for 90 days.  Since I couldn’t find any other info, I assumed the same rule would apply for my paper visa (which has no additional info about length of visa validity, re-entry requirements, or anything else).  Fingers crossed …

And Border Patrol didn’t even recognize the visa.  Sigh.  I had to explain to them the circumstances and that this is the only visa I had which did allow me into the country for a week.  I was fully prepared to pay for a new one if necessary, but I just didn’t want to be fined or banned or anything worse.

After a few nerve-wracking minutes while the guy made a call and consulted with the other agent sitting next to him, he finally stamped my passport and let me through.  Whew.  Now on to the next bit of fun; another ride in an Istanbul taxi.

Well, a month out of the country hasn’t made the taxi drivers any saner.  At least I was prepared for it this time.  Actually, this trip went better than my first intro into the city.  This guy understood the address with no problem, it wasn’t raining, and he brought me directly to the apartment.

It took some fumbling to get inside (the host’s maid had not returned the key to the correct lockbox), but once I was in, I was very pleased with the place.  It’s got a great layout and I instantly felt at home (though I wasn’t crazy about that rug – more on that later).

My neighborhood this time is called Balat in Fatih.  I specifically chose this area because it was closer to Zaza’s home and shop.  Turns out, not close enough.  It’s an hour walk or about a 15-minute cab ride depending on traffic.  After texting him on my arrival, I got unpacked, showered, and freshened up. I had been nervous for a while before I even got back to Türkiye, being that this was the first time I’d ever travelled across a few countries to see a man.  So it was a long tense wait for his next text.