My First Words In Istanbul

Story by kampunghouse

This article is part of a series of recollections of Istanbul, more of which can be found on the writer's website www.kampunghouse.wordpress.com

After the long flight straddling three continents from Melbourne to Istanbul via Singapore, I finally touched down at Ataturk International Airport.

The Ataturk International Airport.
surf2istanbul.com 

 During those final minutes before landing, I gazed excitedly at the window to catch a glimpse of Istanbul, and I remember experiencing an awkward feeling - was it disappointment? Shock? Confusion? - as I saw row upon row of apartment buildings painted in weird colours like garish pink and lime green.

What was I expecting, a thousand year old mosque? A grand Ottoman palace? A huge banner saying Welcome to Istanbul?

I wasn’t quite sure, but I knew one thing – I can’t wait to get my bum off the plane!

I made my way into the Foreigners queue at Customs – the nationality-based segregation always makes me feel unwelcome.

I was about to ponder and feel sorry for illegal immigrants in my home country Malaysia when all of a sudden I heard a commotion from behind me.

A portly woman in traditional Central Asian clothing, maybe a Kazakh, Azerbaijani, Kyrgyz, or none of the above for all I know, started cutting lines, deliberately oblivious to the people and protests next to her.

I hate queue jumpers with a passion, so when she reached right behind me I turned around and in the most menacing, threatening voice I could muster I said to her (and all those around me with similar intentions): No One. Is Cutting. MY. Line.

She stopped dead on her tracks with a look of bewilderment and shame. I recovered from my Mafia moment, tried to hide a self-satisfied smile, turned around and waited for my turn to get my passport stamped.

I had dreamt of visiting Istanbul for 13 years, and THOSE were my first words here.