Laying Over
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: About the time you receive this, barring flight delays, we’ll be landing in Taipei, the capital of Taiwan. Last weekend, ancient Zapotec temples. This weekend, ancient Buddhist temples. That’s my favorite kind of culture shock!
Laying Over
I’m writing this during a ten-hour layover in the Istanbul airport, waiting for the last leg of our journey to Taiwan.
You may have seen on the news that there was a bombing in Istanbul last weekend, on Istiklal Street.
Another digital nomad we know marked herself safe on Facebook, indicating that she’s on the other side of the Bosporus from Istiklal. I was fascinated to to skim through the comments from her friends, most of whom appeared to be in the US. They were all so worried about her. I get it—I remember a time in my life when, if I read about some kind of random, isolated violence like that, I would make instant assumptions: how terrifying. How dangerous to be in that city. What must those poor people be going through? And the most instinctive, knee-jerk reaction of all: you couldn’t pay me to go to such an awful place.
The first article I read about last week’s bombing here talked about how the shopkeepers on Istiklal slammed down their shutters as soon as they heard the explosion. I know that sound. I’ve been on that street, at the moment when the riot police showed up, and the metal shutters banged down, one after another, clang-clang-clang. On that particular day, we decided that discretion was the better part of valor, and edged around a corner, where we slipped into a seafood restaurant, claimed a seat on the balcony, and watched as … absolutely nothing happened. Apparently there had been rumors of a protest that never materialized, or something along those lines.
The ultimate outcome of that day? The seafood restaurant ripped us off, to the tune of about a hundred dollars. I went back later to complain, and the owner asked my shoe size, saying he’d have a pair of silk slippers made for me. I declined, and left, knowing that in spite of the rip-off, we’d had An Experience To Remember.
That same week, something awful actually did happen—a police van was blown up, killing seven officers and four civilians; I walked past the precise spot later that day, & couldn’t tell it had happened. I was on my way to the Grand Bazaar. At the time, friends urged us to leave, but Istanbul is a huge city, & life goes on, even while bad things are happening.
That was in 2016, and we knew about that attack as soon as it happened, thanks to the headlines from American news sources that pop up on our phones no matter where we are. But we also knew that this is a city of fifteen million people. The chances our having been in that wrong place, at that wrong moment, were way less than one in a million. To be precise, it was more like 1 in 7.5 million, if I understand math (I definitely don’t).
Like I said, that was all back in 2016. Last weekend, I read about those shopkeepers on Istiklal slamming down their shutters, then reopening them so they could assist the injured, and I remembered how very much I love this country, how welcome I’ve always been made to feel (except for that guy in the seafood restaurant, and even he wanted to give me silk slippers—I mean, when was the last time someone offered you a pair of silk slippers by way of apology?).
So here we are now, stuffing our faces with baklava in the airport lounge. Today we’re just passing through, but we’re planning to come back in September, and stay for a few weeks. A few minutes ago, Lee suggested, only half-joking, that we could just skip our connecting flight, and stay now. We won’t, but it’s tempting.
We’ll be back. Sure, bad things happen here sometimes, because they always do, pretty much everywhere. That’s the way of the world, isn’t it?
Besides, if I refused to go to any country that experienced occasional violence against innocent citizens, how would I ever see my family?
Take care,
Lisa
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