Getting to Istanbul
I didn’t realize I needed a visa to get into Turkey.
It was 1am and I was jet-lagged coming straight from Ibiza. I finally made it to the front of the customs line, laughing at the newly discovered knowledge of how Turkish people treat lines.
“Where is your visa?” the gorgeous man behind the counter asked me.
“What visa?”
He rolled his beautiful, annoyed eyes. “Go over there, pay him, come back.”
Please, herd me like a sheep, I thought. I walked over to where he pointed. A glass screen separated me and a portly man.
“20 euros” he said. Thank god. I tiredly asked if they took card.
“No, only euros. Do you have Lira?”
“Is there an ATM?”
“Open your wallet. ”
I pulled out 50 euros and he backed up waving his hands. He came around the glass through a door and grabbed my wallet, rifling through it.
“You have 20 euros. Passport?” He went back behind the glass and brandished a sticker, slapping it on a blank page.
I had to wait through the line again, but thankfully no other flights had landed. I didn’t get to go back to my green-eyed boyfriend.
After trying four different ATMs to get some Lira, I was able to grab a cab outside. The driver was kind, quiet. I suddenly panicked and shared my location with my friend I was staying with and my mom, just in case there was a Taken situation and they could suddenly become Liam Neeson.
After about an hour of our peaceful night drive we crossed the bridge to the European side of the city. It was Saturday night and the well-lit streets were alive with people laughing and drinking. We turned into a small cobblestone side street, then another. This next one was steep and had no outlet.
“Is this where you’re staying?” the driver asked.
“I have no idea.”
Like clockwork, my small blonde friend turned the corner.
“HANNAH!!” she waved. Could NOT be better timing. She was walking with a taller brunette girl down the steep path.
I paid the man too much, shocked that my hour long cab was the same price of my 5 minute drive from the Ibiza resort to the airport 18 hours earlier. Later that night my friend would laugh at how much I paid, and text all of her Turkish friends what an idiot I was (in a loving way).
This was the beautiful start to one of my favorite manic trips I’ve ever experienced.
