Taking the long way
We are back in Fidenza after a three-month absence, and I’m full of plans to write more blog posts, get more exercise, and generally be a more cheerful and productive person this spring than I was last fall. Wish me luck—I’ll need it.
As always, it was hard to leave Home 1 for Home 2, just as it’s hard going the other way. In California I’ve been playing a lot of chamber music and seeing lots of friends and relations, and spring has begun cloaking our unkempt garden in flowers.
What made the garden a little easier to leave behind was the distressing odor that our compost roller has developed. We’re hoping Mother Nature will take care of it while we’re gone. As for the rest, I remind myself that the music, the loved ones, and my unfinished projects will likely all be there waiting for me when I return.
We flew Turkish Airlines again this time. Last September Danny was indignant about the airline’s last-minute seat switch that put us several rows away from each other, rather than side by side. But he reluctantly broke his pledge to never fly with them again when he discovered that their business-class tickets to Italy were several thousand dollars cheaper than those of other airlines, and that they would fly us to nearby Bologna rather than Milan’s harder-to-get-to Malpensa airport.
There was a catch, though; those cheap tickets included long layovers in the huge new Istanbul airport. When I noticed that the airport’s amenities included a hotel inside the security zone, I insisted we spend our layovers (14 hours one way, 9 hours on our way back) in our own room rather than hope to snag two of the first-come, first-serve roomettes in the airport’s business-class lounge or, if we didn’t, scramble to claim one of the lounge’s couches. I’m not sure Danny agrees with me, but I feel this plan worked out beautifully.
When we boarded the plane for our 13-hour flight from San Francisco to \stanbul, we discovered that once again our seats had been changed, this time because the plane had been changed to one with with a different seat configuration. Instead of sitting together we had a third person between us. Danny began to seethe—how could they do this to us again? But luckily a family of three in the row ahead of us asked if they could switch places, because one of their aisle seats didn’t recline, and the flight attendants found a seat elsewhere for the person who’d been scheduled to sit between us. Danny and I thus ended up next to each other after all, with an aisle on one side of us and an empty seat on the other. Perfect!
It was a night flight, which made me very glad to have a lie-back seat, even if it was too narrow for true comfort. Between the late dinner we were served once we were aloft and the early breakfast that appeared ten hours later I managed to sleep for about four hours, with a reading break in the middle. This is three-and-a-half more hours than I can manage in an upright airplane seat, so I was well pleased.
Because the Istanbul airport is a vast maze of corridors and duty-free shops, with distances too long for a gentleman with sciatica to comfortably navigate on foot, Danny had arranged for one of the airport’s fleet of motorized wheelchairs to meet us at the gate. Two were there waiting for us, which turned out to be a good thing, because there’s no way I could have kept up with the speed demons who drive these things. “Wheelchairs” isn’t really the right term; these are motorized four-wheel carts with a platform in back for the driver to stand on and a chair in front for a passenger, who serves as the cart’s de facto bumper. You’re particularly aware of this when your driver races toward an elevator, only to stop short just before your knees crash into the door.
Our drivers did this and more, racing through the airport’s avenues, weaving around the throngs of pedestrians and, at one terrifying moment, almost plowing over a couple of them, then threading around a hairpin turn or two and through several narrow corridors before arriving at our hotel. Whatever sleepiness I felt was momentarily extinguished by the adrenaline rush of our wild ride.
Our hotel room, an all-white spage-age pod, was scary in a different way. At first we thought it had no window, just artificial lighting artfully designed to look as though sunshine were peeking through the cracks.
We were sure the window in the corner was also fake, the illusion of a window, because there seemed to be nothing beyond it. But upon investigation we realized that its upper right corner actually looked out on something, namely a bit of unlighted airport corridor and roof. Even after daylight appeared it was still a view almost worse than no window at all. And of course the window couldn’t be opened. Calling it a window at all seems like a bit of a stretch.
Nonetheless, the shower was welcome and the bed was very comfortable, and I managed another four hours of sleep. After I read for a while Danny woke up and we decided to head over to the business-class lounge, a mere eight-minute walk away, and see what they were serving in the way of breakfast.
Even in the middle of the night, many of the airport’s hundreds of shops seemed to be open for business, and there were still people wandering around, though plenty more of them were curled uncomfortably on chairs and benches here and there, trying to sleep. Signs wished everyone a good Ramadan in Arabic and Turkish.
The Ramadan Village we spotted during our walk appeared to be a playground for children that, not surprisingly, wasn’t open at three in the morning.
All the couches in the lounge had been claimed by travelers who were now in various states of unconsciousness, giving it the look of a very posh homeless encampment. Most of the food stalls were in the process of being scrubbed down, but coffee, pastries, and fresh fruit were on offer. Soon the mezze buffet, with its array of salads, cereals, olives, and cheeses, opened up, and someone began making grilled tomato-and-cheese sandwiches alongside a big tureen of lentil soup. Tired and starving, I sampled all of it.
After a couple hours of eating and browsing our phones we both began to droop, so we went back to our room. Danny promptly conked out, but despite all my yawning I couldn’t get back to sleep. Soon it was time to get up, pack up, and get to our gate for our morning flight to Bologna.
This time we’d ordered just one transport chair, since we had plenty of time and I wanted to walk so I could see a bit more of the airport. Danny took off at speed, with his carry-on trailing behind, hooked to the driver’s foot. The driver was on his phone, maneuvering the cart one-handed as well as one-footed, but not going any slower for all that.
I browsed the displays of designer clothes and embroidered shawls, of baklava and Turkish delight and Turkish wine. I strolled through the Anatolian food court, which had a tempting selection of stuffed breads and pastries. I stopped to look at the Departures board, which listed scores of flights to locations all over the world—Budapest, London, Bali. Abu Dhabi, Bangkok. Then I joined Danny at our gate, where news had just come in that our flight was delayed by about half an hour.
Despite our big middle-of-the-night feast I was ravenously hungry, but I’d virtuously decided not to have a pre-breakfast before getting on the plane and eating the breakfast they were going to serve us. While we waited at the gate, however, I deeply regretted that I hadn’t purchased one of those Turkish stuffed breads when I’d had the chance.
As people started lining up to board the plane, a man in an official-looking vest adorned with a wheelchair insignia came over and asked to see our boarding passes, inspected them closely, and told us to come with him. It felt a bit like being arrested. Everyone else was going through the checkpoint and getting on buses out to the plane on the airfield. Our minder muscled us to the head of the line—we were on foot—and then led us out to a truck whose large back door made it look quite a lot like a garbage truck. Which felt a bit like a prelude to a mob hit.
After he exchanged a few words with the driver, the back of the truck opened up and folded out to become a platform with a heavy metal railing that snapped into place. The platform slowly descended until it was on the ground, and our minder motioned us to step on and then followed with our carry-ons. The platform rose until it was flush with the door leading into the truck, which on the inside resembled an ambulance from a country too poor to have any medical equipment. There was nothing there but a stretcher, several wheelchairs of various kinds, and a couple of fold-down seats, where we parked ourselves. This also seemed rather sinister, although at least there was no dried blood in evidence.
We waited what seemed like a long time, and our minder waited with us, sitting in one of the wheelchairs. Using Google Translate in an effort to make conversation across the language barrier, he told us that the Istanbul Airport is number one in Europe and number two in the world, though it wasn’t clear if he meant first in size or traffic or general wonderfulness. I could easily believe all three. (Luckily Danny didn’t say out loud what he was thinking, namely, Turkey is in Europe?)
Finally our vehicle lumbered off to our plane, which was waiting a short distance away. We edged up to it on the opposite side from where the other passengers were climbing up to the entry doors. Then our little cabin rose slowly, one could even say majestically, until it was at the same level as the front door on the plane’s starboard side, the door they load the food through. After another short wait the plane door opened and we were ushered aboard. Never have I felt so acutely my, and Danny’s, lack of serious disability.
We were deeply relieved to see that the plane hadn’t been waiting for us, and that we were far from the last people to board. My hope is that the flow of people coming in the regular way mostly disguised our grand entrance.
Once we were aloft they served us a big breakfast, which I ate every bit of and even asked for an extra roll. There’s nothing like having your sleep schedule scrambled to stimulate the appetite. Two and a half hours later we landed in Bologna.
A friend’s son picked us up at the airport—he was happy to do it for far less than the hundreds of euros car services charge—and brought us to Fidenza. In our apartment we opened all the blinds and some of the windows, did a little unpacking, and flopped into bed. If I hadn’t set an alarm we would have slept till well past dark, but we’d made a date to meet Pam and Romano at five o’clock, precisely so we’d be forced to get up.
The four of us strolled across the piazza to Caffè Madeleine, one of our favorite places for coffee and sweets, and defied conventional wisdom by ordering late-afternoon cappuccini (decaffeinato) all around—even Romano, that full-blooded Italian, had one—as well as a couple of pieces of nut cake. I found the coffee, the cake, and the conversation all delightful. Our time in Italy had begun.
Now I just have to finish adjusting to the nine-hour time difference. I see a lot of napping in my future.
