Finally, after a few years of nudging, I decided there were far worse places to have one's passport stamped.
It's likely the events leading up to my parents' adventure were far less dramatic then mine. Six years ago, a not so little hurricane named Sandy was making herself known throughout the northeast, and planned on gracing New York with her presence.
For several days, I walked down 7th Avenue in complete darkness as the lights that normally glared from storefronts and street lamps were black beyond 24th street. The contrast of one block to the next was stark. For nearly a week, I fumbled through my apartment guided only by the subtle glow of my touchscreen.
All this to say, it seemed like a very good time to visit Turkey, or any place with electricity and running water. Never in all my life had the bar for visiting another zip code been so low.
It was strangely, quite liberating.
When I first arrived in Istanbul, I spent much of my time ambling through streets, bazaars, meeting strangers, but mostly standing in wonderment at some of the great tabernacles of the world.
It was said during Da Vinci's time, one had to to master three things:
1. How to walk through a city
2. How to ride a horse
3. How to speak.
I figured two out of three wasn't so bad.
One evening, as I sat in my hotel room studying for the GRE of all things I forced myself to have a night out on the town. I was still "youngish" but over the years had retreated within myself when it came to social outings. My discipline was admirable but also crippling when it came to living a three dimensional life.
A night out, however tame, felt well-deserved.
I made my way to Istiklal Caddesi Avenue, one of the most famous streets in Istanbul; a bustling strip lined with shops, cafes, restaurants, and street performers. An important soccer match that night also offered some colorful characters whose sobriety was questionable at best.
After an hour or so of taking in the scene, I was approached by a man who looked to be a few years older than me. He stood about 5'8, sported a thick black beard, and was on the tail end of what I guessed was one of many cigarettes that evening.
"Where are you from?" he asked in perfect English.
"New York," I said.
Over the years, I'd grown more comfortable with that response. It seemed far too much trouble to give the rundown of where I was born, raised, and how I'd eventually came to call the Big Apple home.
Still, from time to time I felt like a fraud for denying my California roots.
We spoke easily for a few minutes before he insisted on grabbing a drink together.
"Let's just grab a beer man. You're cool," he said.
It seemed like an innocent enough request and so off we went.
He lit another cigarette as we snagged an outdoor table. Waiters hustled auburn colored pints of beer to patrons of all ages, genders, and philosophies.
We talked about politics, religion, and how each played important roles in Turkish life.
"I'm a bad Muslim," he told me as he guzzled his beer between drags of his cigarette.
After a few minutes, something peculiar happened. Conversation suddenly felt stilted. The two of us grew quiet as I sensed a shared angst about the direction of our evening together. I'd never felt a lull between two people was a bad thing but this was different. What was often a welcome pause, poetic even, now felt agonizing. His silence seemed rooted in some type of introspection.
After about half an hour, I insisted on paying the bill and heading home.
"Do you want to go to another place?" he suddenly asked.
Why on earth would I want to do that? I thought. Why would either of us want to spend another second together?
The last 15 minutes alone had felt like walking on hot coals. What started off as an earnest attempt to make a friend had become an excruciating endurance test.
So naturally, I did what any sensible person in my position would do.
I accepted his invitation.
We made our way to a nondescript entrance and down a flight of greasy carpeted stairs. Instantly, I felt leery about the setting. The entire place had about 20 people, most of which were men flirting with 50. The only women in the bar were nearly half their age and all on the dance floor.
The two of us slid into a booth as I scanned the windowless room for ways I'd escape if given the chance. We looked over a menu full of drinks both overpriced and of no interest to me before the "owner" of the establishment ushered over two girls. Each introduced themselves before sliding beside the two of us.
My fears were confirmed. I was being set up just as I had 8 years before in Shanghai. How could I be so stupid?
The only difference was I’d lived a little more life, read a few more books, and seen more of the world. I had changed, which lent itself to the compassion I felt for the players involved. I felt sorry they felt this was the work they needed to do.
"Aren't you going to buy the lady a drink?" the man asked.
I realized I had no choice as I started to plan my clumsy escape.
"Uh, sure." I said.
A few minutes later the drinks arrived when my new friend decided he had to use the restroom.
"I have to go to!" I told him.
He looked at me as if I'd just told him there was no Tooth Fairy. He knew that I knew he would never return.
We made our way to the restroom as I scripted a farewell speech in my head. My heart beat like an off tempo drum as I mustered up the courage to tell him I had to leave.
"I have to go man. Here's money for the drinks. Nice meeting you."
He proceeded to put on a performance worthy of an Obie, claiming I'd suddenly morphed into a completely different person.
"You changed on me bro! What happened?! I thought we were friends!"
I played along before offering him a few dollars for the drink I'd ordered but not touched. He held his hands up in dramatic fashion as if I was trying to get him to hold a venomous snake.
"I don't know what you're doing!" he said before stomping out.
Even amidst the anxiety I felt, I remember thinking this guy had talent. I wonder what he could have done with a sonnet.
As I left the bathroom I was not surprisingly greeted by the owner.
"I know exactly what's going on," I told him. "Please, I don't want any trouble."
"You know what's happening, huh?" he said.
"Yes. Let me just pay for my drink and leave."
He was surprisingly receptive to my request but insisted I owed him not for one drink but two. "The one you bought for the lady also," he said.
You mean the one you forced me to buy, I thought.
"How much?" I asked.
"Twenty-seven dollars." he said.
"Fine," I reluctantly agreed.
What's interesting is throughout the entire exchange he never once looked me in the eyes. In that moment, he knew he'd duped me but had still somehow lost. What exactly I don't know.
For the cost of a steak he'd renounced any semblance of integrity he may have still been clinging to. In some perverse way, my heart broke for him.
After I gave him the money I made my way back up that grimy flight of stairs. This time the steps felt higher, the journey longer.
Still, I'd managed to escape with my limbs intact as I tried to avoid Istiklal Caddesi Avenue and make my way home.
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