All aboard İstanbul transit

However, lacking the mobility given by a private automobile, I find myself working out careful itineraries in order to efficiently shop, to pay bills or to run errands. Figuring out how to get from one place to another, where to transfer and how to limit long treks on foot takes forethought.

I woke up Friday to raw weather in İstanbul. The air was cold and the sharp wind whipped needles of rain into my face -- I knew it was a day I did not want to spend too much time in the elements. As I prepared myself to go to the university where I work, I looked into my wallet to discover a grand total of TL 10. That was clearly not enough to get me through the weekend so I knew I needed to get some cash. “No problem,” I thought. “There is an ATM in the building on campus next to mine. I will catch the minibus to Hadımköy, do my work and stop by the ATM as I leave campus. Simple.” I sometimes forget that hardly anything is simple in the Imperial City.

I walked to a bridge across the E-5 and caught the first minibus. I usually carry correct change so paying the driver is easy. As I boarded the minibus, I cheerfully gave the driver TL 1.30. He looked at me as if I were another fish to catch, peered at the coins in his hands and spoke to me in rapid Turkish. The minibus stood still while the other passengers looked at me. Just two days before, the fare was TL 1.25. What is the problem? The minibus remained still while the driver glared at me. So I gave him another half lira and the minibus began to move. I did not know whether I was experiencing fiscal inflation or paying the yabancı tax, but I made it to the transfer point for the minibus to Hadımköy.

As I boarded the Hadımköy minibus, I handed the driver the TL 1.50 I had prepared -- more glares and more garrulous Turkish. I kept handing over more coins until I had given the driver TL 2.50. I knew that the week before, the ride had cost TL 1.30, but I had to get to work. Now, my cash reserves were down to little more than TL 5. “Got to get to the ATM,” I thought, but first I had my classes and meetings with students to attend to. Just before 4 p.m., my duties were complete and I was ready to go home.

Walking to the bus, I stopped at the next building, where the ATM was. But when I got there, there was no ATM. The ATM for my bank had disappeared. “Strange,” I thought. It was here just days ago. “No problem,” I reassured myself. “There is a branch office of my bank up the hill in another building.” So off I trekked, the wind eating at my face.

I climbed the steps and went to the small branch office for the bank. When I went inside, I noticed several people languidly sitting around the office. “Well, it is a warm place, but still seems a strange place to lounge,” I thought as I approached the teller in his window. One of my students was in the group sitting in the lobby and he stood and walked with me to the window. “The system is down. No banking now,” he explained in English. I recalled that it was Friday afternoon and I had less than TL 5 in cash to my name.

‘We’ve got a problem’

“Problem var,” I murmured. I asked what happened to the ATM that used to be in B Bloc. “ATM” in English sounds foreign so it took several tries to make my question clear. “Oh,” my student explained, “They moved it to another building.” “Hunh,” I breathed to myself. “They could have made an announcement or maybe left a notice at the old location.” The new location, however, was in a different direction from the one I needed to go to catch my bus. “No problem,” I explained to myself, “there is a bank office in Avcılar near the bus route. That branch also has an ATM, so I will get off the bus and walk to that office. That way, I will be on my way rather than having to backtrack and take a later bus.” So I walked up the hill, wrapping my scarf tighter to protect me against the rain, to catch the 418 to Avcılar.

I joined nearly 50 students waiting for the 418. When it arrived, the students surged forward, led by the nimblest males, to snatch a seat on the crowded bus. When I got on, there were no seats left. I joined those hanging onto straps to remain upright as the driver hurdled around curves in the road. As I pirouetted in the narrow aisle, trying to counterbalance the fits and starts of the bus, I glanced at the seated students, mostly male and all at least 40 years younger than I, as they played games or thumbed text messages on their mobile phones. These, of course, were the same people who in class explained to me how courteous Turks were and how much respect they showed to their elders and to teachers. “Teachers are right next to prophets,” they would expound.

After 30 minutes of lurching and swerving, I arrived near the location of the bank office in Avcılar. I got off the bus and wrapped my scarf tighter as I ambled to the bank office. I watched other pedestrians as they negotiated the uneven cobblestone sidewalks and leapt to avoid sprays of water splashed from puddles in the E-5 by passing traffic. A woman in high-heeled boots in front of me was alert and agile, dancing away from several tsunamis. I made it to the bank also un-doused.

My trek was all but finished as I approached the ATM. But no: a notice on the ATM screen said, “No service.” The TL 5 in my pocket began to feel even lonelier. I glanced at my watch and the people inside the bank. I had less than a minute, but when I got to the door, it was locked and the workers inside studiously ignored me. Here it was Friday afternoon and I was broke.

Dejected, I boarded another minibus and parted with all but the last of my cash. A weekend of virtual poverty stretched ahead of me. However, living in İstanbul calls out ones resourcefulness. I have a small account in the US which I can access through a few local ATMs, so I headed for the Avcılar merkez where one such ATM will dispense money from my US account either in lira or in dollars. When I arrived, I pulled out my trusty US debit card, and withdrew enough lira to make it through the weekend. Inshallah, my local bank will be working on Monday. Hope does spring eternal and resilience lets one endure the waiting.

I caught another minibus to Denizköşkler, the Avcılar neighborhood where I live. The driver asked for only TL 1. Go figure.