[EXPAT VOICE] Waiting room story

Former İstanbul residents have a propensity of advice. Everyone has a favorite dönerci, a preferred çay evi from which to sit and watch the Boğaz flow by. They’re always different, and if I went to every balık ekmek guy I’ve been recommended, I wouldn’t leave İstanbul for a year. (Though I would be very full.)

However, common themes do emerge. There will always be one guy who yells at you because you’re American -- don’t pay attention to him, he’s abnormal. There will always be nights in Taksim you will never forget -- and one or two you won’t remember. You will always be discovering new shops, bars and the like, no matter how long you stay. Most importantly, there will always be traffic. Things will always be crowded. Always bring a book.

I hadn’t quite prepared myself for this actuality. I’ve lived in cities before. My family’s from Manhattan, and I found it hard imagining any place could trump there, with the crowds of people jamming the sidewalks, spilling over crosswalks while the light still flashes red warnings not to walk.

My early encounters with Turkey did little to dissuade this notion. Ankara is big, yes, and crowded, with packed sidewalks and filled park benches. But it’s no worse than New York -- in fact, with the spacious metro, it’s a bit easier.

But Ankara was not my home, and I have since made the move to İstanbul. Slowly but surely, I’m learning the importance of that book.

Sometimes, the traffic’s not so bad. No, it’s true I’ve never seen an empty seat on my morning bus to school, though I have heard rumors of such things, chivalrously offered to female students commuting to university. I can’t confirm these firsthand, unfortunately -- I’m too busy cramming myself between an elderly Turkish man reciting his prayer beads, oblivious to the bus’s shakes and rattles, and a young backpacker whose rucksack seems larger than her entire body. Under these circumstances, it’s hard to see much of anything -- including a seat’s offer.

But the bus does always get where it’s going, and packed highways aren’t so annoying once you’ve mentally prepared yourself. Plus, I usually seemed to find a way to avoid extra-long lines. My visit to the İstanbul Transportation Authority (İETT) to pick up my student akbil only lasted 20 minutes. (I had filled out my form online.) So, when I jumped onto the metro to make my way to the foreigner’s police, application for residence permit in hand, perhaps you’ll forgive me for only taking my half-charged iPod. How long could it take?

The answer: five hours. Seated on a rather spacious windowsill (the chairs gallantly given to women and children first, followed by veterans), I watched the slow, steady queue work its way past banners proclaiming the republic’s 86th year of joyful existence. The queue was only broken once, by a group of backpackers attempting to buy tickets off those nearing the front desk. (They were trying to catch a bus to Cappadocia. They missed it.)

A lot can be learned sitting in a Turkish police station for five hours. You meet people -- for example, Kessie, a Canadian exchange student patiently waiting to accomplish the exact same task as me. We shared our windowsill perch, uniting in a discussion of bad high school poetry.

But eventually Kessie left, getting her desired stamps and signatures, and I felt myself settle into a new state -- a uniquely Turkish nonchalance.

It’s the same nonchalance that lets an old man sit and smoke nargile for hours, the only uttered sound a “teşekkürler” to the boy coming by with fresh coals. It’s the same nonchalance which allows a shoe-shiner to sit by the Galata Bridge all day, even though he may only stand to shine one or two pairs.

I had never experienced that nonchalance for myself before. But, around hour four of my visit to the foreigner’s police, it descended upon me. I sat, not worrying or planning, my American mind no longer racing to accomplish whatever tasks it had set forth. I just sat.