|Turkish Flag in Sultanahmet|
I slept a bit on the ferry and napped a little at the gate in Rhodes. But I'm zealously anticipating a bed, a firm mattress, a long night's sleep. I haven't brushed my teeth in 24 hours or so, my eyes are itchy, and the guy I see in the bathroom mirror needs a shower. Badly.
But I've come to Istanbul from Greece, that is, across an international border; and that means PASSPORT CONTROL. And, as it turns out, hundreds and hundreds have come with me, even tonight, even this late, and all of us have to pass through PASSPORT CONTROL. The line isn't really a line at all: but a winding, zigging, zagging labyrinth of arms, legs, weary faces, headscarves, wrinkled suits, tattooed moms and dads, tired toddlers, grizzled old men. And me. All of us, I imagine, anticipating the same sweet sleep, all of us achy and tired, all of us in the queue. Or what passes for the queue at PASSPORT CONTROL in Istanbul.
|Dad and Son at Blue Mosque|
The whole scene should be, could be, maybe really is daunting, even exasperating: waiting with stories I can't read, and neighbors I can't know, and all of us waiting to get on with it.
|Aya Sofia, Sultanahmet|
|Aya Sofia: Mary (left) and Name of Allah|
|Rose, Topkapi Palace (Ottoman Empire)|