EIS TEN POLIEN

"εις την Πόλιν" or "στην Πόλη"- eis ten polein, "in the city" or "to the city", Greek Turkified to Istanbul.

In 1990, the population was 6,748,435. 2007, I land by night in The City teaming with 10,291,102, and somebody gets the call to change the sign, again. If you ask a local, the population is closer to 15,000,000; perhaps they include the greater portion of The City that has fallen beneath the waves of concrete and brick apartment buildings spreading ever-outward, with no clear division of geography or structure.

Take a giant colander to a square mile of this metropolis and you will find 17,322 lost souls in a hurry to be, perhaps a half dozen feral dogs, and a coven of countless cats -about 5/8ths the density of New York City's two-legged populous.

The Atatürk International Airport was a relief after the cleverness cataclysms found further west; the air-dock leads, not to winding paths, but one long open mall. I pay the nominal fee for having my passport stamped, annoying the first Turk on Turkic soil spoken to with my not-so-kosher version of pig-Turkish, then collect my excessive pile of baggage. Amazingly, my cycle box and the contained-there-in big-wheeled unicycle has arrived unmolested. Tired and obstinate -status normalus- I forgo the coin operated luggage carts and struggle with 130 pounds of junk all the way to the arms of my waiting love.

She is radiant. There is the bazaar disassociation of lovers-long-parted, reunited- akin to seeing yourself on camera, or the numbness of a sleeping limb touched before life has returned.

She has disregarded the crowd control ropes, and I, the crowd.

I consider presenting a ring on the spot, but am swept up and ushered on, to the borrowed auto of a friends parents where we struggle to compact all 3 of us and my junk into a subcompact. Our host is a dear friend of My Love, Aybar. He will prove to be a fast friend, and, it is my hope, in time a friend to myself in deed. Makbule retains only the best of people, and I will -time and again- count myself lucky to know them by association. In point of fact, Aybar warrants considerable attention by This Narrator... but another time. Suffice it to say that he embodies sweetness and good-will. Not knowing yet the dynamics of this city, I can not fully appreciate the appearance of an automobile in the early a.m.* to spirit me home. Little did I know that the traffic was, in fact, lite. To my country senselessabilites, the ride was one of constant peril and heedless to risk- all wet roads and suddenly-close-tail-lights, with every competitor jockeying for position without regard for lane -or destination.

I recognize the exit to our district from studies of Google Earth; Aybar plays the prince -yet again- and halls the most cumbersome of the luggage up 3 flights to our flat before intruducing me to Turkish-cheek-air-kisses-with-a-bit-of-stubble by way of good night. After 3 hours in an airport waiting for a stranger, another on the road with us, he will spend one more alone before finding his pillow.

The remainder of this article will consist mainly of observations of place -and what it means to be, here.

*ante meridiem (a.m., from Latin, meaning "before mid day") and post meridiem (p.m., "after mid day")