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")

Flight by Night

In yet another act of unwarranted benevolence, Bruce and TOSH (here after referred to as BrOSH ...or maybe TOce, er.... uh... ya... like I said- Bruce and TOSH) conveyed your humbel* author with great speed and unremitted personal expense into the Atlantan auto-male-storm, arriving in times-very-nick to slip the surly bonds of Earth**.

Observation #1): that was a kick-ass sentence.

Observation #2): the Atlantan Aerodrome is one big hamster tube. Had I any young, I would have felt compelled to eat them on the spot -not as any sort of socio-political statement, but as a vehicle of the full expression of the artistic intent of the Great Architect and the fulfillment of divine expression***.

Now, as some of you may have deduced from my as-of-late overcast disposition, I have, rather cunningly, been turning forward my clock 30 minutes every day for the last few weeks State-side in order to orient myself with The Orient, so that, in the spirit of any good Subject of the Queen's redundant Christening of dog and manservant at The Alter of Efficiency, Efficiency!, I might arrive in Byzantium running full-steam-ahead. Alas, the place of repose provided for my assent and conveyance was cursed with 50 channels of on-demand entertainment, including moving map with ground speed and air speed plus temperature and wind velocity and direction provided in both mph and kph and Fahrenheit/Celsius, so that, presumably, I might provide informed council to the pilot and flight crew. Curiously, no method to directly contact the pilot was provided -a strange oversight, considering the attention paid to stratospheric edibles and courtesy toiletries including pillow, blanket, travel-toothbrush, night mask, and, yes, socks. How did they know?

Arriving in London fog at dawn, this would commence the only day lit portion of the journey: a 12 hour lay-over**** featuring a 2 hour, 30 kilometer bus ride between the bicameral Heathrow/Gatwick airport cluster.

Observation #3): the British seem unduly impressed and self satisfied with displays of Homesian logic and deduction, making a point of indicating their presumption of my nationality before I could practice my Southern Drawl or drawn on my untapped reserve of Californian Surfer Dialect. Being of far less sophisticated American Mongrel stock, I resorted to picking out the Brits by using the only two clear indicators presented to my impaired faculties: the presence of woad and weather a look of contempt and condescension was the response to the blue-blood litmus test question of "Don't you just hate the new Doctor?"

Observation #4): the police carry machine guns. Surely years of emasculated feelings due to being restricted to cracking skulls with a length of hickory primed local law enforcement to respond to the threat of terror by embodying terror themselves. Informed by resent events, I struggled with the choice of laying down and getting shot politely or doing a Beep-Beep! Vrooooooom! impression if confronted by the Guardians of the Public.

Observation #5): it is hard to see a European car and not start cooing, "Ohhhh, how cute!". Really -I challenge you.

Observation #6): as if it wasn't clear from their roll in world history, the Brits are completely sociopathic. It is now clear to Your Narrator that the British Tea-Time civility is nothing more than a vestigial mask, a bit of sophistry indulged in nationally in attempt to occult the nature of their underlining... nature. To point: put a Brit in a car and all traces of social grace evaporate, ready and willing are they to commit any manner of aberrant behavior in the name of self interest. Yes, yes, I see you in the back protesting: how does that make them unique? I beg you to sit down, honored colleague, and deport yourself as one fit to share company, and all will be made clear -I assure you. After perpetrating any number of heinous deeds and breaches of auto-edict, once ensconced well to the front of the Möbius Strip that is M5, all traffic slows to 80% of the speed limit and each duty minded Subject of The Queen maintains 3-5 seconds of distance from one another- this on a highway of luxurious proportion with toy sized cars which on any American would read the speed recommendation, double it, and convert to miles. Perhaps the answer to this socio-paradox lies in Observation #4

The British version of industrialized air travel is even more Byzantine than the heights achieved in Atlanta, and for this critic, excessive; being an American, I appreciated these gross proportions- in a Heronamous Bosch/Dante's Inferno kind of way. Endless corridors and switch-backs, dead-ends and too-narrow-do-not-passages were my canvas, the stage on which I struggled, Dung Beetle like, with an overburdened luggage cart. With this bit of performance art complete, I would attempt -and fail- to sleep, in no small part to Observation #4.

Observation #6): the nice people of the British Customs Service don't really want to know the truth when they ask about the purpose of your trip, so don't go into detail about meeting your prospective in-laws- just LIE, like everyone else, and say, 'tourism.'

Another amazing/impossible flight into darkness; despite having not slept in 36 hours, I will spend the time aloft searching the night for the campfires of the human tribe. They are everywhere, wondrous and terrifying.

* humbel used with intent to avoid impinging on the privilege of those who rightly hold the title humble.

** the bonds being surly- no impugning of Earth's character is intended or should be inferred.

*** I've forgotten what I intended, sorry God.

**** 'lay-over' is a complete misnomer due, in no small part, to Observation #4.