The (Not Very) Midnight Express - Part the Second

(for a recap of last week's events, the writer kindly directs the reader here)

To continue ...

You, The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners barks, pointing his finger at me, off the bus.

Balls. Fucking balls.

I look forlornly at Mr. This Cat's (Not) Abroad who - swell husband that he is - gets up and begins to walk down the aisle of the bus. I won't have to face this alone - huzzah! But not knowing what to expect, I suggest we take all of our stuff with us.

I think we should take all of our stuff with us, I say.

Fifty-six pairs of eyes are riveted on us and not terribly discreet whispers follow us down the aisle of the bus. The seated throng of like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces watch us intently. Baaa baaa, they bleat. The largest and closest of the three gypsy women leans forward on her pudgy elbows to get a better view. We have effectively become the in-flight entertainment. Through the black inkiness and pea-soupiness of the night, we can just see The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners and The Nice Old Police Officer disappear around the corner of Erdine's - the dried shithole Turkish border town's - ramshackle train station. We follow but quickly lose sight of them. Where do we go? I wonder.

Where do we go? I ask Mr. This Cat.

We see, besides the station waiting room, a light coming from a door to an office befitting a ramshackle train station in a dried shithole Turkish border town - but an office nonetheless. We enter hesitantly, not knowing if this is where we are supposed to go because - contrary to common courtesy - neither of the police officers have seen fit to wait for us by the bus or direct us to our destination. There is an Idle Officer sitting behind a desk with a stack of passports (doing absolutely nothing with them) and, what doesn't even bear pointing out, a very large and faded print of Atatürk (which I just pointed out). A moment later The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners appears. He is, to say the least, quite flustered. It would appear that my possessing an expired-by-four-days residence booklet has caused him no end of grief. I just want to give him money and go back on the bus.

Speak Turkish? he asks.
No, I respond.
Speak Turkish? he asks Mr. This Cat.
No, Mr. This Cat responds.
No speak English, he says.
Yes, we know, we say.
Problem, he says.
Yes, we know, we say.

He continues to thumb through our residence booklets. At this point, as if the purpose of his job had suddenly been made clear to him, the Idle Officer behind the desk jumps up with a start and bolts into another room, returning moments later with the exit stamp. Apparently, the fact that a train bound for Greece stops at this station every night of the week is no reason/motive/inducement for the Idle Officer to make himself ready with the proper stamp to process the dozens of passports which inevitably - and almost like clockwork - pass his desk. He sets himself to work.

Stamp! stamp!

The Nice Old Police Officer enters the room. In his presence - perhaps to impress upon his supervisor the magnitude of his English - The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns his attention to us again.

Speak Turkish? he asks - again.
No, I respond - again.
Speak Turkish? he asks Mr. This Cat - again.
No, Mr. This Cat responds - again.
I no speak English, he says - again.
Yes, we know, we say - again.
Problem, he says - again.

Stamp! stamp!

He is flummoxed. He looks at Mr. This Cat:

You should speak Turkish, he says.
The Republic of Turkey should have at least one English-speaking police officer manning its international borders, I chide him inside my head I mean, what would Atatürk say?

The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners confer with each other, attended by much head-shaking, not-very-subtle sighs of exasperation, and continuous thumbing through our residence booklets.

Stamp! stamp!

How much money do you want? I scream inside my head. It goes without saying that I will have to pay a "fine" of some sort - whether I am issued an official receipt for it or my lira find their way into The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners' insalubrious pockets, is completely immaterial to me. I just want to go to Greece.

The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns to Mr. This Cat.

You, he says pointing to Mr. This Cat, no problem.
You, he says pointing to me, problem.

O sweet mother of God! This little piece of street theatre has taken fifteen minutes and we are no further ahead now than when we were on the bus.

The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners confer with each other again, attended by head-shaking, not-very-subtle sighs of exasperation, and continuous thumbing through our residence booklets.

Stamp! stamp!

As I am about to take my wallet of my purse - perhaps a visual aid is in order here - when the Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners turns to me and barks:

You. On bus.

God, when will Turks learn to use definite articles? And where was the verb in that sentence? I briefly consider telling him that the correct sentence is: Would you please get back on the bus, but an anxious side look from Mr. This Cat curbs my tongue. We scamper back to the bus and try not to let the visibly disappointed looks of our co-passengers unnerve us.

No, we are not drug mules. No, I have not been violated, I scream inside my head. Stop staring and get the fuck over it.

We retake our seats.The largest and closest of the three gypsy women looks so crushed, if not put out, that I want to plunge my Swiss Army Knife again and again into her snore-producing soft palate.

I am not convinced that I have been let off the hook.

I am not convinced that I have been let off the hook, I say to Mr. This Cat.
You wouldn't be on the bus otherwise, he wisely points out. Just relax.

I try - quite vainly, I might add - to relax. About twenty minutes later, The Nice Old Police Officer and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners reboard the bus and distribute the stamped passports. Canada! barks The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners. We wave feebily - has he forgotten us already? - and hands over our markedly well-thumbed and now dog-eared passports. They both bear exit stamps.

As if on cue, everyone begins to gather their belongings and rushes the bus' two doors en masse, which I find singularly odd since we all have assigned compartments on the blacked-out train, but maybe our co-passengers are privy to some arcane knowledge - like the fact that the police officers of this dried shithole Turkish border town are capricious, and may revoke passports at will. We approach the train and a conductor asks to see our tickets. He directs us to our train car and tells us our compartment number. He should offer seminar courses to the police officers of this dried shithole Turkish border town - How to Politely Direct People to their Destinations jumps to mind.

We board the train and quickly find our compartment. We heave our knapsacks onto the floor, regard our home for the next nine hours with surprisingly (for us) appreciative and grateful eyes, and plunk ourselves onto the bottom bunk. We hear a commotion - the bleating of sheep and animated verbiage of an unknown tongue - emanating from the hallway, and peer out. It seems that two of the gypsy women have appropriated the compartment of a pair of the like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces. Baaa baaaa, they bleat in vain.

Because we are vastly superior human beings in both thought and deed to our co-passengers on the bus, we do not crane our heads and watch. We do not seek entertainment in the scene unfolding just a few feet away. Nor do we delight in their distress. No, we sit back and, with the door open, we listen politely and unobtrusively. We are Canadians. We are nothing if not polite.

Eventually a conductor arrives and sorts out the problem - problem being defined as two of the gypsy women having appropriated the compartment of a pair of the like-accoutred individuals (knapsack-toters) with mind-numbingly sheep-like expressions on their faces. Everyone's compartments are sorted out - the show is over - and we close our door. We pretend that we are not disappointed.

Mr. Cat and I decide that we are quite ready to get a move-on and wonder why the train hasn't left the station.

Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...

Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada!

... an angry fist smacks each compartment door and the voice grows louder.

Balls. Fucking balls.

Mr. This Cat fumbles with the door lock which has taken this opportunity to avail us of the fact that it sticks. He struggles with the lock. And then he fumbles with it some more.

Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada! knock-knock! Canada!

Mr. This Cat's battle with the lock somehow infuriates the man on the other side of the door, who raises the level of knocking and shouting. Finally, Mr. Cat manages to open the door. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners is standing in the hallway. He points to me, turns away from me, and rushes away. I look at Mr. This Cat.

Follow him! he cries and I do.

I tear off down the corridor, passing through one car after another with The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners just in my sight. He turns sharply and deboards the train and I do likewise. Standing to the side of the tracks is a group of train personnel and The Nice Old Police Officer. Not knowing what to do, I join them. I confess that this lack of direction is really beginning to get on my nerves. The pea-soupiness of the evening has turned to rain, or what my mother would euphemistically call a "Scotch mist" but what is in fact rain, and I stood there wet and shivering. Would the train leave without me? Should I have brought my purse? A coat might have been a clever idea. Should I have told Mr. Cat to come look for me if I didn't return within fifteen minutes? Will I finally be violated? I wondered how many eyes were watching me from the warmth and safety of the waiting train.

Wankers, I thought.

As we mill about in the Scotch mist rain, The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners appears with a member of the train crew in tow.

Speak Turkish? he asks - again.

O sweet mother of God!

No, I respond - again.
I no speak English, he says - again.
Yes, I know, I say - again.
Talk problem, he says, and points to his companion.

Ahhh, a translator. So our situation hasn't been resolved. Isn't that just great?

So I tell the translator that:

1) my husband is a teacher in Turkey,
2) that I am his wife and I do not work (I do not mention in fact I do work and that my work visa application is buried under a stack of other applications on some pencil pusher's desk in Ankara),
3) that my visa expired 4 whole days ago but that we had to wait until Islam's Festival of Death (when my husband had time off from work) in order to leave the country as I could not possibly travel alone - being a woman and all.

My bowels turn to water. Right there on the tracks. Water. In order to save the $2 to have our marriage certificate translated, Our Place of Questionably Gainful Employment processed our visas as those of single (i.e., not married) individuals. If The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners were to open my residence booklet again (although he has probably memorized it by now), he would see that in the eyes of the Republic of Turkey, I have no husband. Why the fuck didn't I bring my marriage certificate with me?

My Translator imparts my explanation to The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners. They converse. It seems that My Translator, who is Greek, speaks several languages. The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners responds in a rather unsympathetic tone and gesticulates. My Translator turns to me and says,

If you want to return to Turkey in the future, you must come back through this border - and then stops.

My Translator and The Young Police Officer Clearly Unversed in Manners begin a heated exchange which I suspect goes something like this:

MT: what difference does it make how she comes back?
TYPOCUIM: she must come back through Erdine.
MT: but what possible difference does it make if she comes back into Turkey through this dried shithole Turkish border town or if she flies into Istanbul?
TYPOCUIM: she must come back through Erdine.

My Translator sighs deeply, looks up at the inky-black sky - which is still Scotch-misting raining down upon us - and repeats:

If you want to return to Turkey in the future, you must come back through this border. You cannot come any other way. This town.

I nod compliantly, electing not to tell anyone that if I ever want to return to Turkey in the future is sitting in my purse as a return ticket 3 days hence. I thank My Translator profusely and return to the train. Mr. This Cat looks suitably relieved that I am safely back which he expresses to me in the warmest of terms between the grunts and shouting from the two gypsy women who have been assigned the compartment right next to us.

Did you go to the duty free? he asks.
Duty free? Seriously? I ask.
I'm sure I saw a Duty Free, he insists.
I was otherwise occupied, I insist.

We close our door. Mr. Cat and I decide that we are quite ready to get a move-on and wonder why the train hasn't left the station. Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...

Tickets! (yes, in English!)

... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.

Soon there is a knock at the door and Mr. This Cat struggles with the lock which somehow does not infuriate the man on the other side of the door, who does not raise the level of knocking and shouting. Our tickets are validated by a Very Pleasant Conductor. We close the door, relax, and wait for the train to leave.

Around 1:30 in the morning, the train lurches backwards, jerks forward, the whistle blows, and then we leave our dried shithole Turkish border town in a far too tentative fashion. We look at each other and breathe the Mother-of-All Sighs of Relief - accompanied by the cracking and sputtery-hiss of two cans of Efes beer. Cheers!

Two hours later the train lurches backwards, jerks forward, and we stop. We have no clue where we are - although we suspect Greece - because we have just managed to fall asleep during the last twenty minutes or so. Mr. This Cat raises the blind and peers out.

We're in Greece, he says.

Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...

Customs! (yes, in English!)

... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.

A Very Friendly Customs Agent enters our compartment and asks Mr. This Cat to open one of our knapsacks. He looks at its contents in a perfunctory manner - for which we are grateful - and bids us good night. We doze off.

Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...

Passports! (yes, in English!)

... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.

An Equally Friendly Greek Police Officer enters our compartment, wishes us good evening, and asks for our passports. It would seem that all of the train personnel and police and custom agents manning the Hellenic Republic's international borders speak English. How forward-thinking of them! We sit and wait and fall back asleep.

Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet ...

Passports! (yes, in English!)

... knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder.

The Equally Friendly Greek Police Officer enters our compartment, wishes us good evening, and returns our passports to us. It is just after 4 a.m.. Mr. This Cat and I wrestle - unsuccessfully - with sleep. Nonetheless we set our alarm for 9:30 - our train's estimated time of arrival - and stare at the ceiling and possibly doze. Our alarm eventually sounds and we get up. We dutifully convert our bunks into couches, dutifully fold our sheets and blankets, and dutifully recoil in horror when we see our reflections in the mirror over the sink. My, but we look repulsive this morning.

Suddenly we hear our car door open with a thunk! and the sound of busy feet.

Knuckles knock on each compartment door and the voice grows louder. Soon there is a knock at the door and Mr. This Cat struggles with the lock which somehow does not infuriate the man on the other side of the door, who does not raise the level of knocking and shouting. The Very Pleasant Conductor is patiently waiting outside.

Good morning! We will arrive in Thessaloníki in 15 minutes! (yes, in English! And so polite and cheerful!)

We arrive in Thessaloníki 30 minutes later. There is nothing to do now but pass our time agreeably for three days until we retrace our steps back to Erdine, the dried shithole Turkish border town. Which we do. Which we do without incident. Our train leaves Thessaloníki punctually and we are only woken up once at the border. I am advised by The Nice Old Police Officer- for indeed it is he - that I must buy a new visa. Really?

I join the queue of non-Turks forming in the hallway, deboard the train, and find myself once again in an office befitting a ramshackle train station in a dried shithole Turkish border town. The Nice Old Police Officer hands my passport to The Idle Officer and I hand him 45 euros. Euros mind you, not lira - i.e., the legal and official currency of the Republic of Turkey. It seems that lira - i.e., the legal and official currency of the Republic of Turkey - are not accepted at the Republic of Turkey's borders.

The Idle Officer affixes new stamps to my passport and I am advised to return to the train. Thirty minutes later, The Nice Old Police Officer returns with our passports, prettily stamped, in hand. We thank him. The train lurches backwards, jerks forward, the whistle blows, and then we leave our dried shithole Turkish border town in a far too tentative fashion and return to sleep. The train continues on into what is quickly becoming a racehorse-pissing deluge and arrives, in Istanbul, on time. Islam's Festival of Death is still in full force - although we were mercifully saved from witnessing the Great Slaughter - and so the streets are empty. We dodge what few cars are braving the racehorse-pissing deluge and run to the ferry terminal where, soaked to the bone, we sit and stare blankly out at the water which oddly bears no moving ferry. We haven't seen a tram or a bus pass us by either. The ferries aren't moving. Are we weather-delayed? Is there still a strike? Is everything on a holiday schedule?

Are we weather-delayed? Is there still a strike? Is everything on a holiday schedule? I ask Mr. This Cat.

Before he can answer, we are approached by a gaggle of young men, whose ages might be guesstimated from anywhere between 17 and 45. The only one who speaks English - and I am being both generous and charitable by using that work (i.e. speak) - points at our general soddenness and asks whether or not we heard the weather report that morning. Ha ha, he laughs. (The actual phraseology was you see radio? sky rain water. Ha ha.) Mr. This Cat smiles. I choose to look the other way and glower - besides, as a naturally submissive and conservative wife, I don't talk to men who are not my immediate family members. My ostensible rudeness goes by unnoticed.

Mr. This Cat and The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man exchange a few pleasantries. The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man coyly admits that his English is not very good - he is sorely wrong on this point for it is very bad. He offers to ask the ticket seller the cause of the ferry delay and returns a few moments later, only to tell us that he doesn't know. Apparently his language issues aren't confined to just English. A few moments of awkward silence pass.

Please, The Possibly Young or Middle-Aged Man asks Mr. This Cat. What is your religion?

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome back to Turkey.

Finis.