The cheapest flight from Bologna, Italy to Atlanta, Georgia is via Istanbul. But, it’s ridiculous. First of all, it requires a flight to Turkey, which is three hours in the wrong direction. And once there, you have a fifteen hour layover. Then, provided you have not died of boredom, you have your transatlantic flight to the US, which, already long, is now three hours longer.
But, this could make sense. Fifteen hours would be more than enough time to explore Istanbul. I’d haggle at the Grand Bazaar, tour the Hagia Sofia, and enjoy a Turkish coffee with pistachio baklava. But, this flight gets into Istanbul at 11:30pm. Factoring in the time to clear border control, travel an hour to the city center, check into a hotel, and get some sleep - maybe I’d have a few hours to wander in the morning. And the costs of a visa, a cab, and a hotel eat into the savings of this itinerary. I might as well pay for more expensive flights with reasonable layovers.
But, this flight is cheap. $500 less than the next option. That’s a lot. I’ve lived on a shoestring in Italy for the last two years pursuing a masters degree at the University of Bologna. I’ve just finished classes and my lease is over at the end of the month. I’m starting a three month remote internship (paid, thank God) and when it ends I will stand in front of my professors, defend my thesis, and graduate (please, God). I’m in the wind - and technically, about to be homeless. So, it’s the perfect time to go to the US and visit my family. Saving $500 would make the trip possible.
Hypothetically, if I just stayed in the terminal for fifteen hours, I’d save that $500. I could even find a quiet corner in the airport lounge and spend the night curled up in a chair. I need to justify the eye watering annual fee of my travel card anyway. I could just watch TV for the fifteen hours. I do love TV. I could sleep. That would cut my idle time to only eight hours or so. Hypothetically, this does make sense, despite living in a world where the economy and logic of traveling from point A to point B no longer apply.
So, I did it. I’m glad I did it. But I nearly lost my mind.
Thursday, 3pm, Bologna
“You’re gonna need melatonin!” My flatmate Aylin calls to me from the bathroom of our apartment. “The overhead lights are so bright, it’s hard to sleep.” I leave my bags in the foyer and follow her voice. I find her leaning over the sink and scanning pill bottles in the medicine cabinet. She grabs a bottle off the shelf. “This is almost empty, you should just take it,” she says with the bottle in her outstretched hand before yanking it back. “But you also need vitamin C – and zinc! You don’t want to get sick.” She opens more bottles, adds extra pills to the melatonin bottle, and hands me my travel cocktail. “The melatonins are the round ones. And remember - you have to scan your passport to get the wifi, but you only get one hour free. And your Italian SIM won’t work because we aren't part of the European network - thanks to our precious leader. And don’t eat anywhere where they make doner out of chicken, it isn’t real kebab.” She sighs. “Why do you go to Turkey when I’m not there? I could have taken you to my hometown by the seaside; we make the best dolma.”
“I know, I know,” I say in agreement. Living with a Turkish person the last two years is an unexpected benefit of moving to Italy. Her warmth and willingness to share everything has destroyed my subconscious stereotypes of Turkish people ingrained in me after watching the movie Midnight Express as a child. I shove the bottle into the mesh side pocket of my backpack and call a cab to take me to the airport.
Thursday, 11:30pm, Istanbul
The trip almost begins in disaster. I walk up the jetway towards an airline employee who is directing passengers through the doorway to the right or up a long escalator to the left, depending on the boarding card. He inspects my connecting ticket and motions me to the right. I walk through the doorway and freeze. A small sign that says To Istanbul City hangs in the hallway just past the door. The last thing I need is to get stuck in a long immigration line with no visa, trying to explain my situation to border guards. I retrace my steps.
“I’m connecting”, I tell him, interjecting myself between deplaning passengers. He snatches my boarding card to re-inspect it and again insists I go through the doorway, positioning his body between me and the escalator. The more I protest, the more he digs in, annoyed that I’m holding up the line. I step aside and wait for him to finish.
“No visa,” I tell him. “I’m staying overnight.”
“Fifteen?” He says with wide eyes.
“Yeahhh,” I say, drawing out the word to acknowledge the absurdity. He shakes his head and moves aside, motioning toward the escalator with a grand sweeping “be my guest” motion.
“Are you flying Turkish?” he calls to me as I was about to step on the escalator. I turn and nod. “For these long layovers, they will pay for a shuttle and hotel,” he says. My face craters. “For next time,” he adds. “The cafe by B2 is open all night. Good luck!”
I rise out of the guts of the airport and I’m awestruck by the size of the terminal. I’m surrounded by thick columns like giant redwoods that support a massive canopy. Dwarfed in the center of this gigantic dome is a multilevel plaza built of chrome, glass, and marble peppered with palms and leafy fronds; a modern grand bazaar bursting with shops, restaurants, and kiosks. Billboard sized arrival and departure screens tower above the crowds, attracting people who point up, like they just spotted a shooting star.
A large crowd of men in matching white thobes and yellow sashes cross in front of me, buzzing in a dozen animated conversations. An array of teenage girls, clad in matching tracksuits, ponytails, and duffel bags, sits on the floor withering from boredom. Near them, women in burqas laugh on couches and charge their phones while their kids thread between their luggage playing tag. Sprinkled throughout the heaving crowds are enough people with either black eyes, bandaged noses, or shaven, beet red scalps to make me wonder - What the hell happens in Istanbul?
Friday, 12am
I spot the entrance to the lounge on the upper level. The wooden facade and ferns stand out like an oasis against the chrome of the terminal as I join the check in line.
“Mr. Wiles,” the desk attendant begins - his articulation is as tidy as his mustache. “Your flight is not for 14 hours, therefore we have to charge you for an extra four visits beyond the initial three hours.” I lean on my forearms against the high counter of the check in desk. I am hungry, tired, and in no mood to think.
“How much will it cost?” I ask, like a man trying to negotiate his own death.
“It’s specific to your card agreement,” he says. ”But we would credit your guest allowance first and charge you seventy five euros for each remaining visit.” I instinctively pull out my phone to look up my agreement, but I don’t have service or wifi yet. It’s too risky to say ok without knowing the cost. I have an investment to protect, even if my brilliant plan is falling apart.
“I’ll come back,” I say. I need to regroup.
To be continued…