By Kelly Shann
Disembarking from the plane, I absolutely feel like the independent, international traveller I am becoming.
My first stop is the bathroom, where I discover there are two options—to squat or not to squat. Even though I’m used to being out the paddock, I choose the latter.
I head towards the exit to find my driver and can’t help noticing the handsome young guard at the door holding a machine gun. Surely I’m not the first person to ask him for a photo.... am I?
For the life of me, I can’t find the sign I’m meant to meet my driver at. I ask one of the twenty men whose job seems to be helping clueless tourists whether he recognises the photo I’ve been sent.
“Stay there,” he tells me.
If I even look like moving, he says, “No, no, no. Wait here.”
I’m feeling quite protected.
Half an hour passes, and a few other travellers gather nearby. Our helpful man tells us to follow him through a labyrinth of cars, lifts and people. Eventually, we reach a driver who asks if I’m Kelly. I think he introduces himself as Kevin.
As I’m about to get into the car, I thank the nice man for looking after me.
“No, no, no!” he says again.
Apparently, the driver is looking for Kevin. His name isn’t Kevin, and he certainly isn’t looking for Kelly.
Finally, I’m in the right car and on the way to my hotel.
On the drive into Istanbul, three donkeys are walking along the busy freeway, confidently heading somewhere only they know. I'm impressed the traffic slows down for them as though its an everyday occurrence - maybe it is.
We pass prisoners under guard, cleaning the sides of the freeway. I’m also struck by how much greenery there is in such a populated city. The green corridors are beautiful, and I’m impressed by the work that’s gone into them.
When we arrive at my hotel, I offer the driver a fifty-lira tip. He refuses to take it. I assume he thinks I’ve given him too much.
How honest.
I walk away, then go back.
“No, please take it,” I insist. “Because you are so honest.”
He gets out his phone to translate. The message reads: “This money is worthless.”
I’m shocked. Have I been ripped off at the airport? Have they given me worthless currency? How can they get away with that?
After a little more translating, it turns out I’ve offered him what amounts to about fifty cents.
I give him an amount he seems happy with and make my way to reception.
They can’t find my booking.
I’m at the wrong hotel.
The driver returns, looking a little embarrassed. I assure him it’s fine. When he delivers me to the right hotel, he asks if he can hug me.
Jet lag is threatening, but I’m determined to stay awake until nightfall, so I head out to explore the streets of Istanbul.
It’s a true culture shock. Men call out, trying to persuade me into their shops and cafés, and I find the attention overwhelming. Eventually, I come across a Turkish bath, or hammam, and decide this is a very good idea.
A beautiful lady looks after me. I’m completely naked apart from a lovely paper G-string which doesn't leave much to the imagination.
She pours water over me, scrubs me within an inch of my life and covers me in clay. Then I’m left to cure for a while.
She returns, rinses off the clay and massages me with bubbles that make my skin tingle. It’s luxurious and invigorating, and for a little while, there’s nothing I need to figure out. I just lie there and enjoy it.
Eventually, it’s time to find my way back to the hotel.
I’ve never been great at navigating, even with ‘maps’ to help, so naturally I take the scenic route. When the doorway of the Amira Hotel finally comes into view, I could almost hug it.
An independent, international traveller? Absolutely. One who knows where she’s going? Not quite yet.