Tour

Not sure if we parked the car for someone to pick-up later, and EPeck took a jitney, or if she could drive after-all. This was deep do-do. Istanbul was beyond my ken. The main thoroughfares were wide. It was dusty and traffic swarming with many old American cars driven in a frenzy. Epeck had told me how to take a jitney. When you see one recognizable coming, you yelled at them where you wanted to go, and if they were going near, they would stop and pick you up, or so goes the theory.

Of course you had to be able to pronounce the name of the place in Turkish, and shout-it-to-the-world as-well. In the jitney-van, with usually one to six passengers, you had to make sure the driver remembered you were there. Then he would drop you in a place, that might just have well been a forbidden planet. This was the desert, but I didn't know it. Greece was the edge of the desert, but not the bleakness of desert winds. The bus was even more difficult. There was no one to tell you when you arrived at where you were going. Signs were a swirl of black flowing robes. May as well have been looking at laundry in the wind. And when you got to where you were going, you were going to where you were got-where? Going some-place.

What a difference between me and her. I from a little town in the middle of nowhere-America, and she from two cities of planetary considerableness. She was more sophisticated. She was middle-class and I knew these people. She was way above me, just the way I always dreamed. She had two passports, British and Turkish. She was twice-bred. She was like a Mata Hari of motorcar. I was her driver.

(215 of 278) Next Page