Hurry up faster!

Whenever you imagine you get somewhere in time, when you think about relaxing, taking it easy, and not venturing too quick into some meaningless, dynamic activity (like hurrying towards your destination), you always end up arriving late. This whole beautifully crafted sentence basically means: you’re screwed if you don’t hurry to the airport!

There I was, heroically sipping some beer out of a paper coffee cup, trying to review some books I’ve recently read, having no worry in the world, when I finally realized that I should start starting towards the start line (that’s how far behind I was with everything!). Starting to leave Istanbul and catch my flight to Kochi via a seven hour stopover in Sharjah.

Lazily getting up, gathering my 5.8 kilo backpack and the 9 [hundred] kilo handbag with virtually half of everything you’d need in a year and a crocheting hook! – so, lazily, jaded-like, I make my way to the hip tram station, for the simple pleasure of riding 1.5 km on a busy, party-mode-ed, night creature-filled main avenue towards Taxim square. On a Saturday night such a journey can be as tempting as a tutu shop for a ballerina (everybody sees you going) and as slow as a 50 meter straight walk for a drunken sailor. Also, the tram’s only carriage offers the wonderful possibility of having around 35 people shoving into you and/or pushing you flat into the window, which probably means a new reason of enjoyment for any onlooker.

Still, it took me to Taxim square (neither faster, nor comfier than my two legs would have), where I dashed towards the previously indicated corner of the square to find the Havataş bus company and get them to take me to the airport (preferably the right one, as there are two international airports in Istanbul – fun fact!). Well, hostel employees are usually really nice and these ones where particularly so, but damned if I know how they can give you the same incorrect information. Twice! That is, from two separate, distinct, dissimilar people! Which only means that I darted towards the wrong corner of the square, got there and darted into a new direction, praying to God, Allah and Buddha that the new way is more prosperous (I had it timed to the minute and it was to be now or never and no time for messing around).  *zen*

Just between us and, hopefully, hostel employees all over the world: I appreciate the effort of giving out information, but I totally miss the point of repeating the wrong directions over and over: or else, I strongly recommend revising the available info or informing the bus line to stop moving their buses around the damned square! I could suspect a malfunction in the time-space continuum, because of which the buses don’t materialize where they’re supposed to… Or, maybe the hostel people got it wrong!

The bus people, on the other hand, keep their promises and they got me to the airport ten minutes prior to their ETA (estimated time of arrival), and that means – ahem – ten minutes prior the last call at the check-in counter for Sharjah. Also, on the way to the airport, I could see a lot of things other people wanted to see up close, as, for example, the sky-scarper area of Istanbul and the prettily lit bridge over the Bosphorus (over which we happily rode in the suave notes of fat, balding Turkish men snoring – no offence).

And then at the airport: you came? Good for you. Now start moving and stop bothering us ‘cause you’re holding up the line! What? Security? Yes, of course! We did it while you weren’t paying attention.

And then the flight, well, at least half of it, as I’m writing while gulping coffee in UAE (that’s the United Arab Emirates, where alcohol is forbidden and my hair gets bizarre looks because it’s supposed to be covered but they got it wrong: it is covered; in more hair…).

Just a reminder: low cost means low cost. It doesn’t mean you get complementary water for survival on the plane. It means you get to literally rub elbows with everyone, as they are as close to you as required by the routine act of rubbing. It means panicking because a family of five, of which only two are older than 9, are seated right behind you. It just means being on the verge of crying because it feels like flying Wizz Air from Madrid during the summer holidays.

Space, private space is a luxury.

Bottom line: it’s either relaxing or travelling.