Seeing Red

Those folk curious and kind enough to regularly view my journal will know that it is but three days since I mentioned bureaucracy in the form of Dickens’ Circumlocution Office. This was, had I known it, to be but the Foreword to today’s rant as you will, quite soon, discover, if you bother to pursue.  I quite understand If you prefer to simply gaze at the sunset pic - (spectacular btw - double sun image due to window reflection) taken at the airport - and then move on to journals that are more fun. I wouldn’t blame you.

Today was a half day and school closed at 13.00 for our Teachers’ Day celebration (see yesterday)  - a wonderful lunch kindly provided by the magnificent culinary skills of our amazing Parents’ Association mums.  The venue, Bizim Tepe (the alumni club adjacent to campus) provided some hot dishes and wine  fermented grape juice was donated by alumni. Very nice. An annual event that touches the heart, not least as many retired teachers, attend.  Some looking their advanced years, but most looking at least a decade younger than when they stopped teaching.  A celebratory cake is cut by the youngest and the oldest (ex)teachers in the room.  Anyway, at some point, satiated, I left, with suitcase and Koray, fellow music teacher and as is almost always the case when I am travelling home, my personal private chauffeur to the airport. (He lives close by). I arrived ridiculously early - as in five hours early - but I prefer a comfy ride with my friend to the stress inducing taxi ride in overloaded traffic crazy Istanbul highways a couple of hours later.  All is fine until check in desk job's worth won’t accept my suitcase because I am too early. In fact, the only reason I have a suitcase for this four day sprint home is for the cheese coming back.  Last night, suddenly worried that security might question me travelling with an empty suitcase,  I found some of Dad’s clothes that he always left with me in Istanbul, to take it to the Hospice Charity shop.  (Note to self: find a collapsible suitcase that can fit in your hand luggage case so that my outward bound journey can always be hand luggage only).  

So, I kill time wandering around the terminal,  snapping sundown photos through the huge plate glass windows and having a beer before finally relieved of my suitcase, I join the passport control queue of three persons. My turn, and proffering my UK passport, residence and work permit papers, and Turkish ID card, I am, somewhat surprised (understatement) when the passport control officer tells me to ‘wait over there’ and mutters something about my papers not being in order and out of date. My initial reaction is actually annoyance because I know very well that there is absolutely nothing wrong with my papers. Annoyance morphs into anger as I am led away to an office where two policemen later, the very nice man that I now want to marry announces that there is indeed, absolutely nothing wrong with my papers before he then takes me straight through passport control. 

Free, I am now recovering in the lounge that I always come to (and usually blip) and looking forward to sleeping in my own bed in Dad’s house, my house, several hours from now.