Just drop me off! The Istanbul Airport Bus Terminal saga (part 2 of 4)

Says my driver, "There's no bus terminal at the airport."

See part 1 of Zagreb-Istanbul-Varna journey

I awoke well before my 5:45 a.m. alarm, realizing that I needed to pick up some snacks for the eight-hour bus ride from Istanbul to Varna, Bulgaria. After a quick shower and final packing adjustments, I made my way to the lobby.

While the sun was up, the night manager wasn’t. Instead, he was fast asleep on the lobby couch. His shirt was unbuttoned revealing a belly and chest covered in a hairy thatch reminiscent of one of the lesser quality carpets I’d declined the evening before

The thatch rose and fell. Rose and fell. His left leg twitched in a way that suggested that he was dreaming he was a dog chasing a rabbit. Or having his head tingled.

At that moment, despite my best efforts at silence, the lobby door pierced the silence with a metallic click-clang as I tried to ease it shut. He woke up with a start and started buttoning his shirt over the carpet. The bunny was safe.

When I’d explored the same streets the evening before, they’d been packed and lively. At barely 6 a.m., they were empty save for a few men sitting in front of their shops or flats drinking the ubiquitous Turkish tea. The fabric seats were well-worn and tattered. I imagined the men were catching up on the latest neighborhood or national news. Or maybe the Europa Cup scores from the previous evening.

After stopping to say hello to several of Istanbul’s famous felines, I found a small grocery store open that had some delightful stringy mozzarella. I asked the clerk if they had bread as well. He smiled, reached behind the counter, pulled out a fresh loaf, put it in a plastic bag, and held the browned cylinder out to me.

“Touch it,” he encouraged, opening the bag. “Make sure it OK.”

It had a nice crunchy crust and soft doughiness beneath. And it was still warm. I gave a thumbs up, immediately hoping it means the same thing in Turkish culture as in American.

A few minutes later, I packed my goodies into my carry-on bag and headed to the lobby.

Before my worries about my transfer to the bus station had a chance to build, the driver showed up early. We were on our way.

I tried to explain to the driver that I was going to take a bus from the airport, but I wasn’t flying. He needed to drop me off at the airport bus station.

He insisted that in four years of driving the route almost every day, this is the first time he's heard of taking an international bus from the airport. Either I was wrong or someone had misled me.

I explained to him that I simply needed to be dropped at the Arrivals area instead of Departures. From there, I had detailed instructions about where to meet the bus.

Before I’d even finished explaining, he pulled over, took out his phone, and called his dispatcher. The dispatcher had never heard of it either. He turned around, looked at me and said, “I think someone gave you wrong information.”

“Well, here’s my ticket. It clearly says the bus leaves from the airport.”

He studied the ticket and told me I was still wrong. The ticket listed a phone number for the bus company. He called, but there was no answer. That apparently confirmed for him that my ticket was invalid and I’d been a victim of fraud.

“Please don’t worry about that,” I told him. “Just drop me off at Arrivals. I know where to go from there.”

He nodded and gave me a half-hearted OK.

As we entered the airport, we were in the Arrivals lane, and I started to relax. Until, at the last second, he swerved into the lane for Departures.

“I need to go to Arrivals,” I said in a partially held-back shout.

“No problem, no problem,” he replied. “We go ask somebody.”

“We don’t need to ask somebody,” I said in a less held-back shout. “Please take me to Arrivals. I know where to go from there.”

I can’t guarantee that I actually said “please.”

“No problem, no problem,” he repeated before promptly stopping to ask a traffic cop about the bus to Bulgaria.

The cop shook his head and shrugged. Before my driver stopped and asked someone pushing a large luggage cart–perhaps a luggage porter but more likely just some now-confused traveler. Who also shook his head.

“Just drop me at Arrivals,” I said, most assuredly without a “please.”

“No problem, no problem.”

We left the Arrivals terminal, went in a big loop, returned to the airport, and got into the Arrivals lane–again. He stayed in the Arrivals lane but not without shaking his head for about ten seconds.

“No problem, no problem,” I assured him.

The instructions said to meet the bus near the A exit, which I saw, with great relief.

“Pull over and drop me off here!” I told him.

With one last series of head shakes, he stopped. I threw open the door, ran to the trunk, grabbed my bags and made my escape.

To be continued…