by
Pat Skala
If you have been to Istanbul you know that it can be precarious for pedestrians. In Taxim Square, the area around our hotel, there were no crosswalks. When traffic is stopped at a light, people walk in between the stopped cars to cross the street. They walk in between the first and second car, the second and third, third and fourth, etc., something I had never seen even in Manhattan. Also, the streets can be very steep and the sidewalks narrow and cracked. Despite the difficulties, I somehow found my way to the Bosporus.
I was delighted to see that at my exact location there was a bridge with a pedestrian sidewalk that allowed me to walk across the Bosporus. It was a long bridge, about a 20-minute walk to the other side. There was a park on the other end and I mushed around a bit until it was time to get back to our hotel.
First confession: I can’t retrace my steps. When I am exploring a new city, or even in San Francisco, I can’t return by retracing my steps. I have to find a slightly altered way to get back to my starting point. I had just crossed a bridge so my only option was to walk back on the opposite side. When I had crossed the bridge earlier, I had entered from a roadway that ran along the seawall of the Bosporus and traffic was headed toward me, exiting the bridge onto that roadway.
On my return walk, traffic was also facing me. The bridge was so long that I could not see the endpoint until I was halfway there. I noticed then that traffic was entering the bridge from a tunnel. There had been no tunnel on the other side. I started to be concerned. Should I turn back? Can’t do that. Can’t retrace my steps. I’m thinking there must be a way for pedestrians to enter the tunnel or walk around it. I’m praying for San Francisco’s Stockton Street tunnel to be in Istanbul.
I keep walking and, sure enough, the sidewalk ends at the tunnel. There is no sidewalk inside and no way around the tunnel. I am rooted to the ground. I can’t make myself turn around and walk back. Earlier in the day I had seen people run across the four lanes of traffic on the bridge but there was much less traffic then. If I tried to run across four lanes of traffic now, I would die. I would never see my husband again. He would be heartbroken, and oh so pissed.
I looked back to the other end of the bridge knowing that I could not make myself walk in that direction, and saw a middle-aged man in a baggy Western suit, carrying a weathered black briefcase. He was walking toward me with a determined stride. Either he was going to tell me I am an idiot and that I must follow him back to the park, or he had a way to get across the four lanes of traffic. I decided immediately that when he ran across the roadway, I would run also.
He stopped about three feet from me and, instead of looking left-right-left again and deciding when to run, he stepped into the roadway and turned toward the tunnel. When he got directly in front of me, he looked at me with a very blank expression and made a hand gesture I had never seen before. In response, I stepped into the roadway and followed him into the tunnel.
I had a brief, barely realized thought that he might be trying to get me killed, but he would surely be hit first so the thought faded before being full-formed. Next I thought, drivers will start honking at us. People on the passenger side will yell out the window, “What the hell’s wrong with you. Get out of the street.” But no. Perhaps the cars moved slightly to their left, perhaps they slowed down a bit, I could not tell. My eyes were focused on my guide and my prayer was that I not trip and fall into an oncoming car.
Every few steps my guide turned to look at me with his totally blank face. I felt reassured. I knew he was signaling: “Chill. This is how we do it.”
It was at least the length of the Stockton Street tunnel, but felt longer. Towards the end—I could see light from the other entrance—I started to relax. I got this! Then I saw five people enter the tunnel from the other direction. Coming towards us. My mind went crazy all over again. Get out of here. This is our tunnel. We were here first. There’s no room for you! My guide looks back at me. No expression. Maybe a slight nod of his head, “This is how we do it.”
Okay, but what’s the protocol? Who gets to walk next to the wall of the tunnel? Them or us? If you’re ever in Istanbul in this situation, you should know that the people walking with the traffic get to hug the wall. My guide and I were sandwiched between the oncoming pedestrians and the oncoming cars. I may have held my breath from that point to the end of the tunnel lest I fall or freak out.
As soon as we emerged from the tunnel, my guide took off almost at a run. He does not want to interact with me. I get this. Yet my sense of gratitude and “Wow, what just happened!” were overwhelming. I had just had a cross-cultural, cross-gender, non-verbal encounter with another human being who totally got my situation and helped me!
I feel a little bit bad about this, but I ran after him. I had to tell him how grateful and happy I was for our encounter. He turned to me and for the first time showed emotion—anger—in his face. Okay! He is an observant Muslim who doesn’t talk to strange unaccompanied women in the street. I get it. I put my hands together in prayer position, thanked him again and left.
Second confession: I was high all day after that. Not on drugs, but on the idea that there is a power in the Universe greater than myself. And She was watching out for me that day. And for that I am very grateful.
I was delighted to see that at my exact location there was a bridge with a pedestrian sidewalk that allowed me to walk across the Bosporus. It was a long bridge, about a 20-minute walk to the other side. There was a park on the other end and I mushed around a bit until it was time to get back to our hotel.
First confession: I can’t retrace my steps. When I am exploring a new city, or even in San Francisco, I can’t return by retracing my steps. I have to find a slightly altered way to get back to my starting point. I had just crossed a bridge so my only option was to walk back on the opposite side. When I had crossed the bridge earlier, I had entered from a roadway that ran along the seawall of the Bosporus and traffic was headed toward me, exiting the bridge onto that roadway.
On my return walk, traffic was also facing me. The bridge was so long that I could not see the endpoint until I was halfway there. I noticed then that traffic was entering the bridge from a tunnel. There had been no tunnel on the other side. I started to be concerned. Should I turn back? Can’t do that. Can’t retrace my steps. I’m thinking there must be a way for pedestrians to enter the tunnel or walk around it. I’m praying for San Francisco’s Stockton Street tunnel to be in Istanbul.
I keep walking and, sure enough, the sidewalk ends at the tunnel. There is no sidewalk inside and no way around the tunnel. I am rooted to the ground. I can’t make myself turn around and walk back. Earlier in the day I had seen people run across the four lanes of traffic on the bridge but there was much less traffic then. If I tried to run across four lanes of traffic now, I would die. I would never see my husband again. He would be heartbroken, and oh so pissed.
I looked back to the other end of the bridge knowing that I could not make myself walk in that direction, and saw a middle-aged man in a baggy Western suit, carrying a weathered black briefcase. He was walking toward me with a determined stride. Either he was going to tell me I am an idiot and that I must follow him back to the park, or he had a way to get across the four lanes of traffic. I decided immediately that when he ran across the roadway, I would run also.
He stopped about three feet from me and, instead of looking left-right-left again and deciding when to run, he stepped into the roadway and turned toward the tunnel. When he got directly in front of me, he looked at me with a very blank expression and made a hand gesture I had never seen before. In response, I stepped into the roadway and followed him into the tunnel.
I had a brief, barely realized thought that he might be trying to get me killed, but he would surely be hit first so the thought faded before being full-formed. Next I thought, drivers will start honking at us. People on the passenger side will yell out the window, “What the hell’s wrong with you. Get out of the street.” But no. Perhaps the cars moved slightly to their left, perhaps they slowed down a bit, I could not tell. My eyes were focused on my guide and my prayer was that I not trip and fall into an oncoming car.
Every few steps my guide turned to look at me with his totally blank face. I felt reassured. I knew he was signaling: “Chill. This is how we do it.”
It was at least the length of the Stockton Street tunnel, but felt longer. Towards the end—I could see light from the other entrance—I started to relax. I got this! Then I saw five people enter the tunnel from the other direction. Coming towards us. My mind went crazy all over again. Get out of here. This is our tunnel. We were here first. There’s no room for you! My guide looks back at me. No expression. Maybe a slight nod of his head, “This is how we do it.”
Okay, but what’s the protocol? Who gets to walk next to the wall of the tunnel? Them or us? If you’re ever in Istanbul in this situation, you should know that the people walking with the traffic get to hug the wall. My guide and I were sandwiched between the oncoming pedestrians and the oncoming cars. I may have held my breath from that point to the end of the tunnel lest I fall or freak out.
As soon as we emerged from the tunnel, my guide took off almost at a run. He does not want to interact with me. I get this. Yet my sense of gratitude and “Wow, what just happened!” were overwhelming. I had just had a cross-cultural, cross-gender, non-verbal encounter with another human being who totally got my situation and helped me!
I feel a little bit bad about this, but I ran after him. I had to tell him how grateful and happy I was for our encounter. He turned to me and for the first time showed emotion—anger—in his face. Okay! He is an observant Muslim who doesn’t talk to strange unaccompanied women in the street. I get it. I put my hands together in prayer position, thanked him again and left.
Second confession: I was high all day after that. Not on drugs, but on the idea that there is a power in the Universe greater than myself. And She was watching out for me that day. And for that I am very grateful.
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