by Dr Rahim Said
If you’re ever heading to Istanbul, I have one piece of priceless advice for you: get a Metro Card. In fact, I have an extra one you can borrow. It’s cheap, convenient, and you can even pay for your friends too — because nothing bonds friendships faster than fighting over public transport gates in a foreign country.
“It’s the cheapest and fastest way to get from the airport into the city,” a friend promised me before my trip.
Brilliant. What could go wrong?
Plenty, apparently.
We landed early one morning, half-asleep and bleary-eyed, shuffling towards immigration.
At the gate, a large sign read “Giri/Entrance”. In my dazed state, I confidently told my wife, “You go through this one, I’ll look for the boys’ gate.”
It was only after a 10-second fumble and a suspicious look from the officer that it dawned on me: Giri means entrance, not gents. Off to a great start.
To be fair, immigration was smoother than Turkish coffee. No crowd. Just five of us and a grumpy officer who looked like he’d rather be home with his cat.
Bags in hand, we headed for the Metro, armed with confidence and zero knowledge. We asked three different people how to get to the train station. We got three entirely different answers. One said “left,” one said “right,” and one pointed to the ceiling.
We opted for the lift because of a monstrous suitcase. The instructions outside said “Minus 3”, but inside the lift there was no such button. Just a mysterious 02. We pressed it. Nothing. Turns out, the lift was under repair.
The bright red sign outside? Completely missed it. Sleep deprivation is a heck of a thing.
We finally found the ticket machine. It spoke fluent Turkish. I do not. Then a voice from behind a glass window barked,
“Yellow box! Yellow box!”
Ah, the international language of frustrated transport staff.
At the yellow kiosk, I triumphantly found an English button. Victory…briefly. The machine wouldn’t read my card until a kind lady physically grabbed my wrist, adjusted my grip like I was some overgrown child, and pointed at the amount: 34 lira.
I fumbled a 100-lira note. She shook her head, made a sharp tsk sound, helped me feed it in, and then waved a hand motion like a referee refusing a penalty when I tried to top up more.
At this point, she smiled and said, “We’re Kurdish!” I’m still not sure why, but it felt like an invitation to join their village.
We got on the train — at least, a train. The line to Gayrettepe was closed, but our new Kurdish friend pointed us onto a functioning one, still grinning.
Twenty-six minutes later, we arrived. But Istanbul loves a dramatic third act. The escalator up was like climbing out of Mordor — narrow, endless, and claustrophobic. I thought about leaving my suitcase behind as a monument to my foolishness.
We surfaced, and asked for directions to The Point Hotel on Barbaros. “Nearby,” they said.
Nearby is relative in Istanbul. It involved dragging suitcases across cobblestone paths, dodging traffic, and scaling small hills.
We made it just in time for the conference, with precisely three minutes to spare and one shirt hopelessly clinging to my back.
Moral of the story:
When travelling to Istanbul, bring your Metro Card, avoid reading signs half-asleep, follow the kind Kurdish lady, and never — under any circumstances — trust “nearby”.
WE