Tea with biscuits - Rain, Buses, Detours & the Strange Tenderness of Istanbul

Post 1 of 2 - first published 2007

The rain came down in sheets and I hesitated before opening my front door, bracing myself as my umbrella snapped open and confronted the storm. Dodging puddles, I walked toward the main road and attempted the impossible: flagging down a taxi in an İstanbul downpour. Rain always brought two things - gridlock from Eyüp to Eminönü and an absolute taxi drought. I huddled under the bus stop, feeling the mist settle onto my jeans as I contemplated the increasingly unappealing options for getting to the Spice Bazaar.

I let bus after bus pass, clinging to the faint hope that an empty taxi might appear. But ten minutes later, another bus came into view – empty. I was startled when the driver stopped and yelled through the open door that he was going directly to Eminönü. I stepped forward hesitantly, a dozen scenarios flashing through my mind. He shouted again, insisting I’d be mad to keep standing in the rain. He wasn’t wrong, so I climbed aboard, akbil (İstanbul’s ‘clever ticket’) in hand.

Then he motioned for me not to pay. This trip was on him.

Those imaginative scenarios turned slightly darker for a moment. But realistically, what could happen? It was the middle of the day, the journey short, and the bus long and bendy. If he suddenly developed sinister intentions, he’d barely rise from his seat before half the drivers behind us were blaring their horns and inspecting the situation with heroic Turkish curiosity.

I sat in the second row, feeling oddly obliged to keep him company as the bus rolled through the rain-soaked streets. Under the Atatürk Bridge he veered right and began looping toward Karaköy. ‘I thought you were going to Eminönü,’ I said. ‘I am – via Karaköy,’ he replied, flashing teeth stained with the kind of tannin that only years of çay could produce.

The driver suddenly asked if I had children. Turks can leap straight into your personal life with the speed of a striking cat. ‘One, a girl,’ I said. He proudly told me about his daughters, aged three and six, and any lingering suspicion dissolved. Then he turned again, raised his eyebrows, and asked if I’d have tea with him.

I smothered the smile fighting its way onto my face. ‘No,’ I said. ‘Just tea, nothing more,’ he insisted. Still no. He shook his head, muttered 'Olmaz,’ and I agreed – impossible.

Somehow I wasn’t offended. I was amused. A part of me wanted to say, ‘Nice try.’ He deserved at least a few points for boldness…and for accepting defeat so gracefully.

To be continued…