Alya and I flew to Istanbul, and in 24 hours, we had a direct flight to Vancouver — from there, the last ferry to the island, and after three months, into Anthony’s arms. I played that reunion over in my head many times. I never feared he wouldn’t wait for me.

Istanbul greeted us with rain. We drove through narrow streets in a taxi, where cars going both ways barely squeezed past stone walls, leaving scratches and wear marks. Along the road, underfoot, on faded café awnings, on chairs left outside like forgotten guests after a festive night, and on wires stretched between houses, wandered cats of varying degrees of raggedness — the scruffy heirs of great Constantinople. Cast-out aristocrats, vagabonds in velvet rags, their eyes full of the mysteries of Istanbul’s underground, with half-hints and half-smiles, they watched the city with that condescending indifference known only to creatures who know their seven lives will outlast both this world and us.

Capricious staircases twisted with worn steps. Minarets pierced the low rainy sky with sharp peaks, and a couple of blocks away, behind a foggy veil, the Bosphorus sighed heavy waves, welcoming the exiled Trotsky and carrying to sea the scraps of history poorly learned in school.

I opened the window, stuck my hand out — to catch raindrops and give a little slap to the oncoming motorcyclists.

The air smelled of flatbreads, cardamom coffee, and millennia-old dampness.

Istanbul greeted us with cats and ambiguous charm.

And though I wasn’t on the Bosphorus —
I’ll invent it for you.
Still — your eyes, like the sea,
Rippled blue with fire.

Neither I nor Yesenin needed reality. Father’s stories and poetic longing turned Istanbul into a city of fantasies.

Before the trip, Dad told me about Istanbul. Having traveled the world, every journey of mine began with his personal guides — stories woven through historical events, local scenes, customs, writers’ books, and poets’ images… Through Dad’s memories, a picture of the city, a map of a whole country, sometimes accurate, sometimes colored by his impressions and beautiful, memorable excursion tales took shape. Whether fictional or not — what difference did it make?

We bought tickets to Canada right in the hospital. Dad saw how eager I was to return and didn’t want to hold me back. Of all complicated routes to Canada, we chose the perfect one: twenty-four hours in Istanbul, then a direct flight to Vancouver. I knew Vancouver better, so Dad adjusted his pillow, settled comfortably, and started the tour of the city he knew best.

“Istanbul is a city of contrasts. On one side, mosques; on the other, Byzantine churches. On one side, fancy restaurants that don’t admit shorts; on the other, streets where tourists better not laugh out loud. Crayfish in crystal, and in the next alley, chestnuts roasted on a rusty barrel. Istanbul — the city of cats.”

“Why cats?” I asked, knowing the answer but curious about Dad’s response. He gave his favorite mysterious reply: “You’ll see.”

Dad continued the tour; I pictured each landmark in my mind and planned how to fit it all into twenty-four hours. Then Dad gave advice.

“Don’t eat fish in the historic center, in Kustakapi. It’s a tourist trap: too many people, overpriced, adapted for tourists. Better go to the restaurants by the Galata Bridge. There the fish is fresh, and the view of the Golden Horn is worth it.”

During his travels, Dad paid much attention to restaurants. Delicious food and a good hotel — the main sources of positive impressions about a city, sometimes more important than the cultural program.

“Try cardamom coffee in a little place by the Egyptian Bazaar — they’ll roast the beans in front of you and brew it in a cezve on sand. Just be sure to wash it down with two glasses of water.”

“How do you like Turkish coffee? Thick? Does it wake you up?” I asked. For me, Turkey was that resinous coffee in a cezve on sand, bitter-sweet, a taste that lingers all day, coffee that makes your heart leap and pupils dilate.

“Not at all!” Dad grinned, leaned back on his pillow, and theatrically clutched his chest. “I never even sniffed their coffee. My blood pressure would shoot up right away…” — he made an explosive gesture with his hands — “No, I left that tourist experience to Mom.”

On trips, Mom fearlessly tried all local things. There was only one mishap, in a restaurant on the Champs-Élysées, when she ordered rabbit. The rabbit with the best Provençal herbs ended up half-raw under the table. Maybe it was undercooked, or maybe childhood memories hit her — memories of her father, my grandfather, who died when I was a year old, and who used to bring her live rabbits from work. They smelled of hay, and in their hands, they left tenderness and warmth for a long time.

“By the Egyptian Bazaar, old men in fezzes sit on worn stone steps, counting rosary beads. Counting down the minutes to the end of the Ottoman Empire.” Dad’s jokes were layered and not always clear. His interlocutors often got confused and nodded hard to avoid looking ignorant. Dad noticed this and enjoyed his little victory — knowing others didn’t know something. Dad liked competing even in small things. He took losses with dignity, but with some disappointment in himself.

“So, look at the old men, but don’t get distracted. Try not to get lost in the labyrinth of cobbled streets. There are plenty of swindlers and touts. And for tourists, all Istanbul’s streets are one big photo spot. Don’t dawdle!” Dad always worried about his daughters’ safety and warned again and again about the obvious. “Knowing you… if you’re going to get lost —” he suddenly squinted and wagged his finger — “only in the alleys of Fener.”

“What’s there?” I asked. Another mystery he would leave for me to solve walking Istanbul and finding the keys to.

“You’ll like it: colorful houses pressed close together. In the middle, a narrow balcony, like a dent in the facade. That’s a ‘jumba’,” he whispered with almost childlike delight. “On such a balcony, old Istanbulites sit, sipping tea — they lack the steady pressure for coffee — and watch passersby.”

A real journalistic essay. Travel notes! “Write, write, by the way.”

Dad quickly found a folder with photos from his Istanbul trip where he gave a talk.

“See the lamp by Bayezid Mosque?” In the photo, a rusty pole with frosted glass — not much of a landmark. “Under it,” Dad’s voice suddenly softened as if reading a tale about some Turkish Hasan hiding from enemies in a cave, “Orhan Pamuk sat and invented his ‘Snow.’”

Dad looked at me mysteriously again, and I guessed what he thought: “If not a Nobel Prize, then at least finish your travel notes, so, as Orhan Pamuk said in his award speech, you ‘reveal the melancholic soul of the native city, uncover new symbols of the clash and intertwining of cultures.’”

What native city, when now I have two?

---

A few days later, Alya and I found ourselves in Istanbul.

We stayed in a hotel resembling a tower — a former mansion in the old city center, owned by an Italian family for generations. The lower part of this Genoese tower was on one street, the upper part on a street above. Stairs ran through the whole hotel, but only guests could use them. A spiral staircase with wrought-iron railings stood in the center, as if the entire building was built around it. We didn’t climb Galata Tower because of the long line of modern pilgrims patiently waiting to ascend even in the chilly November, but we roamed plenty under the vault of our own tower.

Traveling light, leaving suitcases in storage, we set off to explore Istanbul.

Alya quickly tired of the endless stairs, and I didn’t want to walk alone. Something new stirred inside me. Usually, my curiosity in a new city is unstoppable; this time, for the first time, I wanted to lie down in a cozy bed and watch the city through a panoramic window.

That evening we finally went out for dinner. We chose a popular restaurant next to a historic hotel and ordered two local dishes. Alya’s dish came with American-style fries, though the menu made them sound more enticing. Our table was ignored for a long time. We were treated with deliberate coldness. I watched with curiosity, wondering what was so off-putting about us. It couldn’t be because of our gender. No way… Istanbul is a European city, a city of tourists, a cosmopolitan city.

But that’s exactly how it was. When the waiter cleared our plates, he looked unpleasantly at Alya’s half-eaten American fries and rudely told her, “Finish it!”

Not a question, but a loud order. I was stunned — had we disrespected some unspoken local law? I tried to explain. I even got scared because the restaurant was full of men except us.

Then I pulled myself together and wanted to tell them all how strong and brave I was — that last week I had donated blood. Four hours, three times. Could you do that? Could you?

We hurriedly left. I reread all reviews of this restaurant — both men’s and women’s — and no one mentioned anything like this.

What was it? A cultural code of sacred food? Gender dynamics of male dominance? The “outsider” effect of our obvious foreignness? By what criteria did they arrange this blatant segregation?

Two-faced Istanbul… Your European facade turned out to be nothing but ordinary, indestructible patriarchal reality.

By morning, we forgot the Istanbul offenses and drank Turkish coffee with delicious eastern sweets. The café we chose was a perfect microcosm of Istanbul — just how I imagined it. Local residents chatted at tables — tall, handsome, dressed in elegant suits, with pedigreed dogs on leather leashes. Students from Bosphorus University discussed an upcoming lecture. Tourists leisurely breakfasted and exchanged travel stories with other tourists at nearby tables.

We managed to see Istanbul as I had imagined it and even shopped for souvenirs. Then… then… after a week full of suffering, worry, and fear for Dad, as if punishment for bad thoughts about this city, a migraine of monstrous power struck me. It felt like the entire fiery salvo of the English fleet of battleships and cruisers thundered in my temples, turning my poor head into the Battle of the Dardanelles. One step, another, and the “Queen Elizabeth” delivered another blow.

The medicine was in my suitcase, waiting in storage. At the nearest pharmacy, the pharmacist, without waiting for the virtual translator, glanced at my face and put a package of medicine and a bottle of water on the counter. I was incoherent, unable to speak. The shells in the Dardanelles kept pounding my head.

My card didn’t work, and the cash was with Alya, who, again tired of stairs, went to the room. I apologized and headed back to the hotel for the wallet. I barely walked; I saw only the middle of the street; the sides blurred into blackness. I had to hold the stone walls to feel the boundaries.

I returned with a vomit bag in hand, to avoid soiling the ancient cobblestones that remembered the sandals of Byzantine patricians. I took the medicine and sat near a souvenir shop, lowering my head, clutching the bag. Turkish sellers touched my shoulder and asked, “Su? Çay?” — Water? Tea? I raised my head in silent suffering and said nothing would help me now. “Kötü! Kötü! Kötü!” — bad, very bad. They said “Su… su…” again.

Water! Of course… I hadn’t drunk two glasses of water after Turkish coffee. Broke all Dad’s rules. And he knew — he warned me!

Strong coffee stirred a storm in my vessels.

---

I rested at the hotel with a cold towel on my forehead, though it was time to rush to the airport. Alya packed my things; we checked out and got in a taxi.

When the migraine finally passed, a new challenge awaited me.

When I dropped off my suitcases, the storage told me “24 hours” means until noon. After 12, a new day’s fee applies.

We were on time for the flight, but I was 10 minutes late for the luggage.

Two men were behind the counter. I gave them my slip and apologized. They spoke good English, and I explained I had been struck by a severe migraine and was bedridden all morning, hence the delay.

They looked at me and said “No.” Pay for the second day.

So my suitcases fell captive to Turkish bureaucracy.

“I understand,” I said. “You have rules. You gave me the slip and warned me. But please, understand my situation. I wasn’t partying all night; I had a terrible week and collapsed with a migraine.”

Turkey is one of those countries where you can always negotiate. Turkish mentality drags people into endless bargaining, market haggling. Women’s food may be served last, but the market law doesn’t work in an international airport?

I tried again, quietly: “I understand I broke the rules. I do. But isn’t there a 10-minute grace period? Please make an exception.” I looked for Alya to soften them with her childlike face. But she’s no child anymore, and besides — a woman.

I made several polite attempts, searched for pleading words in a Turkish phrasebook, but nothing worked.

“If you don’t agree with the rules, please go to the police station on the second floor behind the column and complain.”

And then fury awoke in me — for all women — a bazaar woman ready to haggle over 50 bucks.

“Well then, I’ll go! I’ll go! Let the great and just Ottoman court be held!”

I left Alya in the waiting hall, told her to put on headphones and turn away.

In the police station, only one officer sat. Probably his feet were on the table; he dozed under a noisy fan, hat over his eyes, while a pesky fly buzzed around. He probably expected retirement soon and was already drinking tea in a plane tree’s shade in his half-sleep.

I politely explained the situation. He politely replied it was an “external organization,” with their own rules, and apparently I broke them.

I tried bargaining with the officer, explaining how denying a ten-minute grace period doesn’t look good for Turkey’s tourist image. He couldn’t get rid of me and dictated long sentences into a translator.

There was plenty of time before the flight; I dictated my replies in equally long sentences.

The fly buzzed. The fan whirred.

Before leaving, I left a message that soon he’d have to get off his chair and come down to the scene.

I left the station, slamming the door.

I was so tired of hospitals and needles, so helpless over Dad’s illness, that I needed to break down. A storm was brewing inside me, and I decided not to hold it back.

When you bottle up pain, anger, and uncertain waiting, it explodes like a black cloud hiding the sky until the next day. My explosion was massive.

I went down and told Alya to keep sitting with headphones, and if I didn’t come back in half an hour… well, honestly, I had no plan. The main thing was to keep headphones on and not look around.

Remember: if anyone asks — I’m not your mother. I’m a goodwill ambassador fighting for the rights of all ignored women!

I approached the luggage counter. A glass door separated me from my suitcases.

And then I howled. I flared up like never before. I flung open the door, pushed the first guy aside, and when the second came, shoved him too. I cursed them in every known language, and when the curses ran out, I screamed my own — not at them, but at all the world’s injustice. Through me screamed not just my pain but all the city’s grievances: and those women once ordered to “finish your food.”

“Let me through! Let me through!” I screamed, struggling. “What is this bureaucracy!”

I thought of more insults to say but honestly didn’t want to hurt them. I just wanted to scream.

They didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know where the strength came from. My veins were tired, barely lifting bags, and now I was pushing two grown men and flinging open heavy doors.

They were so stunned they just held me tightly, not letting me near the poor suitcases. My wrists slipped in their sweaty palms, and I almost broke free, but they immediately caught me, twisting my arms behind my back. They didn’t hurt but didn’t let go, as if dealing with a force of nature to be weathered.

I screamed, pushed, and took in all the fury of the Bosphorus storm. I was ready for any pain — it wouldn’t be worse than what I’d already endured. They silently did their job: restraining, disarming, calming. But I wanted them to shout back at me, shout with me, so that not I alone, but the three of us would yell at this damn unfair world.

“What are you holding onto? What?! Leave me alone! You see, I have nothing to lose. I just won’t give up.”

“Send me to the Marmara Sea, exile me with Trotsky to Büyükada. Let me rest, let me rethink. I promise to give up revolutionary work, keep my mouth shut for years. I’ll write new impossible manifestos, make friends with Atatürk — drink rakı with his mausoleum ghost. Then send me to warm Coyoacán with blue walls, with red revolutionary roosters crowing in Spanish at dawn, and coyotes licking the moon stuck on Mexican cactus thorns. I’ll slip away — definitely slip away — surfacing in Mexican haze as a bright carnival double. I’ll dissolve in the sweet scent of agave flowers, get lost in Aztec calendar glyphs… confuse all historians’ calendar cycles so the heavy revolutionary ice axe won’t reach the Blue House.”

Someone called the police. From the second floor behind the column came my acquaintance policeman. With indifferent eyes, he surveyed the scene. I shouted:

“I told you, I told you. Now you’ll have to come down! Get to work now! Stop counting flies!”

He probably even yawned. This whole scene must have amused him. He didn’t know what to do either. Not lock me in a closet, not whip me like a disobedient wife in a harem.

Everything ended with the fee halved. Not a victory, but a truce. I exhaled, took my suitcases. I screamed well. I screamed for everything.

Behind me stood a large Turkish family with two carts full of suitcases. I apologized for my yelling and explained why. The gray-haired grandfather in a checked suit — the eldest family member, respectfully carried in a chair — said in perfect English:

“What a shame! A fake secular state. I’m ashamed for you…” I thought he meant me and was ready to disappear into thin air.

But he looked at me gently and said,
“Poor girl. My poor girl.”
I leaned toward him and whispered, “Teşekkür ederim” — thank you very much.
Then he stroked my head and replied with some tender some Turkish blessing.