My Turkish adventures, part most-horrible-day-ever.

Alright, I know it wasn't the MOST horrible day ever, in my life or in history, but it was the worst travel day I hope to ever experience.

Gwen left Istanbul late on the night of the 29th, and I was supposed to head out the next day, August 30, and fly to Barcelona. I finally did end up in Barcelona, but not quite in the manner I had planned.

I left the hostel a little bit more than four hours before my flight, taking the tram/Metro to the airport I flew into. I got to the airport with like 2 1/2 hours to spare, got through the initial security check at the entrance, and was feeling good. Then, I went up the escalators and walked over to the "departures" screen to see which counter I should go to for check-in.

But my flight time wasn't listed.

I started to panic a bit, but I swallowed my nerves and went to information. For the next 40 minutes, I ended up being sent from one desk to another, with each employee trying to being helpful and attempting to figure out what the problem was. Finally, the woman I talked to originally ran over to me and told me that my flight was actually leaving from the other airport in Istanbul.

The other airport?

Yep, apparently there are two airports in Istanbul, one in Europe and one in Asia. I know that it was completely my fault that I went to the wrong airport, I should have checked my ticket 1000 times before I left the hostel, but I just didn't even think I could be flying out of a different airport than the one I flew into. I almost burst into full-on panic mode, but instead, I stared at this really nice airport employee, hoping for some guidance. She told me that she had called the other airport, that they knew I was coming, and that I needed to leave right that second.

I ran down to the next level where the buses and taxis were waiting, presumably with a look of terror, because the first man who saw me told me to calm down and tell him how he could help me. He ended up getting me into a cab and before long, I was sitting in traffic with a Turkish driver around my own age. Most anxious ride ever.

I got to the airport after check-in had ended for my flight, but still with about 20/25 minutes before my flight was scheduled to leave. I made it through initial security and the information desk assured me they'd get me on my plane.

Then everything fell apart.

No one would process me. I kept getting from one desk to another (again) but this time, no one even pretended to help me. The two employees working at my airline's counter were probably the most incompetent people I've ever met. One girl just kept eating her salad the whole time I tried to talk to her and continually laughed at the people in line, and the other woman just kept answering the phone every 3 seconds. I could hear my name being called over the intercom to come to the gate, but I didn't have a boarding pass and couldn't get past security. I had no idea what to do, so I asked to use their phone and they refused. Then I bought a phone card and tried to use the pay phone, but that was broken. I ran back and forth through the airport, trying to get anyone to check me in but, eventually, my flight took off (20 minutes late, presumably delayed by me) without me.

I took a moment to sit on the ground and cry.

Then, I asked if they had wi-fi in the airport. (It was broken.) Without any working phone or access to the internet, I returned to the desk with my two least favorite women in the world, and asked them for another ticket. They didn't understand why I wanted another ticket and it took me about 10 minutes to explain that I still needed to get to Barcelona (I understand that I was in Turkey, I don't expect everyone to speak English, but couldn't they try to communicate with me? Hand motions, something?) They told me that there were no more flights to Barcelona in the next four days, but they could send me to Rome.

Rome and Barcelona are not interchangeable, okay?

Finally, I asked to use their computer. Surprisingly, they let me, and within five minutes, I booked another flight to Barcelona, on their airline, for that night, leaving from the other airport. Really? REALLY?

I got into another taxi to get back to the original airport, and was so unbelievably exhausted from stress that I fell asleep for the entire ride. When we got to the airport, my driver, who was a very old Turkish man, tapped me on the shoulder and said "Good morning. I just want to let you know that you looked very nice while you were sleeping." This simple, kind sentence motivated me to let go of my anxiety and try to enjoy the rest of the day (I mean, I don't think I even had enough of the necessary chemicals left in my body for me to be stressed again.)

I went through security, tried my best to count every possible blessing, talked to some very friendly people who worked in the food-court-place, got on my plane, had a pretty good flight, sat next to the nicest Spanish couple ever (I told them what had happened earlier that day, and they gave me their phone number in case anything similar should happen in Barcelona), and finally landed, about six hours later than planned. I got on the last bus into the city, wandered through some dark streets before a slightly drunk group of Spaniards directed me to my hostel, and finally got into (a sheetless) bed around 2 AM.

That was really a terrible day. I was stressed beyond belief and I lost hundreds of dollars (taxis+buying a replacement ticket.) It hurt. But, Barcelona was lovely, as you'll soon see, and life goes on, so I'm trying to put it behind me. But I still kind of loathe that laughing salad girl.