Singing My Way Home

The boarding call for the flight from Istanbul to London was more than an hour late. I tried to convince myself that it didn't matter. I told myself that even if I missed my connecting flight to Edinburgh, it wouldn't be the end of the world. I could buy another ticket, it was only money. But the part of me that cannot bear losing money -- a big part of me -- continued to stew and steam.

Another fifteen minutes passed and still the plane did not move. The other passengers began to grumble too. Finally, the plane's engines caught and the plane began to slowly taxi out, but then it stopped. Fifteen minutes passed, then the pilot sheepishly announced that it would be another twenty to thirty minutes before we had runway clearance. There was a chorus of groans. Watches and schedules were consulted for the umpteenth time. Mobile phones were pulled out and anguished conversations engaged in. I busied myself with yoga breathing and my current Turkish language project: learning the İstiklâl Marşı -- the Turkish national anthem.

By the time we finally took off, the flight was over two hours late and I had the Turkish national anthem pretty much word perfect.

I did my best to enjoy the flight. Turkish Airlines has the best airline food I've ever tasted and there was a wonderful chocolate pudding for dessert, though I declined the offer of wine. In addition to my Turkish national anthem project, I even had a good book to read. But five hours later, when we finally arrived in London, my heart sank when I looked at my watch: it was already eight and the departure time was seven. Then I remembered the two-hour time difference: it was really only six o'clock. If all went well, I could easily make the flight!

Then I saw the line at immigration. It seemed to go on for miles, looping around at least eight times. Typically, there were only three officials handling this huge crowd. I gritted my teeth and sucked in my breath and told myself that it didn't matter. But it did. My husband and daughters would be waiting for me in Edinburgh, having driven for hours to get there. They would definitely be worried about me and wonder what had happened. With a sinking heart, I took my place in the queue and tried not to look at my watch.

I was standing directly behind a dozen of the tallest men I've seen in my entire life. I'm not short. I grew up with tall people: my father was six foot four and I've got cousins who are even taller. But I've never seen anyone as tall as the guys standing in line with me. They were all carrying duffel bags and had on uniforms with Turkish flags on them. They were obviously members of some team -- basketball, I'm guessing -- and radiated athletic energy and good health. The shortest one was a head taller than I am. The tallest one was right in front of me; my nose was flush with his elbow. I'm not exaggerating.

Surreptitiously I studied their faces. Turks are an amazing group of people: you can see all sorts of influences in their facial structures. Some look vaguely Chinese or Mongolian, with high cheek bones, rather flat faces, and hidden upper eyelids. Some are swarthy and have Semetic features; some are as fair-skinned as Scandinavians with bright blue eyes and blonde hair. These young men included all types and combinations. I could hardly take my eyes off them -- or my watch. My stomach sizzled as I saw the minute hand sweeping closer and closer to seven.

Finally, I couldn't stand it any longer. I swallowed and caught the eye of the shortest young Turk-giant. "Do you speak English?" I breathed. He nodded, surprised. I had half a dozen questions I would have loved to ask him, not the least of which being What team do you play in? and What in God's name did your mothers feed you? , but there was nothing for it: I asked them the question I had to ask. "Would you guys mind letting me go ahead of you? I've got another plane to catch!"

The giant cocked his head and smiled. "It's okay with me." He nudged his friend, the one who could have knocked my nose off my face with his elbow. "Can this lady go ahead of us?" he asked in Turkish. The friend smiled wolfishly. "You may. But what will you give us in return?" A few others were now listening to our conversation. One of them glanced at my passport; I heard the word American mentioned. Another Turk-giant grinned. "Yes, what will you give us?" he asked.

Now I'm not rich. And I'm not young enough that hugs and kisses might have worked with this lot.

I cleared my throat. "Well, I can sing the İstiklâl Marşı for you," I ventured in a tiny voice, mentally grappling for the first line: Korkma, sönmez bu şafaklarda yüzen al sancak. They all threw back their heads and roared at this and my nerve almost failed me. I started to hum the first note. "Next!" the clerk called out. I was saved: I didn't have to sing after all!

The giant athletes laughed and waved goodbye to me with their huge hands. I waved back, relieved and a little sad.

Now I almost wish I'd had that glass of wine.