Let’s call this an anatomy for a disastrous trip. As many you may know, we attended a zone conference in Istanbul last week. Wednesday we went to the airport in a taxi. I recall clearly the MP telling the driver to go to the Iç Hatlar terminal (domestic). Our trip was rather quick by local Istanbul freeway standards. We were in a delay for only about three kilometers because of a four-vehicle accident — ran into each other’s rear ends. We went through the traffic spigot where five lanes collapse into three just before the security booth which leads into the airport. Then our driver flew past the domestic terminal and headed for the international building. That should have been our first clue. I then said in my best Turkish, "Iç Hatlar." I could see the disappointment on the driver’s face as he began to drive around the long looping road that leads back to the tangled spigot and security booth. But he had taken us to the wrong place.
When he dropped us off, we were about twenty yards from the doors that lead into the airport building. A line of yellow concrete barriers had been placed along the roadway to keep vehicles from coming too close to the building. I was thinking that someone was responding to the terrible bombings in Brussels. As before, we passed through two security checks inside, one as soon as we walked in the doors and one before reaching our gates after getting our flight coupons.
When we went to the airplane, all who were waiting for the flight piled onto one bus, not packing it. I thought, "This must be a half-empty flight. Plenty of room." Then the bus drove and drove, taking us to a very distant part of the airport where dozens of planes were parked. That should have been a second clue. We climbed off the bus and struggled up the stairs with our heavy carry-on bags (made heavy by the purchase of a few "little" items). The plane already had a dozen or more Turkish Air flight attendants sitting in seats, including exit row seats that I had requested when we arrived at the check-in desk. In addition, a number of seats were already filled. So much for a roomy flight. The plane began to move as soon as everyone had settled into their seats. We rolled along for a few minutes and stopped. The plane sat in one place for a half-hour. Dead still. After the full thirty minutes, the pilot came on the intercom and told us that we were waiting for a break in the landings that were taking place on the landing strip in front of us, a landing stip that we had to cross to get to the take-off spot. What? I thought. How is it that the people in the tower can’t figure out that a bunch of planes are backed up near their distant parking spots and can’t get to the take-off air strip? (If that airport is the eleventh busiest airport in the world, as it proudly proclaims, it needs to act like it is part of the first world and not part of a tin-horn outfit.)
At last, we were allowed across the landing strip. Then the plane stopped again — for another half-hour. By now we were in the queue to take off with a big bunch of other planes that had also been waiting their turns. About fifteen minutes into this second half-hour delay, someone in the back began yelling, not angrily but, well, firmly. About a third of the passengers began clapping at his words. Thirty seconds later, a male flight attendant headed to the back of the plane, evidently to calm the fellow, or threaten him. Naturally, there must have been a bunch of people on our flight who were missing appointments and other important events because of the seemingly unnecessary delay. As you might imagine, as soon as we landed a number of people made a mad dash toward the door. It didn’t help much. Our arrival was an hour late without any intervention by Mother Nature. And that’s the truth.
To top off our flying experience, when Grandma opened her hindi sandwich (turkey) served during the flight, not a shred of turkey was visible. Only a thin, small slice of tomato and an almost fresh piece of lettuce. So she got the attention of a very nice flight attendant who swapped the sandwich for one with real hindi in it. Something to write about.
While in Istanbul, we went to the huge cistern that is underground near the Hagia Sophia Museum/Church/Mosque. After the Turks captured the city in the spring of 1453, they had no idea that this cistern existed. It had been built to store water for use in the nearby Byzantine palace. It was only discovered when authorities became aware of people lowering buckets through holes in their basement floors for water and the same people dropping fishing lines through the same holes and pulling up fish. Fish still swim in that water.
We lose our first YV tomorrow. He is headed home after a stop in Istanbul. When he came at the end of last October, he was charged with opening an entirely new area and training a greenie. In my humble judgment, he has done well in both assignments. We shall miss his good, pure spirit and his electronic skills. He was a good teacher and related well with his contacts. I have caught a bit of news about his replacement, though his identity has been kept under wraps. The next one, I think, will be terrific. It will be interesting to see how the trained greenie and he will move things forward.
Next week we head to another branch where I am to give a couple of firesides and Grandma is to say some things about family history in a Sunday School class. The branch president is a prime candidate for her to interview as a pioneer member. He has a most interesting history. More on that later.
I love you and pray for each of you.
Grandpa Brown
Today began with the baptism of a sixteen year old fellow who is the nephew of a branch member here. I confirmed him in sacrament meeting. We went to another hotel and used the pool for the baptism. The water was up to the necks of the fellow and the branch president who baptized him. Because the branch president forgot to say the fellow's name, he had to baptize him twice. That's what witnesses are for, to catch those things. I was one of the witnesses. And (ahem) I noticed the omission, even in Turkish.
