Linguistically Challenged

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In Istanbul, finding an English speaker is like finding Waldo – not the easiest thing to do at times, but definitely doable. Outside of the city limits, finding an English speaker is like finding a needle in a haystack – as close to impossible as it gets. Knowing this fact, I shoulda/coulda/woulda prepared myself more, but as I have the tendency to float around in a cloud of optimism, I never got much farther than, “Merhaba. Nasılsın? Hi. How are you?” From the moment I got off the bus in Safranbolu – or what I thought was Safranbolu but, to devastating effect, was really the nearby city of Kıranköy – I felt hopelessly lost. I didn’t even know where to begin to ask for directions, so I just started walking, keeping my eyes peeled for the words Pansiyone (a place to stay), or Turizm (someone I could ask).

I found a pension without difficulty. The only problem was in trying to communicate with the sweet, middle-aged proprietress, who enthusiastically showed me around the empty premises, chattering away in Turkish. She wrote the price on a piece of paper. It was too high, but I lacked the words to tell her I wanted to look for something else. I figured I could spare the extra $3 as a lesson to get my act together. With only an hour of light left, and the sky threatening serious rain, I dropped my bags and headed out, eager to see Turkey’s most thoroughly preserved Ottoman town.

By the time I reached the quaint cobblestone streets of the old town, the sun had set and the light drizzle had established itself as a steady rain. I figured I’d head back and leave the exploring for daylight. But I couldn’t find my way out. Every road that looked like it lead up and out only led down and around. After an hour of going in circles, cold and wet, I couldn’t stop laughing. It was too ridiculous. I was lost in time and place – stuck in the Middle Ages.

Finally, a bus with two old men in it passed me. The driver stopped, waved me in, and bombarded me with a volley of weird vowels and soft consonants. I smiled and nodded, relieved to be on the road home. Only, when we reached the end of his line, I still hadn’t recognized anything. I thanked them, got out and starting walking back in the opposite direction. Five minutes later, they passed me again, tutting and waving their hands in the air. They were just as confused and frustrated as I was.

Then, I remembered that I had taken a picture of the sign outside of my pension. Smugly, I pulled my camera out and turned it on. There it was – Merkez Pansiyone. I turned the screen towards the passenger, sure that I’d be in a warm bed in no time. He consulted with the driver in increasingly elevated tones. It didn’t sound good. They brought me to the taxi headquarters, where five taxi drivers passed my camera back and forth, shouting, consulting the map and shaking their heads. They kept asking me questions as if, magically and eloquently, I’d be able to explain the little I did know about where I had come from. I felt like a stupid tourist, which is exactly what I was (am?).

Eventually I made it back to my pension to face another onslaught of Turkish from my hostess. My only response by this point was a blank stare. She retreated and returned five minutes later with tea. I thanked her and went to my room to study my limited Turkish dictionary, promising myself that this wouldn’t happen again.

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Photos

Sunshine! Finally!
The view out the window of Merkez Pansiyone... where I was hopelessly lost.