At three in the morning, my father is waiting for me downstairs in the car. I say goodbye to my sister, pick up my suitcase, and head down. My father is usually quiet in the mornings. I load the suitcase into the car and sit in the passenger seat as we drive to the stop where the airport bus departs. Küheylan, the white Ford Connect, still runs despite everything. I love this car. My father wants to buy a new one, but it’s not financially possible. Car prices have skyrocketed, and the real problem is the taxes. We don’t even go into that topic. The silence of the morning, my father’s silence, the awakening of the city… We drive through the streets of Mersin where I was born and raised. Dawn is breaking; I love the city in this light. Passing through empty streets and avenues, I try to update my memory. Everything has completely changed, and yet nothing has changed...
We arrive at the stop. I say goodbye to my father and load my suitcase onto the bus. We wave goodbye through the window. I wonder what he’s thinking right now. My father leaves, and the bus starts moving… I don’t like days of farewell. A sadness I can’t explain settles over my mind. I rest my head against the window and think about the five days I spent in the city where I grew up…
Everything has changed, and yet nothing has changed…
Five days in a life completely different from the one I’m used to… Yet once, I was also a part of that other world. I feel endlessly lucky to have had the chance to experience the infinite shades and contrasts of life… Still, I am usually silent on days of parting. I watch the road through the bus window. The day is breaking… A strange silence fills the bus. In my head, Daft Punk’s Veridis Quo plays on a loop…
We arrive at Çukurova Airport. Although newly built, it’s far from satisfying in terms of structural engineering and architecture. I feel genuinely sorry. It could have been done better, more beautifully — but knowing there’s nothing I can do about it, I stop staring at the meaningless columns that I can’t seem to make sense of…
After a quick check-in and security control, I head toward the gate where the plane will depart. It’s still early. I sit on one of the empty seats and start observing people.
As with the irrelevant things that happen at irrelevant times, a well-dressed man in his mid-sixties grabs his bag and starts waiting at the gate, even though it hasn’t opened yet. The staff are still at their computers, working. Boarding won’t start for another forty-five minutes. Yet there he stands — impatiently, nervously looking around — creating unnecessary tension for the staff. Watching him gives me a strange kind of pleasure. I try to analyze him. He isn’t in a rush to get anywhere. He’s dressed like a man smart enough to know the plane won’t leave earlier than scheduled, and yet he radiates pointless anxiety. After a while, others start to assume that anyone waiting alone in line must know something, and they begin lining up behind him. The situation seems to give the well-dressed, tense man a new sense of purpose. There are two boarding lanes, yet now everyone stands behind this one man. The other lane is completely empty. All the passengers have lined up behind a nervous stranger. It’s becoming absurd, and the man is growing even more restless.
A few minutes before boarding begins, I decide to join the second, empty lane — partly to annoy him. I’ll stand there, right beside him, all alone. He’ll probably say something to me. He clearly has a need to control everything. If he does say something, I’ll reply, “Are you part of the flight crew?” I’ve prepared everything in my head. With a pointless excitement, I approach the second lane. One of the two gate attendants opens the barrier and says, “You can proceed from this side too.” I’m standing there alone, while the other lane hasn’t opened yet. As I pass by the long queue, all I can think about is that man. I try to make eye contact, but he’s too busy fixating on the other attendant. I end up being the first to board the plane. The nervous man, who’d been waiting for over half an hour, boards three minutes after me. I’m smiling. I should have been melancholic today. But that man had taught me something — several things, in fact — though I don’t feel like writing them all here. My intention wasn’t really to anger him. I just wanted to teach him a small lesson too…
The plane landed at İzmir Adnan Menderes Airport. I was walking through the international transit area when a stern-faced passport officer stamped my passport with visible reluctance. Without wasting any time, I went straight to my next gate. After another quick boarding process, I took my seat — X-E. A young woman sat beside me, window-side, and fell asleep the moment she sat down. A little later, a thin boy, maybe twelve to fifteen years old, sat on the aisle seat next to me. His mother took the seat across the aisle. The two seats beside her were empty. They waited until the last passengers arrived. I thought the boy might move to sit next to his mother, but just then an elderly couple arrived and took those two seats.
The journey began. The boy beside me kept glancing at me. At some point — I don’t remember why — we started talking. He spoke to me very politely, using the formal “you.” He was born in Switzerland; his mother was of Turkish descent, but they only spoke German together. They had come to Turkey for two weeks. He told me what he’d done during his holiday. He loved eating kebab. His father would stay in Turkey for another week. Normally, Swiss-born kids have that distinct Swiss accent, but his was barely noticeable. Since he addressed me formally, I did the same. It created an oddly formal, almost cinematic atmosphere — like in old Turkish films where everyone speaks in polite formality. The boy would fall silent for a bit, then ask another question, and I would respond in the same polite but kind tone. His mother occasionally looked over to make sure he wasn’t bothering me; I would respond silently, reassuring her that everything was fine. If it weren’t for his occasional questions, the flight would have felt endless.
But I was actually enjoying it. Talking about the sky with a bright young boy who wanted to become an astronaut delighted me. He wanted to be an astronaut, but his favorite class was physical education. I gently told him that he might also need to take an interest in subjects like math, geometry, and physics if he wanted to reach that dream. My words seemed to pass right over him — instead, he told me he had a huge telescope. I told him I loved telescopes. As a kid, I had always wanted one. I told him I would buy a big telescope one day…
The plane made a smooth landing at Zurich Airport. Half the passengers clapped wildly for the pilot, who had done his job perfectly. I clapped too. These days, doing your job well truly deserves praise. As I got off the plane, his mother thanked me. Apparently, children who dream of becoming astronauts can be quite talkative, and she seemed exhausted. “You’re welcome,” I said.
After a five-day break, I was back in Zurich. One of the most systematic and efficient airports in the world — within minutes, I had collected my suitcase and made my way to the train station inside the terminal. This morning I had been at Çukurova Airport… I found myself comparing the two airports — a comparison that would benefit no one. I decided not to think about Çukurova Airport anymore. I told myself to change the subject.
The train, as always, arrived exactly on time and departed exactly on time. I would be home exactly on time. Watching the scenery pass by, I felt that nothing had changed — and yet somehow, everything had. The things I’d seen, felt, and analyzed over the past five days… and Zurich. Here, I’ll exercise my right to remain silent. In my head, Daft Punk’s Veridis Quo continues to play.
I arrived home, right on time… The day was over. I wanted to sleep — because tomorrow I would fly to China, and I hadn’t prepared a single thing yet...
To be continued...