Halloween. Or at least it would be in North America. Here is just another hectic Thursday in the big city. As soon as the Iranian Consulate opens all three of us are waiting at their doors to claim or passports and Iranian visas. But no, they are still not ready. Vincent loses it a little, accusing the official of lying to us when he told us it would be ready today. The official argues back that he said to check today, but he says he didn’t make any promises. He asks why we are complaining when to get a visa for any of our countries would take at least a week.
He is probably right but I don’t know. Why would I apply for a visa for my own country? But we are not upset about the length of time, but that he did promise us they would be ready today. I heard him. I am beginning to feel the itch to move on, but I am in no big hurry to move on. I will stay wherever Vincent and Coen are, but I don’t have anyone flying to meet me in New Delhi in two months. Still, this incident brings back the bad taste in my mouth of the arrogant SNCF staff when our bicycles were lost in transport from Cerbere to Avignon (Days 61-5) for five days. Déjà poo.
Vincent wants to go shopping for something and call home from the PTT after we leave. He needs time to cool down. I walk Coen back. He has been quiet this morning. His eyes are read and his voice is weird. He is still sneezing and sniffling. “How are you feeling today?” I ask him. “Pretty tired,” his voice squawks. “I am glad I have a couple more days to recover before we leave.” He’s right. Tomorrow is the Islamic Sabbath so the consulate will not be open. I walk him back to the hostel and to his bed. I ask if there is anything I can get him, but he says no. He’s like an oversized kid when he is sick, the kind I take pity on. I’d stay here and cuddle with him if he wasn’t so straight - and contagious.
Vincent is back within an hour and finds me talking with other backpackers in the lounge. I suggest we walk down to the Galata bridge for something to do. He agrees. He needs to keep active to keep his mind off the visas. It is spitting rain here and there, but the sky in the west looks more promising. We are mostly silent as we make our way down to the harbour. As we pass the consulate again, I ask what we will do if the visas don’t come. They will, he says, but he doesn’t want to talk about it. I ask him if he would leave if it is raining. Definitely, he says – as soon as we get our visas. He tells me Coen will be OK. He always gets colds, but that he’s glad he’ll have a couple days to get over it.
The wind is up, which is not unusual along the Bosphorus, but it’s fairly chilly with the dampness of the ocean around us. The gulls, the boats are still reassuring to me. It occurs to me I might not see salt water again for months, once we leave.
Coen sleeps all afternoon, which I am sure he needs. When we return he is half-awake but prefers to eat in the hostel again. Vincent joins me in going out for pudding later, while Coen stays in and watches television in the lounge. Vincent tells me about his family, his girlfriend and work. It is great to learn more about him. He asks me more about myself and whether I ever get lonely when traveling. I tell him I do, especially that I can’t find gay culture most places. I tell him that tonight I want to check out a Turkish gay bar before I leave, since it may be months before I will be in another gay bar. He surprises me by asking if he can come along. He is either curious about what they look like here or trying to protect me. I don’t mind his company in the last regard either, though I doubt I will be in any danger.
The bar in my Spartacus guide is located half a kilometre away. When we get there we find out there is the equivalent of a US$13 cover charge. It includes one drink, but that is more than half the cost of our four-hour Bosphorus cruise and Vincent will have nothing to do with it so he heads home.
I pay the fee and go inside. It is noisy with flashing lights but no one is on the dance floor. It is still early. For over half an hour I sit alone nursing my drink until two men in their late 20s just me. Their names are Mehmet and Derzan. Like most Turkish men, they are friendly and welcoming. I don’t really like this place as it is too noisy to talk well, and there seems to be a coldness, even a dis respectfulness the management holds for the patrons. I ask the Turks about it and they say it is a straight-owned place, only interested in making money off gays. I order another drink and am told it will cost $8, triple the cost of anywhere else. Mehmet says the prices are high so the owners can bribe the police not to raid them.
The police are like mafia here. Everything is based on bribes and extortions, especially when it is illegal to be gay in the first place. I imagine the police will lose a lot of their ‘income’ if homosexuality is decriminalized here. Mehmet and Derzan move on to meet friends of theirs and I leave. I am definitely not enjoying myself here and I’d sooner be in bed. If this is my last gay bar for several months, I won’t be missing much.
PHOTO 1: fish vendors on the Galata Bridge
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