Arriving at the Turkish border at 2:00 AM on a blustery November morning is less than thrilling.  Amelie, Claudia and I were shaken awake from our various states of half-sleep when our bus sputtered to a halt at the Turkish border from Bulgaria.   Upon seeing that we were awake, we were instructed to exit the bus.  

We huddled together in the seemingly arctic temperatures until we were questioned one by one by the officers, and allowed (or not) to enter Turkey.  Two of the men were turned away.  As strange as this may sound, this is completely normal for a border crossing, and an event that my time in the Balkans had completely normalized for me.   I just wanted my entrance stamp and to return to my cozy seat and half-sleep that awaited me.

As an American (or Aussie) entering Turkey, there is a mandatory 25-euro entrance visa, albeit it is available at the border.   With the company of my Australian travel companion, Claudia, we retrieved our visas with some difficulty and language issues and returned to the, literally, high and mighty officers.   By the time we returned from the visa office, most of the other passengers had already been questioned and cleared and were back on the bus.   Other than the two of us, no other passengers were required to get a visa.

After a few more minutes of waiting, it was finally my turn.   As the officer opened my obviously American passport adorned with its fresh Turkey visa sticker, he immediately growled “Where you from?” while staring down at me from atop his warm and cozy Tower of Immigration Power.   I felt like I was chatting with Saint Peter at the pearly gates.

Well, dear officer, seeing as you are holding the one most internationally recognized pieces of identification commonly used to answer that very question, I’m going to ignorantly assume you want a more detailed answer to your redundant question.

“Georgia.   Where the passport was issued.”  I stood on my tiptoes and pointed to the front page of my passport with its huge red, white and blue flag in the background.   I stared blankly back at the officer.

“No, no.   This is wrong.   You no need visa.” He said authoritatively.

“Yes, I do.   I’m an American.   I am from the United States.” That’s why I just purchased the mandatory, overpriced little sticker from your sleeping friend in his little cube located on the “Exit” side of the border, which is about 100 meters away in the dark and then came back here for this lovely chat.  Bravo to your logistics team, by the way – this layout makes perfect sense!

“You are from Georgia.   No America.   You no need visa.” He shoved my passport back through the miniscule window with finality and lit a cigarette.   I still didn’t have entry permission.    He was glancing towards the nonexistent next customer.

I gritted my teeth.   What the hell is going on here?

“No!   I’m an American.” I mumbled to myself as I found myself stepping backwards.

I was torn between being baffled at his refusal to let someone who paid for an unnecessary visa into his country and his acceptance of my faux nationality while sporting a blatantly US passport and begging him to believe I was American.   My confusion was not helped by the fact that I was sleep deprived and my shivering had graduated into convulsions.  

I saw the two men who were turned away from the border waiting in a small area off the main road and my resolve to not spend the night with them urged me forward.   I reproached the window with all of the passengers watching me.   I felt like Ben Stiller when he tried to board his plane too early in Meet the Parents.  

“Hello, I’m from the USA.”  I stared at the same officer who didn’t seem alarmed by my persistence.   I pushed my passport back through the window with my frozen fingers.

Much to my surprise, he picked up my passport while staring at me, leisurely put out his cigarette and lethargically flipped through the book.   After a few excruciating seconds, he solemnly nodded.  

“You from America.” He said affirmatively.   Seriously?

He curiously flipped though the pages to find my Turkish visa sticker with which he was already thoroughly acquainted.  With a practiced thud of his stamp, he smiled and handed the passport back at me.  

“Welcome to Turkey, Georgia.”   He smiled and lit another cigarette.   Wow.  Just wow.

I found myself smiling back and even mustered a laugh.   I need someone to record these moments.

After this strange experience, I re-boarded the bus and we arrived in Taksim Square a few hours later, just in time for sunrise.

During our time in Istanbul, Claudia, Amelie, we explored the different areas and clash of cultures housed within the enormous city.   We shopped, strolled, taste-tested, drank, smoked (shisha), and ate our way through the city.  

One of my favorite days during our time there was when we visited the impressive Hagia Sofia and the Blue Mosque.   The history of this region has absolutely captivated me and the clash of cultures is nowhere more evident than in the iconic Hagia Sofia.   

I was one of the last visitors to leave, and for a few minutes towards the end of my visit there I was alone in the entire building with just the very irritated guards and a persistent British woman.  It was an incredible experience.

We stayed in a hostel near the infamous Taksim Square, which is very close to endless bars and clubs that served to keep us entertained after the sun went down each evening.  

The trip to Istanbul was unplanned and a complete surprise for me.   I couldn’t have been happier to have had E.coli in Belgrade, which made it possible for me to meet these two awesome travelers and explore this impressive city.