Cabbies

Instanbul simply facinates me. An ancient gateway from east to west -Constantinople - respresenting an empire too large to really bridge. Great ships snake their way into port as we gracefully fall from the sky toward the tarmac. The airport is too modern and completely generic. It could be anywhere, with nothing to show for the thousands of years of culture except some prepackaged Turkish delights at the Duty Free. A couple of kids stop by to stare, only leaving a wad of gum on the floor. It probably fell out of one of their gaping mouths.

The flight to Baku, Baki, Baky, or however the spelling of the day appears, ended up interesting and educational. After switching seats with a fellow traveller, my new seatmate was an Azerbaijani man. He spent over an hour turoring me in Azeri words and phrases, patiently correcting my many mistakes, and even testing me on my learned skills and knowledge.

Raji turned out to be an Azerbaijani government diplomat on holiday with his family to Greece and Turkey. While vague with his current work assignment, he did concede he had been stationed in different parts of the world, but is right now in Baku working for the foreign ministry. He gave me his personal mobile number and email as a friendly gesture of welcome. He also explained how my telephone works in Azerbaijan and was very helpful as we planned our itinerary.

Fresh off some good discussion, we landed in Baku. To my pseudo-surprise my pack did not make its way out of the whirling carousel. I explained my whole situation in detail to a uniformed man who could not speak and lick of English, but who did whisk me away into a small office to fill out paperwork. This did not bolster my hope, however, when caught a glimpse of the nice man filing in my designated last name box with the name of my ticketing agency in Arizona. Of course I speak no Russian, Azeri, Turkish, Arabic, or anything helpful with communication here. I really think it will take a miracle to get my stuff this time. Even when I can speak the language it is near impossible to retrieve lost items. Here? It will take a miracle.

Getting ripped off at the ariport money exchange is a rite of passage that really starts the trip off in a foul mood. It is, however, a needed convenience so as not to get ripped off worse by dumb playing cabbies.

Speaking of which, the cab driver we drew (after missing the last bus by 15 minutes due to my lost luggage) was either the dumbest or alternatively smartest guy I've seen in a while. Since he took a lot of my money, I would have to at least assume he is skilled in the art of tourist fleecing. My African honed barter skills did eventually kick in, and after a bit of a public spat we did come to an agreeable sum at the end of the ride. There was a bit of actually spitting involved, but all ended well. I'm a bit rusty I guess.

At the hotel/hostel, located conveniently directly on top of the train station, we experienced some more Let's Make a Deal run around, but ended up with a room at half the rate we would pay elsewhere. The view is nice. That is about all there is to say about it. Ugh.