Mar 20, 2018 1:58 am
The aged but well maintained Dassault Falcon 50 touches down in Istanbul on schedule. The pilot taxis to a private hangar, and at their prompting, you quickly exit the plane, dumping your equipment into a waiting van before the customs officials arrive - their story is that they flew in empty, here to pick up passengers and cargo - and demand bribes and/or confiscate your finer gear. The van takes off, picking its way through a maze of hangars before making your way through Istanbul to the east.
The streets give way between wonders of antiquity and horrors of modern poverty. Sadly, it is the ladder that is your destination, and after about a half hour of harrowing near misses and almost constant blaring of vehicle horns, you arrive in Dolapdere district.
Right away you can tell that you have made some terrible decisions in this or a past life. Whatever road lead you here was full of missed opportunities. Still, even after dropping hammer on empty barrels of your side arms, the horde of Tony Robbins trained panhandlers gives you a little bit of space, enough that you can keep an eye on your loot. The press of people around you would make anyone but an Asian cringe in despair.
The van hobbles off, only through the liberal use of the horn and ramming more than a few loiterers. You make your way to your waystation, a small hotel / flophouse that undoubtedly would need to bribe a methhead to get even a 1 star rating.
The streets give way between wonders of antiquity and horrors of modern poverty. Sadly, it is the ladder that is your destination, and after about a half hour of harrowing near misses and almost constant blaring of vehicle horns, you arrive in Dolapdere district.
Right away you can tell that you have made some terrible decisions in this or a past life. Whatever road lead you here was full of missed opportunities. Still, even after dropping hammer on empty barrels of your side arms, the horde of Tony Robbins trained panhandlers gives you a little bit of space, enough that you can keep an eye on your loot. The press of people around you would make anyone but an Asian cringe in despair.
The van hobbles off, only through the liberal use of the horn and ramming more than a few loiterers. You make your way to your waystation, a small hotel / flophouse that undoubtedly would need to bribe a methhead to get even a 1 star rating.
