Letters from the White North: Istanbul

 

By Richard Hardenburg

British Salmoa Times Correspondent – Bureau, Istanbul, Turkey

On November 3rd, stepping out of the airport after an eleven-hour flight from Norport to Istanbul felt liberating. The taxi ride to my hotel—the JW Marriott—took me from broad, orderly highways into narrower and narrower streets, as though the city were compressing a great human current through its ancient arteries.

The driver’s voice never lifted above the hum of the engine, as if trained to sound incurious. Only his eyes, briefly meeting mine in the rear-view mirror, betrayed a quiet alertness.

“First time in Istanbul?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“You are lucky,” he said. “The past few days were cloudy and rainy, but today—sunny, nineteen degrees. We will move slowly; rush hour.”

“Your English is excellent,” I offered.

“I study journalism,” he said as the car slowed before a light. “Only part time, at the university. Sometimes I drive foreign visitors. I like to hear stories.” Then, with a faint but deliberate curiosity, he added, “And you… what brings you here?”

“Tourism,” I said, too quickly, and opened my notebook as if to write. I hoped the answer would end his curiosity, though I could not shake the impression that he was probing—perhaps a bit too deliberately—into the purpose of my visit.

I turned through my notes, pretending to read, though his last remark still echoed faintly. My thoughts drifted to the questions that had carried me here:

What brought me here? The Norport Anomaly.

What is Dr. Marino studying at the University of British Salmoa? S. anonymus.

Why was Steve Williams, a physical education instructor from a Norport high school, invited to join the expedition? Colonel James Williams.

Where are we bound? The Russian Arctic.

Each of these questions forms a node in a growing web of inquiry, all connected by invisible threads—each leading, ultimately, to the same question: Why?

“Your hotel, sir,” the driver said, breaking my reverie.

The JW Marriott stands on a rise with a privileged view of the Bosphorus—an apt place to rest before the northern journey. Yet as I crossed its threshold, any notion of quiet recovery dissolved. I was back among familiar faces, but something of that quiet probing still clung to me.

“Hey, Richard!”

I looked up to see Dr. Marino and Steve, arms raised in greeting.

“This is fabulous!”

That evening, over dinner, I would finally have the chance to ask Steve what I truly wished to know—but for now, the Bosphorus lay before us, gleaming beneath the November sun.