I awoke at the crack of dawn and jubilantly packed my bags as this was the morning we were at long last leaving Club Marmara and returning to the Four Seasons in Istanbul. We passed the hoards of Nescafé drinkers smoking their morning cigarettes as we ascended the road to reception where our escape vehicle was awaiting. We caught our flight and were met at baggage claim by our very handsome and slate grey suited Greeter from the hotel. I’d made it! Safely tucked into our private shuttle bus, a cold bottle of spring water in hand, I exhaled and smiled as I patted the clean fabric of the bus seat beneath me.
In no time, we were back in the exact same luxurious hotel rooms we had occupied the week prior, but this time with new baseball caps and Harry Potter bedding for Livvy, remarkably appropriate as the new Harry Potter film had just opened in cinemas that weekend. After the Club Marmara ordeal, this attention to detail made me weak in the knees. We lounged by the outdoor pool, where Justin and Livvy soon began cracking up and Livvy insisted I come look at the “old man and young girlfriend dry humping on the lounge chair by the deep end”. On the flight over the Atlantic they had watched the film "He's Just Not That Into You", and picked up the term "dry humping" which they now employed entirely appropriately, as in fact he was old, she was not, and they were dry humping in broad daylight. Justin rolled his eyes and said, “I mean come on, get a room.” Indeed.
Unable to resist the temptation to inspect the scene more closely, Justin swam ever nearer and soon returned to me aghast. “They speak English Mom, English, how can that be?!!” Apparently Justin believed that only non-English speakers could engage in such lewd behavior. We explained that poor taste in matters of a sexual nature was by no means limited to non-English speakers. To substantiate our claim, a short explanation of how English girls were reputed to be the “easiest” during David’s backpacking days ensued, as well as a brief discussion of the relatively more chaste nature of the girls from predominantly Catholic countries. The impact of religion on morality for young women seemed to make sense to Justin and he nodded in understanding.
We swam until our fingers were pruny and wrinkled and then headed out to House Café for a lovely dinner overlooking the water. (see pics)
The next morning we were treated to the sumptuous hotel breakfast, which included real brewed coffee, juice made from actual oranges, linen napkins and no smoking permitted. I thought I might cry. Then it was off to the Dolmabace Palace for a quick tour of the impressive former home of the latter day Sultans. The grand reception hall was quite literally as big as our home. Of course we did not agree with all the décor choices and felt the 24 tons of gold that had been used in the construction was a bit excessive. We did however spy numerous gold swan faucet handles which was a relief as we can now trace the provenance of the now dismantled and decapitated faucet handles the previous owner of our home had such a penchant for. Only Livvy retains two gold plated duck faucet handles at home, and after the palace visit, is insisting that as soon as we return stateside we replace hers as well. It would be a grand place for a party, although they do not rent it out, I asked.
Dinner that night was atop a tall building at Vogue Restaurant. We very nearly missed the breathtaking views as David had come in his Lululemon shorts and there is a strict (or as we learned not so strict) dress code for men. We sweet talked our way onto the elevator inadvertently fooling the hostess into believing that David had a change of clothes in his plastic bag. Once atop the building and in the restaurant, the hostess realized the bag contained nothing but our camera, and reluctantly allowed us to be seated in a table on the terrace but hidden in a corner away from the sophisticated patrons wearing full length trousers. The food was delicious and we all reminisced about our time in Istanbul, vowing to return. Chloe alone reminisced about Club Maramara, and we listened patiently as she spoke more or less incessantly about the Frenchies. We listened to her recounting of every nanosecond at that place whose very name I cannot bear to mention, and her repeating the names of the Frenchies over and over again. She had now friended the majority of them on Facebook and so we were treated to a description of their various wall photos and Babblefish translated exchanges. Knowing I would be sleeping in 800 threadcount Egyptian cotton that night made me a very very patient listener.
In the morning we enjoyed one last smoked salmon and housemade brioche-filled breakfast before the teary farewell. Oh Four Seasons Bosphorus Istanbul, how I will miss you.
We caught our flight to Athens and had only 45 minutes to catch our connecting flight to Mykonos. We were in trouble as we had to collect our baggage and then re-check it at the Check-in counter upstairs. I went ahead with Livvy while David, my mom and the other kids waited for the bags. I cozied up to the robust Check-in agent, who had bleached blond hair with plenty of charcoal black roots and a pronounced distaste for Turkey. I laughed at her every joke about the incompetence of the Turks and explained our predicament, taking care to blame it on the Turks. She assured me there was nothing to worry about. Some 20 minutes later, David arrived running wildly and wielding his overloaded baggage cart with Justin and my mother right behind him at a jogging pace, while Chloe sauntered not the least bit flustered by the threat of missing our connecting plane. Our Check-in agent placed a phone call and smiled at us, no problem. She tagged the bags and as she handed me the boarding passes, smiled and said, “Now you run, don’t tzop. Run tzrough tzecurity tzek to tze gate. Goo luck!”.
And so we ran, we ran like the wind. Sweat beads dripping down our brow, we ran and ran until we reached the tzecurity tzek. We threw our bags on the conveyer belts and dashed through the xray machines in one fail swoop. Only my mother was tzopped as she had forgotten to remove a bottle of water from her carry on. When the security guard asked her to discard the bottle, she merely smiled, twisted the cap open with one hand and chug-a-lugged its contents like a football player in a Gatorade commercial. Water dripped down her chin and onto her shirt but still she drank until the bottle was drained of all liquid. Satisfied, she smiled and tossed the empty bottle over her shoulder into the garbage, lifted her carry-on bag and continued her race to the gate.
We arrived at the gate with 10 minutes to take off, and nervously asked the gate agent if we had missed the flight. She smiled and told us that they had held the plane for us and that as soon as our bags were safely aboard, we would be taken to the aircraft. We’d made it!! High fives all around and a well deserved napkin for my mother to wipe her slightly soaked shirt. David sprinted to the kiosk to purchase some Gatorade like beverages for the electrolyte-depleted team. This would be one for the record books. The airline we were flying was aptly called Olympic Airlines, and that day my friends, that day we were all Olympians.
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