It Happened in Bursa
A Turkish Tale

By Arnie Greenberg, ultours@aol.com

We left Istanbul early one morning. We had a rented car without air conditioning, and it was hot. We were actually excited by the bridge spanning the Bosporus taking us into Asia. The road was good, and the view of Istanbul from afar was something to remember. The long shadows of early morning added to the mystery of an ancient land.

With stops for picture taking, we arrived before noon. The city was bustling with people going to the market, and by now the sun was imposing a toll I'll never forget. It was one of those days when you can see the air moving in front of you.

The haze eroded our attempt to see the huge mountain of Uludag above the city. There were trucks and pushcarts, and a few donkey carts, but not too many cars. There were certainly no parking spots. Finally, a truck pulled back from a strip mall, and we were finally able to leave park it in a shady corner. My friend (let's call him Gerry) wanted to try a 'Bursa Kabob'. Someone had told him that there was nothing like it.

But first we needed a tourist office, a bathroom and a hotel reservation, not necessarily in that order. For me, the bathroom was of premier importance. I need not explain why men of a certain age have that urge so often.

The city is not pretty, and the throngs of shoppers looked almost menacing as they walked across the street. We did find the tourist office. We fanned out, and with almost crossed legs, I stood at the counter. There was no functioning toilet, and the hotel was close by. But, I explained, our luggage was in the car.

When I told the lady where our car was, her pleasant countenance changed to fear. She and her colleagues informed me that I was not allowed to park in that strip mall, as it was zoned 'commercial'. They were certain to confiscate our car, and it would remain impounded for a week. We all raced into the street, running for our car. "But I didn't get a Bursa-Kabob!" Gerry cried out.

"And I didn't get a toilet." Not that I had to explain – they knew.

Just then, I spotted a small restaurant on a side street that advertised Tziss Burgers and Bursa-Kabobs. Hallelujah! We were saved. I peeled off to the right, yelling instructions as I darted for the restaurant. They would get the car. I'd get the elusive kabob.

In the dingy cafeteria, a man stood, wiping his grimy hands on an apron that suffered from lack of soap. I ordered the Bursa Kabobs and raced upstairs, where a sign advertised 'toilet'. As I reached around the doorframe for a light-switch, I hit my head on the rather low archway.

I am only five-foot-eight. The pain caused me to swoon, and as I stood there, doing my thing, in the near-dark room I felt perspiration flowing down my forehead. I reached for wet paper towels to soothe the pain.

Once downstairs, I handed the scruffy-looking man some money. He just nodded and handed me a bag, stapled shut. I wasn't about to wait for change. I raced away, one hand still holding my head, the other balancing the package. It was then that I realized I was bleeding. As I rushed towards our car, I saw a frustrated policeman, arguing with my wife (in two different languages). The policeman fumed as my wife backed away and headed towards me.

As I approached the car, Gerry reached out for the package. I fell into my seat as my wife drove nervously and my friend opened his precious package.

The only sound I heard was his exclamation. "Oh!" he yelled, "I won't eat this junk!"

And without even showing me the contents, he threw the package into a nearby dumpster. Nobody noticed the blood. Nobody noticed my condition. Nobody said a word as we headed for the highway to ancient Troy at Canakkale. We didn't see Bursa either. That's one reason why I want to go back some day…without Gerry. What's a Bursa-kabob anyway?