Early this morning I took the plane from Zaventem to Istanbul. At about 8 o’clock Turkish time we landed in Beautiful Istanbul.
The moment my feet touched Turkish ground I wanted to kneel and kiss the ground. Happilly it didn’t come that far as other passengers were pushing me to the terminal.
There were lots of things to do:
– getting through passportcontrol wih an identycard that was expired a few months ago (damn my lazzy ass).
– buying a visum ( yeay! now i can visit Turkey for the next 3 months).
– changing euro’s into lira’s.
– finding a cab to get me to the busstation.
I totally got ripped-off by the fooking cabdriver as he overcharged me, but when I arrived at the busstation I was verry happy, trafic was horrible with all those cars with turkish flags on it… brrr.
At the busstation I found a bus to Izmir and I was very relieved when I got on board: sleepingtime!
The last few hours i’ve been sleeping… or I have been looking at the landscape with tears in my eyes.
While writing this I’m still on the bus, a few miles from Izmir, looking through the window. I can see how the sky is getting darker.
With the sky my feelings are getting darker too. I’m so excited, but I’m scared too.
When this bus arrives in Izmir I have to find a cab, a hotel and then go to my aunts place. The prospect of seeing my aunt for the first time in 5 years makes me scared, but seeing all my other relatives paralizes me.
So many things have happened and so many things have passed; too many stories have been told.
When I was little I mostly lived in a fantasy that my aunt was my mother, that my nieces and nephews were my sisters and brothers. At that time, for me, it was some kind of escape, not to see how messed-up my own family was. Later it became so much more.
My aunt really took up her motherly role. With her I could always be me. If only it was once or twice a year. While with other relatives I had to be The grandson of my grandfather who gave me my name, the next doctor in the family, the european child with a future, the bastardchild, sometimes perfect and mostly imperfect.
With my aunt al this didn’t mather. While other familymembers mocked me she just listened to me. and she hugged me.
The amount of people that hugged me at that time was rather small.
She made me feel special, loved, needed and all those other cliché-thingy’s.
And that is what I’m afraid of.
That my aunt won’t feel the same way about me, now that she has probably heard the stories my father has told.
I’m afraid she won’t take me in her arms anymore and that she won’t call me ‘oglum’ anymore.
It allready broke my heart a few months ago in Danemark when the door was slammed in my face.
My real mother doesn’t want anything to do with meso it would kinda shatter my heart when my aunt does that too.
In just a few hours I will know if somebody I share some of the same flesh and blood with loves me…