At my age, voting in Istanbul is risky business. So I took a taxi. For those who do not know Istanbul, our taxis are yellow, but not fluorescent like some jackets. Which means you never know if the driver will be on the same side as you are.
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I had questioned myself at length over this bit of travelling. “What difference can a vote make?” In the prevailing mood, many in my circle answered “nothing, but you never know”, and were preparing to do it, out of republican habit.
I questioned my arthritis and finally opted for the elevator. You know the rest. I had grabbed my handbag in passing and had the bizarre impression it was abnormally heavy. I attributed this to my age, as usual.
The vote went well, and I came home with the same yellow taxi, the driver giving me a friendly look in the rear view mirror… His general attitude reassured me and I didn’t detect an Ottoman snoozing in his inner being.
When I asked him to let me out a few meters before arriving, he whispered “granny, you paid for the return trip, I’ll drop you off at your door”. My handbag felt much lighter, all of a sudden. I scrounged a few coins in it, shamefaced with the feeling of giving him alms.
I didn’t regret taking the air in Istanbul even if it was close to unbreathable in the votation office. And I had the definite feeling I had emptied my bag there.
You know the results. Maybe I overdid it.