I once prided myself for having tear ducts of steel. I was the only kid on my block who could watch Bambi without bawling; Beaches made me snicker. Graduation. Weddings. Break-ups. Disappointments. I endured it all with neither a sigh nor a whimper.
Until, that is, I went to Turkey.
Istanbul had been a destination point on my atlas for ages. After working in Beijing for a year, I finally made it there one summer with loose plans of selling carpets by day and belly dancing at night. My plans changed by fifth day, however, during a visit to the Archaeological Museum. As I gazed at a row of headless statues, my hand happened to brush against the spot on my thigh where I always strapped my money belt. Instead of a reassuring bundle, I felt only bare leg.
My heart stopped. I threw down my backpack, hiked up my ankle-length Guatemalan skirt, and gazed in horror.
The money belt was still there. Its contents were not.
I stumbled about the museum in a state of shock. I had used my passport and American Express card only an hour before and deliberately sealed them both back into the belt. What happened? Did everything somehow fall out? How could I not have noticed? I remembered reading about thieves who tossed powder into tourists’ eyes and robbed them blind in a matter of moments. Did that happen to me?
Panic set in as it dawned on me what I had just lost: money, credit cards, passport, airline ticket, traveler’s cheques, visa. In short, all forms of identity—except my Beijing work permit, which said I was American in Chinese—and all my finances, save for $30 in Turkish lira.
I bolted for the museum’s exit, nearly knocking over a museum guard in the process. “My passport!” I shrieked over my shoulder. I raced through Gulhane Park and the Topkapi Palace grounds, darting in and out of tourist patches, frantically retracing the casual stroll I had taken only minutes before. I was nearing the towering minarets of the Aya Sofya when I spotted a Turkish policeman. I scrambled over.
“I lost all my stuff!” I wailed.
He looked at me, amused. A couple of his buddies joined us.
“Money! Passport! Gone!” I told them.
One of the officers pointed with his rifle toward a building labeled “Tourism Police.” I scurried over, dodged the security guard, and barged in on five officers settling down to an afternoon smoke.
Something I’d learned on the road is that tactics differ from country to country. Vodka bribes had taken me far when I was an exchange student in Russia; I’d yelled a lot that past year in China. But what about Turkey?
When I approached the men with determination, not a one raised an eyebrow. Realizing that pushy women may not be well received in Turkey, I took a deep breath and tried reasoning with them.
They lit up another round of smokes.
I pleaded for their help.
One got up to make apple tea.
I was about to ask if they preferred Johnnie Walker Red Label or Black when I remembered that I was broke. I collapsed into a chair in despair, and—beyond my knowledge or control—a tear rolled down my cheek.
That did it.
I was instantly surrounded. One officer dabbed my eyes with a tissue; another handed me a phone. The third took to patting my shoulders and murmuring “No cry, no cry, no cry,” while the fourth gave me some vital instructions: “You can get everything replaced as long as you say it was stolen. Understand? Not lost. Stolen.” The fifth officer pounded away at a typewriter before handing me something written in Turkish that appeared important. With that, I was dismissed to the city police department.
I walked out of the building in a daze. I had never seen tears work outside of a B-grade movie. Surely Gloria Steinem would not have approved of what I just did. NOW would revoke my membership. I felt like a coward, an anti-feminist, the world’s biggest wuss.
