You know you’re planning something illicit when you hesitate to tell people about it. I mentioned our trip to only a few friends, and said nothing to others, even when they asked.

We had cancelled it twice.  First in March, when our daughter, Angela, asked us to babysit our toddler grandson, Mattias, during his day care’s spring break. And again, in early May. Finally, as Minnesota announced store openings, and with Angela and Joe needing help as they packed to move from their apartment, we decided to drive to Denver.

Like many others, we’ve been bored and irritable at home. We’ve also spent time thinking of the Common Good and how to be responsible citizens. It’s hard to defend a road trip in the middle of a pandemic. To that, I plead grandparent insanity.

Our plans included a large dose of worry. Would it be possible to socially distance while stopping for gas and bathroom breaks? Was it safe to stay in hotels? And Angela and Joe lived in a tenth floor apartment; how would we avoid being jammed into a crowded elevator? Finally, what if we got into a car accident somewhere along the way? It would be impossible to socially distance if we needed emergency help–although at that point, Covid-19 would probably be a lesser concern.

I managed to plan my way out of most concerns. We’d wear masks at rest stops. We’d ask for first floor rooms at hotels. And we discovered we could simply pick up breakfast items in hotel lobbies and eat them in our rooms.

Setting Off

We left on Thursday, May 14. Our first stop was at a Kwik Trip an hour and a half south of Minneapolis, and I pulled on my cloth mask before entering. I usually try to buy something in exchange for using the restroom, but I noticed that none of the other people inside—at a glance, they appeared to be all males—were wearing masks. Perhaps I’m over-aware of mask politics, but I felt a distinctly negative vibe, like I was holding a “Hillary for President” sign. I hurried out.

I understand that some folks don’t want to appear vulnerable. And pressure from certain leaders and media outlets makes them ornery. Wearing a mask feels like submitting to government rules they consider arbitrary.

Unexpected Hospitality

We continued on to Ames, Iowa, where on last year’s Denver trip, we ate sandwiches in our car outside a coffee shop, and then purchased lattes. That shop, in Ames’ “historic downtown,” was closed, but Google informed us we could get a cup of joe at a chocolate shop on the same block.

What a find!  Chocolaterie Stam is a Victorian fantasy offering a delicious array of filled chocolates and nutty barks. The shop is just 25 years old, but the Stam family has been making chocolate for over hundred years, starting in the Netherlands. We were thrilled to purchase a box of their candy, several pieces featuring the Iowa State University logo. And the young clerk kindly allowed us to eat our bag lunches inside the shop, at one of two widely-spaced tables. We did so gingerly; although healthy, we’d been holed up for so long, we felt we were contaminated.

Spring colors along the way were lovely. Both Iowa and Nebraska were adorned in lacy lime green, and eastern Colorado as well.

Not Boring Anymore

Normally mundane aspects of our trip now seemed interesting. At the Fairfield Inn in Kearney, Nebraska (the town is a popular stopping-off place), we had to phone the front desk from outside double doors and answer questions about our temperatures and quarantine status in order to be admitted to the lobby. Inside, we stood behind a tape line and talked to a masked clerk through a plexiglass shield.

We had asked for a first-floor room and, from the noise in our corridor it seemed everyone else had, too. Thankfully, we only passed one man in the corridor.

Breakfast, the staff had assured us, would be provided, so we didn’t pack cereal and milk in our cooler. It turned out to be a mealy apple, a granola bar, and a stale pastry loaded with frosting.

Mile-High City

In Glendale, Denver, the Residence Inn lobby procedures were about the same as pre-pandemic, with the exception of a masked clerk. He gave us a third-floor room, which raised our eyebrows, but it was a quiet floor, and we were usually the only ones waiting for the elevator. The few times we weren’t, one or the other party kindly agreed to wait for another car. Nobody cleaned our apartment-like room during our five-night stay, but we could exchange towels at the front desk. For breakfast, the hotel offered little boxes of cereal, packaged pastries, and coffee. The best part was the price, down from $190 just months ago, to $110.

We formed a kind of Covid unit with Angela, Joe, and Mattias, who had seen very few people in the last two and a half months. Angela and Joe have been working at home, and Mattias has been with only one other child, whose parents do not leave their house, and a nanny who is single and lives alone.

My biggest concern, elevators in Angela’s building, didn’t turn out to be a problem. We were required to wear masks throughout the building, and nine out of ten times were alone in the elevator. Again, when others were present, they or we, politely offered to wait for the next car.

The overall patience and courtesy we encountered reminded me of the weeks after 9/11, when we all treated each other tenderly.

Mattias is an exuberant 20-month-old, whose language skills are exploding, and who loves trucks and buses. Their apartment looks down on the top of a parking ramp, which, from seven stories up, is like watching an animated movie. Paradise for a vehicle-oriented child!

When Mattias is out and about, he scouts the horizon for unusual vehicles and doesn’t hesitate to point them out. BUS!  DOZER!  BEEP! (pick-up truck)  GA-GUCK! (dump truck). After a few days, I also found myself pointing excitedly–even when Mattias wasn’t with us.

Mattias also loves animals, in particular “raffes” (giraffes), “wow-els” (owls), and walruses (he can actually say this word). He is building a collection of stuffed creatures.

Walks and More Walks

I emailed a friend that, in Denver, we “did no socializing, no restaurants, and no shopping except groceries.” At Safeway, I watched an unmasked guy ahead of me groan as he was turned away.

For entertainment, we walked. A few blocks from their apartment is a park with a rugby field. It is apparently one of the best in the country, and groups of men regularly practice on its artificial turf, using the odd, oblong rugby ball. Mattias went after a ball one afternoon and we laughingly picked it up and threw it back to a player, who introduced himself as from Fiji. He told us he played for an Argentinian group that practices there.

Just after that, a pretty six-year-old girl started skipping alongside Mattias. She told us her name was Tomra, and that she was from Macedonia. The next day at the same park, Mattias spent time chasing another toddler who was there with her father, both from Zacatecas, Mexico. It was one of Mattias’ last days in that neighborhood, and I felt wistful that their new community, more upscale, would likely have fewer immigrants.

Across the street from their new house (they picked up the keys before we arrived) is a park with playground equipment, but the slides and swing sets were wrapped in yellow crime-tape in fear of lingering virus particles. That wasn’t a problem for Mattias, who didn’t quite realize what he was missing. He instead enjoyed walking to a nearby field with huge climbing rocks, scanning grassy areas for butterflies, and picking up interesting stones.

The new house has a family room big enough to accommodate the large Fisher-Price toys–a food truck, a castle, a farm–he has accumulated, and he will have his own bedroom. Oddly, on the windowsill of the landing up to second floor was a tiny metal device that I recognized as a Turkish spice grinder. I’m not sure why it was left behind, but it was the perfect welcome for our Turkey-loving family.

Unexpected Tears

On a trip, one’s regular routine disrupted, allowing new thoughts. I realized that so far, this entire year has been one of unexpected change. In mid-January, my 91-year-old mother had a stroke, which precipitated moving out of her apartment of twenty years and into a nursing home. This wasn’t completely unexpected, but it did come suddenly, drawing us into a flurry of emotion-laden activity that didn’t settle down until mid-March, just in time for shelter-in-place. And how could I have predicted that the country would be convulsed with protests before May ended? The upshot for me is a renewed awareness that anything can happen at any time, and a reluctance to believe that any plans I make are completely firm.

Talking with Angela on our last day, I started to choke up because Mattias is changing fast, and I didn’t know when I’d see him again. Driving to Denver isn’t an easy task, and I don’t know how comfortable I’m going to be with flying. She feels the same way. So unlike last year, when I saw him every two or three months, I don’t know how much older he’ll be when we come face-to-face again.

The Drive Home

It was time for the final part of our Covid road trip. We left Denver early on May 20th, anticipating long and uneventful hours between Denver and Omaha. We planned to eat lunch at Subway, either in Ogallala or North Platte. That chain is fortunate to have an optimal pandemic model: food both easy to take out and easy to eat in a car. We chose North Platte, and found its Subway franchise inside a huge Walmart, where about half the shoppers were wearing masks.

As we waited for our sandwiches, we noticed a sizable eating area in which alternate tables were taped off. Only one couple was seated and Sankar said, “Why don’t we sit down?” It sounded like a good idea and so there it was, our long-anticipated First Post-Covid Restaurant Meal, at a Subway in a Nebraska Walmart.

The Unlikeliest Indian Restaurant

On our drive to Denver, just a half hour out of Kearney, Nebraska, we saw a sign on the north side of the road that read, “Taste of India.” It was 8:30 in the morning and we weren’t up for curries or samosas, but we noted the town, Overton. Now, on our way back, we were considering a cup of coffee when we realized Overton was just ahead. We pulled off and found, a few blocks from Route 80, an establishment called The Jay Brothers, “J” undoubtedly standing for some multi-syllabic Indian last name. It was a modest gas station, convenience store, and Indian cafe. Propped up next to the cash register was a hardcover book about Nebraska opened to a page spread about the Jay Brothers themselves who, the article stated, had arrived from India in the 1990s to take over their father’s gas station. The article lauded this very particular American dream.

We ordered masal chai, hot, milky tea containing ginger and cardamom, and walked out with two delicious drinks, shaking our heads in wonder at the range of the Indian diaspora.

In Omaha we stayed near Old Town in an elegant federal building converted to a Residence Inn. Restaurants there had opened, and the receptionist gave us a list of choices, so we decided against take-out. We chose a southwestern grill called Stokes, and made reservations, although we wouldn’t need them. There were only three other parties in the place, well spread out.

Our waiter was dressed in black, including a mask, and was helpful and prompt, although he didn’t stand six feet away, rather two or three. The food was fine, and the experience felt like a thrilling novelty, but also like something we didn’t need to do again for awhile.

Striped Hills

Conventional wisdom has it that Iowa is flat, but I can tell you that isn’t quite true. Heading east into Iowa from Nebraska, we saw what is surely a spring phenomenon: striped hills. These occur when fallow, brown fields are separated by ridges that have greened up. Kind of like mountain terracing, although more modest. These seemed to be a thing only in western Iowa, and they were lovely.

Long hours in the car again gave me a chance to reflect. Although I’ve felt whiplashed by recent events, Mattias’ life is truly a blur of change. His daycare situation collapsed in March due to the pandemic, taking him away from most of his little friends, and it will likely change again in August. He is moving to a new house, and will soon forget that magical parking ramp vista. It’s anyone’s guess what vehicles or animals will steal his heart next — who would have predicted ga-gucks and wow-els? Yet he marches on each day, encountering nearly everything with delight (we’re all entitled to a tantrum now and then!) Maybe I, too, can start to better appreciate newness.

Another few hundred miles, two more Subway sandwiches in Clear Lake, Iowa, and we were arriving home. Our Covid road trip had ended. Purple and white tulips were in bloom, a flyer attached to our front door promoted a nearby two-for-one pizza special, and the grass needed its first mowing. It felt great to be back.

The post Minneapolis to Denver and Back: How to Take a Covid Road Trip appeared first on Sue's Turkish Adventures.

The Bosphorus water appears a deeper blue now, and the houses on the Asian side are in sharp focus, not hazy. After a rain shower on Wednesday, the umbrella pines and cypresses outside our apartment are a richer shade of green. In the evenings a cool breeze makes the boats docked on the Bosphorus dance around, their masts tilting in the wind.

Thanks to the new cool weather, I am finally getting out and wandering the streets of Arnavutkoy, the charming little village just down the hill. Yesterday evening Sankar and I saw a little shop there that had ironing boards for sale. I wondered if I could buy one and carry it, perhaps on my head, back up the hill. I can’t believe Umit is complaining that the weather is too cold.

I learned something about myself during this period. First of all, high humidity makes me both dizzy and grouchy. Second, I absolutely hate the feeling of being sweaty, which is one reason I’ve never been an avid exerciser. Third, I really don’t like showing a lot of skin, and that is probably what bothered me most about the weather. Although I can wear whatever I want here without glance or comment, I truly don’t like wearing sleeveless tops and shorts. I don’t tan; that is the main reason. And I don’t have long, slim limbs. Dressed for hot weather, I go around feeling very white, very pink, very chunky.

It is important to go out the door every day feeling you look reasonably good. Maybe it’s a woman thing; surely we are overly critical of ourselves. But I was leaving the house each day feeling ugly. And that was beginning to get to me. I know that nobody else gave my appearance a second thought and that my concern is a sign of shallowness, but there it is.

On Wednesday I went out wearing khaki slacks, a T-shirt and a light brown cardigan, and it was heavenly. Yesterday it was the same khakis and a new dark green long-sleeved T from a Spanish store here called Mango. Both days I was unbelievably gorgeous. Believe me, you just had to be here to see it!

+++++

I miss Angela and Greg. It was great to show them around, and doing so made me realize I’m actually somewhat functional here. And we had fun.

Just after their flight arrived, Sankar had to take a long business phone call, so we headed to the airport Starbucks and ordered some coffee while we waited. I said something about this month being Ramadan, and Greg looked at me with concern, “Wait, are there Muslims here?”

Well, what did I know about Turkey when I was 22? Or eight months ago, for that matter.

Anyhow, we started talking about “scary Muslims,” and every so often we’d say to each other, “well, we’re having a really good time here, but it would be a lot better if people weren’t being so scary.”

Here is one of our scary stories.

The first day of Angela and Greg’s visit, the four of us went to sightsee in the Old City. Before we left, Angela showed me one of her pretty, copper-colored, bejeweled Roman sandals. The sole was starting to split apart, and I told her we could glue it back together right away, that she should wear something else. But she wanted to wear that pair, so off we went.

After Hagia Sofia and a bit of shopping, Sankar and Greg went home and Angela and I pushed on to the Grand Bazaar, an ancient maze of shops and assertive vendors, lots of junk and some treasures.

Several hours later, scarf and jewelry purchases in hand, we started back toward the New Mosque (built in the 1600s), to meet Umit. As we walked along the busy, narrow streets outside the bazaar, Angela tripped slightly, and one of the two straps holding her left foot to the sole of her sandal broke away. She began walking with a kind of limp, trying not to further damage it. I told her we could ask Umit if he knew a shoe repair person, and perhaps after a few days and not much expense, she could get the sandal back. “They were only $10 at Target,” she shrugged.

Soon we reached the New Mosque. Heading for our meeting place, we walked around the building on a large cement expanse, passing a wide set of stairs on which older men were sitting, enjoying the late afternoon sea breeze.

As we did this, Angela stumbled again, and this time the second strap on her left sandal broke. Her foot was now completely out of the sandal, but because the strap around her ankle still held, she was dragging it behind her. We both started laughing and she bent down and took the sandal off. The whole thing, sole and straps lay prone in her hand, like an open-faced sandwich.

We didn’t have far to go, and we walked slowly, she with one bare foot. As we looked for a bench to sit down on, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was an old, slightly hunchbacked Turkish man. Without saying a word, he pointed at the shoe Angela was holding and then, nodding elaborately, gestured to our right, just past the mosque. It was then that four months of intensive Turkish enabled me to come forth with, “Ayakabba?” Shoe? and he nodded. Apparently help was just around the corner.

We thanked the man, headed back past the mosque, then immediately saw it, a little shoeshine/shoe repair operation right out in the open, complete with a small gold-horned stand to put your shoe over as it is being refurbished. A thin older man wearing a fez (headwear outlawed by Kemal Ataturk in 1925, but old men in Turkey don’t care; they are not applying for jobs or university entrance) smiled so broadly at us as we walked up that my first thought was, he is expecting us. Did the other man somehow call ahead and tell him we were coming? No, no, this was a simple operation. The shoe repair guy probably people-watched from the ankles down. And what a sight we made.

He took the shoe and expressed surprise that not only two straps, but the sole as well were damaged. “Cok problem,” we laughed, many problems. He turned back toward a worktable, grabbed a small plastic bottle of clear glue and began to fasten the sole and the straps back in place. Within two minutes the job was finished and, smiling, he handed the shoe back to Angela.

“How much? “ I asked him, and when he said three Turkish lira, about two dollars, I gave him a five note.

As we walked away, Angela and I talked about whose business it is when a stranger experiences a mishap. In our culture, we seem to believe it is not ours. I know I would turn away, embarrassed, if I saw an immigrant’s shoe fall off. I would be concerned about awkwardness, about possibly getting pulled into some larger neediness. But here the assumption is apparently the opposite. The man was no doubt sitting with his buddies when he noticed our mishap. Perhaps he thought for a moment about approaching two foreigners, but he was over at our side before we had gone twenty paces.

With over 15 million inhabitants, Istanbul is about five times bigger than the Twin Cities. It surely has its share of crime, but when people ask me if I feel safe here, I answer yes. I realize that, even though I read the English daily, I am not well-informed. Perhaps there is a serial killer stalking Istanbul’s streets. But part of assessing safety is listening to your gut. And the watchfulness here, the frequent, kind attentiveness that seems to reach across all ages and economic levels, gives me a positive gut feeling.

As we sat waiting for our driver, the sandal straps already firm (“this sandal is going to be stronger than the other one,” Angela commented, and I thought, how can I get hold of some of that glue?), traffic stopped and started around us and the air was heavy with humidity. Nevertheless, a glow of peacefulness and good will surrounded us. You could almost see it.

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