They were looking forward to their annual holiday, and had booked a lovely room in a konak in Assos, on the Aegean coast. Also, they were set to visit his wife’s parents on the south coast, which has, along with ancient Roman ruins, the most azure of all the Mediterranean waters.

But the government, as part of its response to the recent troubles, abruptly canceled all holidays for civil servants in the country, including that of the wife.

Dejectedly, they canceled their reservations. Their lovely konak in Assos abruptly vanished like a mirage, taking the Mediterranean beaches along with it. For days afterward, they mourned their lost holiday, thinking of all the gathering weeks and months ahead with no respite at all. 

Then suddenly, desperately, the husband had an idea: What about an overnight trip?

They could go to the Prince Islands, just off the coast of the city. They could spend the night, and at least get a temporary break from the city, and from the nation’s ills. They could be romantic fugitives, hideaways, at least for twenty-four hours. They liked this idea, and quickly found a room online. 

On Sunday afternoon, the wife finished work at her usual time. They took the ferryboat from Kabatas. The ferries and metros were all free (a government decree after the failed coup attempt), so everywhere you went it was crowded, and the security ultra-tight. They squeezed past the crowds, and together, nearly ran to the ferry and joyfully climbed aboard. Behind them, hundreds of others, stranded in the late afternoon heat, waited to get the next one.

On board, the husband and wife breathed sighs of relief, as the boat set sail on a brilliant, gauzy sea, leaving the troubled city behind in its wake.

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Out on the sea, you enter that world that is neither here nor there. You pass distant sailboats, the container ships, even warships. The vast panorama of Istanbul is reduced to a comprehensible miniature. You feel you can put things in a certain perspective, and then forget about them and focus on the seabirds swooping up and down, in synchronicity with the gently rising and falling waves.

The ferryboat was noisy, packed with families, all talking in loud, excited voices, while sellers hawked orange juice and tea.

After about an hour, they passed Kinali, the first of the Prince Islands. The boat dropped off some of the passengers, and continued on to Heybeli. By then, the city was very far away, although you could still see the skyscrapers as far away as Levent, as well as the minarets of the Hagia Sophia and Blue Mosque, watermarks on the horizon.

Presently, a trio of Turkish musicians, with guitar, clarinet and a small drum, entertained the restless travelers. They played Zulfu Livaneli’s “Bir Şafaktan Bir Şafağa.” The melancholy melody and lyrics seemed especially appropriate to the hour:

From dawn to dawn
an evening in the evening
Saying hello again T
his is not going to go …

###

They arrived at Buyukada, the largest of the Prince Islands. They both had been there before, many times, but never with the intention of staying the night. This would be a new wrinkle: to see the islands after the sun had gone down, and the next morning, to see the dawn.

When they disembarked from the ferry, an air of disappointment initially set in. 

They both remembered the reasons why they’d stayed away from the islands, especially in summertime. They saw the great crowds of tourists, which continued on despite the recent troubles. The difference this year was that there were very few, if any, Western visitors. The Arabs were still in full force, as they were every summer, undeterred. The husband reflected that the Arabs didn’t seem to let anything stand between them and their annual holiday; coming from Riyyadh and Jeddah, he supposed, Istanbul for them was like Paris – deliciously wanton and bohemian, but still with the familiar Muslim calls to prayer.

The second thing was the horses. There are no cars on the island, which is good. Horses carry the tourists by the load in phaetons up and down the roads. Every two steps, you have to side-step the horses clattering up and down the roads. Then there’s the persistent stink of horseshit and horse sweat in the summer heat.

Fortunately, the wife, as always, was prepared. She’d booked a hotel on the far side of the island, well away from the touristic center. They walked, dodging the horses, nearly choking on the bad air, and looking around at the 19th Century Victorian mansions that are built seemingly into the hillsides, with their luxurious gardens and secluded porches. All of the mansions were quiet, exuding the perfume of summer flowers, their silhouettes dancing evocatively amid the pink and cream and white facades like figures in a passing dream.

###

They found the hotel, a small villa standing in the shade of tall pine trees. The beach was just down the hill. The hotel was quiet and nearly deserted. The proprietor confirmed the  couple’s reservations, and gave them the room key. 

Upstairs, their room awaited – tiny, just a bed and bath really, with a balcony overlooking the street below. It was perfect. Happily, they set their single overnight bag down, and went out to the balcony to have a cigarette and look out at the people and horse carriages still passing in the street.

“Are we on holiday then?” the husband asked jovially, with an air of satisfaction.

The wife laughed, her smoky voice registering contentment. “The shortest holiday ever!” she reminded him.

She had a shower, and changed from her work clothes to a light summer dress. Holding hands like newlyweds, they went for a walk down the hill to a nearby beach that opens out onto a little harbor.

By then it was sunset. The shadows were falling over the other nearby islands, and the sun cut a brilliant arc over the distant city. People were coming in from the swimming, with towels draped over their shoulders, shivering a bit now with the arrival of evening.

They were both tired from the trip, so they opted to leave the swimming for the morning.

###

Back at the hotel, the cafe was still empty, deserted.

The waiter, happy to see them back, brought fresh levrek (sea bass), served with lemon, lettuce and onions. The levrek was fresh, tasting of the sea, and the beer was ice cold. A chorus of hungry street cats gathered, greedily, so they fed them bits from their plates. The husband watched his wife’s slender, lovely hand clutching the fish, extending it so that the smallest of the cats could have a chance. The minute the fish hit the wood floor of the cafe, all the cats fought each other, growling under the table. The waiter, seeing the couple’s predicament, brought them a spray bottle of water, so that when the cats got too aggressive, the husband hit them with the spray. One by one, with surprise and hate in their eyes, the cats dispersed, and went out finally to lounge in the street, leaving the couple to finish their dinner.

Out in the streets, it was dark now and nearly all the tourists had left, bound for the hotels in the city. The heavy gallop of the horse carriages had also nearly died away, leaving now only the breezes that drifted through the pines up from the beach. Above them the lights of the cafe made the pine trees look ghostly, and yet comforting.

The wife checked the news on her phone. There was a large gathering in Taksim that afternoon of the opposition party. The leader of the opposition party was calling for a restructuring of the government. Thousands of people attended the rally.

“I’m glad we’re not there,” the husband said.

“Oh, there’s no way on earth you’d get me there!” his wife concurred.

They were more than content where they were, far away from anything remotely connected with the fall-out, and the demonstrations. Far away from the still-fresh recollections – the earth-shaking roar of jets that had flown over their neighborhood that violent night. Far away from the images of soldiers taking the bridges, of tanks crushing pro-government demonstrators. Far away from everything that happened in the days after – the mass arrests, the mass dismissals.

In the new silence, the couple together enjoyed the levrek, and the company of the local cats, and the beer. They enjoyed being together. They had the restaurant, the hotel, the now-silent street outside, the island, a piece of a forgotten, peaceful world, virtually all to themselves – if just for the night. They breathed in these silences, savored the illusion of being hidden away, romantic 24-hour fugitives.

The husband thought again about how Trotsky, fleeing the Russian assassins, had spent time on this same island, in a villa not far from Their hotel. The assassins eventually caught up with Trotsky in Mexico, which goes to show you can’t hide from reality forever, he reflected. His wife thought about her family in the south of Turkey. Her father had made many plans for their visit, and was very disappointed they weren’t coming. But maybe in September, or October. Hopefully, by then, things would have settled down.

Their reality, the husband and wives, awaited beyond that night, somewhere in the dawn, just as it did for everyone else in the troubled city of the troubled country of the troubled world. But that was later; they would have more than enough time to deal with that soon enough.

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James Tressler, a former Lost Coast resident, is a writer and teacher. He lives in Istanbul.