With a high-pitched squeak, my roommate lost track of her story as she careened down the aisle of the bus. I helplessly snatched at the empty air where she once stood, and by the time the bus finished lurching to a halt and she had regained her balance, my sides already hurt from a hysterical fit of giggles.

There are a couple of ground rules to remember when riding one of Istanbul’s buses.

One: Just holding onto the mounted handles isn’t sufficient to avoid stumbling. For some reason they can move along the metal bar, and you will find yourself thumping into strangers when the bus stops if your knees aren’t properly braced.

Two: Under no circumstances should you board a bus between 9:30 and 10:30 a.m., or 4:30 and 6:30 p.m. Hoofing it is always the quicker option, and despite any resulting blisters, you’ll feel victorious passing buses as packed as clown cars as they creep down the road at a glacial pace.

Which leads into the final and most important rule: If you can’t avoid the bus and have an acute sense of smell, a sensitive stomach or happen to only come up to armpit height, make sure you’re standing near a window. The odor of an Istanbul bus at rush hour — when bodies are sardine-smashed against the doors and each other — can be described most kindly as “oppressive.” It’s worse than a middle school locker room.

Thankfully, buses aren’t the only way to get from Point A to Point B in Istanbul, and the delight of the ferry counteracts the plight of the bus. For less than two lire, you can float your way to a different continent. Every ferryboat has a top deck perfect for soaking up the salty breeze or watching the setting sun turn distant mosques into orange-rimmed silhouettes. Most have kitchens attached too, meaning you can test your balance by trying to sip a glass of cay without letting the rocking of the water deposit the entire thing onto your shirt.

It’s impossible to dislike the ferry, but nothing beats the late-night Turkish taxi ride for the perfect combination of terror and elation. Blasting pop music with the windows down, the cabbies drive like self-assured maniacs. When I noticed 150 on a car’s dashboard once, I believed it, even before I realized that it was in kilometers per hour, not miles.

Besides the ability to eschew caution behind the wheel, I think that another prerequisite for getting a Turkish license must be a professed passion for the sound of a car’s horn. Istanbul’s drivers beep liberally. Sometimes it makes sense: Taxi cabs release quick toots as they whiz by, either to alert me to jump in front if I want a ride or to warn me to get out of their way to avoid squished toes. Other times, however, it seems like the drivers simply create their high-pitched symphony as a form of amusement on slow afternoons.

The craziness of the roads has made my recent discovery of the Metrobus all the sweeter. Last week, three friends and I had decided to stay the night at a friend’s apartment on the Asian side of the city. Flaw in the plan: We had a 9 a.m. class the next day.

Despite our admirable 7:15 a.m. departure and our friend’s assurances, I had little faith in our ability to make it through the insane morning traffic in time to slide into seats before the teacher started lecturing. We hopped on and flew off in our own private lane — watching with guilty glee all the other cars completely halted in the congestion. I didn’t miss any notes that morning.

Speed is always a high transportation priority, but low price is too. Turkish flights hold aces in both. No surprise is more pleasant than that of buying a round-trip ticket for under $100.

Actually, I take that back. The most pleasant surprise is the full, delicious meal that Turkish Airlines serves even on flights that are under an hour. United, I’ll never look at your complimentary peanuts and apple juice the same way again.

Jillian D’Onfro is a senior magazine journalism and information management and technology dual major. Her column appears every Tuesday. She can be reached at jidonfro@syr.edu.

Published on October 23, 2012 at 2:57 am