It's a long way to Sheffield

Dreading it.

I love visiting new places, but I hate travel, and most of all airports. I especially hate hurrying along, towing a heavy case and lugging a second, through crowded lobbies looking for a check-in counter and hoping the queue won’t be so long that we miss the flight. (Not that that has ever happened to me.) Getting our cases through the rough cobbled streets of Bakirkoy while looking for a taxi was another of my dread factors. Deciding what to take and what to leave, and keeping our suitcase weights below the limit – well we’d already had most of a month to work on and agonize over that. Moving all you own from one country to another in a mere two suitcases is a bit of a tall task for the best of us.

Getting on with it.

So we decided to travel with British Air for several reasons. Firstly, their baggage allowance is 23kg, but (until the end of September) they actually allow up to 32kg. Then also, they have no weight restriction on hand baggage – it must fit into the overhead locker and you must be able to lift it there yourself. They also allow you to carry on a laptop or briefcase. Thirdly, they also have online check-in, so you can arrive at the airport last minute, drop your bags, and not have to wait in a long check-in queue.

So we were already checked-in and we had printed our own boarding passes, and we got our two heavy suitcases, two heavy carry-on cases, heavy briefcase, and laptop with a jam-packed case down to the street at about 7am. There are no taxis that wait in our part of Bakirkoy, so I guarded the cases while Peter went off down the street and came back in a taxi.

At the airport, as we got out of the taxi, a little man with a big trolley came by. He looked at me and I nodded at him, and he piled our bags onto his big trolley and set off towards Security Check. I didn’t really think about it until we were trotting along behind him and it occurred to me he would be expecting a tip. No sweat, we still had Turkish liras in our pockets – most of our money we had already converted to British pounds.

At the security check our little man unloaded our bags, had himself and his trolley checked through, and then picked everything up at the other side. He headed off through the crowded lobby looking for the British Air counter. There were huge crowds at every airline counter, and at the enquiries counter there was a man gesticulating and yelling in English that he had missed his flight while waiting in one of those queues.

When we arrived at the bag drop for British Air our porter asked for 10 YTL, we only had 20s and he claimed to have no change, so he got double pay. No worries – our bags had “heavy” labels, but they were through, we were on our way.

The British flight.

I love uneventful flights. For the first time in three years we were on a plane where all of the announcements were in clear English, and only English. (We weren’t even told to “injure your fright” like they say in China.) The internet site had informed us we would have only a snack, but instead we enjoyed a full cooked breakfast – scrambled egg, sausage, tomato, mushrooms, as well as muesli and fresh fruit (peeled and sliced grapefruit, orange, melon, and a grape), and a roll with butter and jam. The Turkish girl seated next to us put hers aside in distaste – she would be missing her usual kahvalti, Turkish-style breakfast of cheeses, vegetables, and pastry.

Into the country.

This was a new experience for the two of us, going through different channels at the passport check. Charlotte had warned us that the queues for British passports would be much longer than the “All Other Nationalities” line, so I was quite unprepared for a completely empty half of the room – I nearly got lost as I meandered my way across to the two waiting officials who glanced at my passport, stamped it, and waved me on. Peter was only moments behind me with his “settlement husband” visa to show off at one of the other counters …and we were through to the baggage carousel.

Here there was some sort of a hold-up – there were several announcements apologizing for the delay … all in English again! Such a marvel after all the other airports I have been in recently.

Then we chose the “Nothing to declare” gateway – there weren’t even any officials there to wave as we passed through into England. (This all seems remarkable to me, if that seems strange to you then I can only presume you have never entered Australia!)

Getting the bus.

We had booked a National Express coach trip to Sheffield online. We weren’t sure if we needed to, but we didn’t want to get there and find there were no seats. And then in order to allow for the possibility of the flight being late, or customs being slow … yadayadayada … we had booked a slightly later trip and we now had three hours to kill before our bus would be leaving. The time would have been considerably more enjoyable if we didn’t have a wunking great big heavy trolley full of luggage to lug around. It meant we couldn’t go far; any sorties were done by one of us at a time while the other guarded.

The bus station was not the most pleasant place, mostly because of the ear-splitting loudspeaker announcements every couple of minutes. It didn’t take long for us to be feeling really frazzled and negative about being here.

We were hungry, and concerned that we may not get another meal for a long time – our bus was due in Sheffield about 9pm. There was only a fairly pathetic little café in the bus station. So we lugged our bags back up to the airport – in a lift going down, along some long and sloping passageways, and then in another lift going up – to the crowded departure lounge in terminal 1. There was a restaurant, but it could only be accessed up some stairs – impossible with all our bags, intended for people who have just checked their bags before getting on a plane. So, back down, along, and up to the horrible bus station again.

Feeding the birds

We bought some sandwiches and coffee at the pathetic café, and sat in the bus station. Some sparrows came hopping by so we dropped a few crumbs. Soon a couple of fat pigeons came strutting by too, and were eager enough to steal the crusts Peter offered with his fingers. It all helped to pass the time more pleasantly … although the waitress came and shook her head at us when she was picking up dishes.

The bus trip

The bus trip was pleasant enough – we were enjoying watching England go by. Peter was busy taking blurry photos of the London he had never seen before. It’s changed a fair bit in 37 years for me – not that I remember it that clearly – but the changes are about the people more than the buildings. I think I saw more burkas in the streets of London than I’ve seen in Istanbul.

There were no toilet or food stops – there was a toilet on the bus, and the toilet door swung open and banged loudly ever time we went around a fast corner. The people sitting near it kept trying to jam it with tissues, but then someone would come and use it and the banging would start all over again.

I sat on the bus vaguely aware of people around me talking on mobile phones. In Turkey you are not allowed to use phones on buses, ferries etc. But what really bothered me about it was being able to hear and understand what they were saying. We’ve spent three years surrounded by mostly incomprehensible babble – I had never before realized how relaxing that can be.

Finding our new home in Sheffield – the fun part

This turned out to be the hard part.

Everybody clambered off the bus onto the pavement outside the bus station at about 9.30pm – the bus was running over half an hour late. The other passengers disappeared almost instantly, and then there was just us and our luggage in the gloom in a deserted part of town. Once again, I guarded while Peter wandered to find a taxi. He had just disappeared around a corner when I noticed a taxi in the opposite direction – the driver had caught sight of me and paused, so I waved at him and he very slowly drew up next to me. Peter came back down the street taxi-less, and so I started trying to tell the driver where we wanted to go. The man stepped out in his rather dirty beige dress – I don’t know the word for those tunic things Pakistani men wear. His English was a bit limited, but we managed to explain where we were going.

He brought us, as per the instructions we had received in an email, to the “Porter’s Lodge” of one of the university residential halls. There we were to get a key, a map, and a bedding-pack each, and then go to “Crew Flats” to find our new home.

Pete, on the desk at the Porter’s Lodge was in a mess because 15 new Asian students had just turned up days early. Nevertheless he turned aside from his task to give us our keys, forgot the map, and said the bedding should already be there. We had noticed a building marked “Crewe” on the way to the porter’s lodge, so we directed the taxi driver back there, and he dropped us off by the road.

Well, as it turned out, this wasn’t it, this was Crewe Lodge – and it was empty, so there was no one there to ask for help. We figured Crewe Flats must be somewhere nearby. Once again, I guarded the bags, and Peter wandered and searched. He disappeared up the driveway by the Lodge, and was gone for a long time.

(We couldn’t phone each other because our attempts to activate the SIM cards for our phones we bought in a vending machine at Heathrow Airport had failed for the lack of an acceptable postcode to tell the operator – probably in India – on the public phone in the noisy bus station …)

A student came by, and I asked him if he knew where Crewe Flats were. He was very nervous to talk to me – maybe because he was a foreign student and/or his English wasn’t too good – but he told me it was down the driveway where Peter had disappeared, so I waited and hoped.

It was about 10.30pm (12.30 Turkey time), and I had been up since 3am English time, just wanted somewhere to sleep. Peter finally reappeared; he hadn’t been able to find anything that our keys fitted, nothing that was labeled Crewe’s Flats.

We hailed another taxi, piled everything aboard, and went back to the porter’s lodge. This time we were helped by a different security man, Bob, a man of action who straightaway got into his own car and told the taxi to follow him. He led the way back to where we had just been searching, down the end of the dark driveway. We dragged our bags out of the taxi and paid the driver, and Peter and Bob (who didn’t seem too sure himself where it was) went looking for the door to our flat.

Getting in

There was no sign (we saw some men came and plant a sign the next day!) The rooms we were allocated are T1 and T2.



We found a door with a tiny label that read “Flat T”. But our keys didn’t fit, we needed a code. There was a code on the envelope our keys were in, but it was indistinctly written – we later realized what looked like a ‘4’ was really a ‘Y’.

Our new home

But we were finally in. We have two rooms, each with a bed and a desk. The bigger of the two rooms also has a tiny washbasin and a mirror. At the other end of the house there is a kitchen, and through that a toilet. Upstairs there are two more rooms – a Taiwanese student is occupying one – and a bathroom (well, shower and toilet.)

Bob, efficient and willing as ever, wanted to know if there was anything else we needed. I told him that I was a diabetic and our last meal had been sandwiches at the bus station, I was desperate for a bite to eat. So he took us in his car down the street a ways to a little shop. There was a restaurant there too, but being 11pm it was closing up as we arrived. So it was sandwiches again, from the 24hour “Spar” shop. We grabbed a few food items for breakfast, and waved for our third taxi of the night (yes, a third Pakistani driver) back to our room – and this time we knew where to find it.

The REAL fun

The beds are attached to the walls, can’t be moved, so we dragged the mattresses together on the floor of the large room. But there was only one bedding pack – one tiny pillow, one sheet, one doona, one towel. We were so tired, we would sleep somehow.

We trundled ourselves through the kitchen to the toilet. As we left the room we searched around for the light switch to turn the light off – neither of us could remember turning it on. (We hadn’t realized at this stage that this is one of those buildings that thinks for itself, lights turn themselves on and off as you walk around.) The only thing was a small square red box, which had no signs, warnings or explanations … Peter brushed it lightly and (to our horror) the alarm started sounding. A fire alarm!

The building is designed to be safe. Every door is marked “Fire Door. Keep Shut” and has a sturdy closer that drags it shut behind you. There are wordy signs in red and blue explaining what you should do if you “discover” a fire. Near the front door there is another small red box, but with a flap-down clear cover and a warning sign next to it.

We staggered outside along with a crowd of student from “Crewe Hall” next door, our young man from upstairs, and some from “Flat U” next to ours. They were all excited, we were just tired and jaded. Nobody seemed to have a clue what was going on, there was nothing anyone could do except wait.

The fire crews – two trucks!! – were here in about two minutes. They paid very little attention to any of us waiting around outside, just went about their business checking every part of the buildings, talking to each other in code on their walkie-talkies. They were incredibly efficient and obviously knew what they were doing, inspiring a great deal of confidence in case there ever was a real fire.

A cold night

Finally they left, though the students mostly stayed outside chatting for a while longer. I flopped into bed, but soon realized Sheffield is much colder than Istanbul. I pulled on socks, and dragged several layers of clothing out of my case. I even tried to use my winter coat to get warm. Peter made himself a pillow of clothes, and we tried to get warm under the single doona. Despite my weariness, it was an uncomfortable, shivery, restless night.

Starting work – and the longest day of all

It was Friday, and we don’t start teaching until Monday, but there was supposed to be some sort of orientation meeting sometime today – we knew neither where exactly nor what time.

I was up and about at 4am, nervous and restless. I wandered upstairs and had a soap-less shower – we hadn’t bought any yet – and by 7am I just wanted to go outside and explore a bit. Peter was awake by then and pulled on some clothes to join me – we would walk back down to where Bob had driven us the night before.

There were a number of things we needed to get done – not the least of which was to find a bank to deposit the money we were carrying around. So we wandered – and eventually we hailed a taxi and got him to help us find a suitable bank. The bank wouldn’t let us open an account without a letter proving our living address. So we needed to find our way to the university and get that letter. And anyway, there was that orientation thing.

It’s great being in a country where they speak English and you can ask for directions! We managed to catch a “Supertram” to the “University” stop, but Sheffield is a University City – the Uni has purchased buildings all over town – so then we wandered about a bit until we discovered the ELT Centre where we will be working. Richard, the man who had phoned and invited us here happened to meet and recognize us on the doorstep, and took us in … just in time for Orientation, the other new teachers would be there any minute.

Ah well, breakfast could wait. We were carrying a shopping bag with soap and shampoo (for the showers we had been planning to have before breakfast before going to the work meeting …) and a packet of muesli bars (we were excited to notice them in the shop after not seeing anything like that in China and Turkey), so we munched on a bar each with the coffee Richard offered.

Then there was a staff meeting with all the other teachers (not just the new ones) and a drinks-in-the-garden celebration for the centre passing a recent inspection. As we still hadn’t managed to catch up to our breakfast time, we had a sip of wine to be sociable and because we needed to hang around to get our letter.

We went back into the office and got our letter, and then found our way back to the bank – Sadie, the lady we had spoken to there the first time had promised she would be available until five, and it was three now. But she wasn’t, she was at a meeting “for the next two hours”. They gave us directions to get to another nearby branch …

The opening an account interview session took nearly two hours – we munched on another muesli bar in one of the many intervals when our man said “Will you excuse me for just a moment …” and left us in the booth.

Banking finished, 4.30 in the afternoon … surely now we could go and eat? But what if the shops all close in the next few minutes – this is not Istanbul where things are open till late. We waited a little longer while we purchased a couple of essential items. Then finally we went into Macca’s – first time since China! – for a bite to eat.

Barbecue and bed

We couldn’t work out if any buses went our way, and we had had enough taxis for a day or two … so we walked. It takes about 25 minutes.

They told us that there would be a barbecue at 6.30 over at the hall where we got the keys – good chance to meet some students, pick up a second bedding pack, and have some free food.

We were already a little late, but we went, we socialized, we ate a little, and then we found our way back to our room.

With a doona each, and a long, long day behind us, we were fast asleep by 8. Sleeep!