I’d had an idea of the ridiculous state of ticket pricing in our tourist spots and museums from when I was taking my foreign friends around. I’d often end up feeling embarrassed about telling them they have to pay 10 dollars to get in, whereas I only have to pay 1 or 2 because I’m Turkish. But then just when they think they’re in to see the museum, I have to painfully remind them that they still have to buy more tickets, one to see one part of the museum, another to see another part… So all in all, amid baffled expressions, they would end up forking out 25-30 dollars to see a museum – which, for my poor backpacking friends, was pretty much their daily allowance, including food. By the time we were going through the gates, everyone’s previous look of excited expectation had turned into those of stunned lab animals that had just been anally probed with a metal rod. Then there’s that awkward silence as they look stupidly at their handful of tickets, and then at each other, trying to figure out what just happened. It’s like jackals had taken over and established their own rules, laughing maliciously as we entered.
So on a similar occasion, my two new visiting friends and I set off for Dolmabahçe Palace. It was Sunday, and as soon as we got there we found ourselves at the end of a 20-meter-long queue that twisted and wound its way to one tiny ticket booth with a little guy in it selling tickets all by his lonesome. There was another ticket booth next to it, but I guess they don’t open that until the queue stretches out to Inönü Stadium. So we stood there under the punishing sun, proceeding so slowly it was like we were in a midget chain-gang, one foot shuffling two inches at a time before the other. Our progress was not aided any by the scavenging tour guides with furtive vulture eyes who would pounce on their prey and then cut into the front of the line, get their prey tickets, and then flap away with the green blood of tourist dollars on their moustachioed beaks.
After about a 25-minute wait, we finally found ourselves near the front of the queue. We saw that every person buying tickets would take minutes at a time. When we saw the sign next to the booth outlining all the permutations and algorithms of the ticket purchasing process, we found out why. It was like you not only had to get a ticket for every part of the museum, but you also had to buy extra tickets for taking photos or filming with cameras, and so on. But it was too late; we were now standing in front of the vacant-eyed ticket attendant fumbling with a wad of sweaty liras…
“Three: one Turk, two foreigners,” I offered.
“Three what? What do you want to see?”
“Everything, why?”
“You need more tickets.”
“But we’re only three.”
“That’s right, so you need… 9 tickets.”
“Why?”
“You need a ticket for the Haremlik, a ticket for the Selamlık, a ticket for the clock museum, another one for the glass house…”
“So then we need 12.”
“12?”
“Yes, 4 each, 12.”
“Okay, 12.”
“So how much?”
“12.”
“No, how much money for each one?”
“It depends, 16 lira for Haremlik, 12 for Selamlık, 1.50 for the clocks, 1.50 for the…”
“Okay, okay, so how much for all four, per person, then we’ll times that by three...?”
“…”
“Okay, forget it, that makes 31 million lira each,” I said, exhausted.
“What? How many dollars is that?” cried out one of my friends.
“Okay then 31 lira each… but you’re Turkish, right?” said the ticket seller.
“Yes, yes, I forgot. How much for me?”
“Um let’s see… You pay…”
“Wait,” interjected the other friend, “you pay less?”
“Yeah, I’m Turkish, 31 for you guys, and…”
“Hang on,” said one friend, “that’s a lot, how about I just see half?”
“Yeah, me to,” said the other. “You see half, I’ll see half, we can tell each other about it and swap photos!”
“You want to take photos? That’s 6 more lira,” said the ticket guy. People were sighing and clearing their throats more and more audibly behind us.
“What!? Another 6 to take photos!? I’ll leave my camera here.”
“We don’t look after your personal belongings.”
“So then we HAVE TO take it in? This is ridiculous!”
“STOP!” I shouted. “Here’s how it is: you don’t want to spend too much, so you see the best bits, that is the Harem, so you guys cough up 16 lira each for Harem tickets, and check out the grounds and gardens too. Now you don’t want to take your cameras so leave them with me, I’ll wait out here by the clock tower. Actually, while you’re at it, it says here that for 2 YTL you can get a joint clock museum/glass chamber/gallery entrance too, so grab that…”
“That’s only on public days,” said the ticket seller. “And for Turks…”
“OKAY, scrap that! Just go in, see the XXXXing Harem, I’ll wait here…”
“Wait,” said one friend, “I wouldn’t mind seeing the clock museum, I always liked clocks…”
“ALRIGHT, you buy the clock museum ticket for 1.50…” I felt like I was in a Monty Python sketch.
“Me too, we may as well see it togeth…”
“FOR GOD’S SAKE, JUST GO IN!”
We finally turned to the ticket booth one last time panting, sweating and frustrated, holding out a stack of money, but the ticket seller was gone. There was not even a sign. I asked some guy who sort of looked like he may have worked there. He said “Closed for lunch till 1:30.”
Now I know why people become anarchists.
