We’d never flown Turkish Airlines before. A few weeks before the flight, I called their Chicago customer service line to confirm our seats. From the ruckus in the background of the conversation, I swear I was connected to a barn somewhere in rural Turkey. “WHAT? MY CONFIRMATION NUMBER? IT’S R… 5… NO, R… R AS IN ROGER…!”
Boarding our flight, however, we felt any lingering concerns melt away. See for yourself.
The food was luxurious, too, in an airline food sort of way. Chef Karen was intrigued by the onboard chef, or flight attendant in chef’s clothing (he wasn’t cooking anything up there in first class… was he?). At any time during the flight, we could stop by the galley for a beverage or snack.
Thanks to seatback entertainment screens and attentive crew members, the ten-hour flight passed in
no time a tolerable amount of time. We basked in the Downton Abbeyesque civility of it all, until we landed in Istanbul. And then this happened.
What’ll it be, Istanbul? The Earl of Grantham or the unruly mob?
Let’s go see.