Istanbul

Istanbul - Day 9

I had an uncomfortable night sleeping on what felt like a deflated waterbed, all the squish with none of the comfort. The house had finally quieted down around 2am but by 6am I was wide awake, roused by the call to prayer and a flood of blinding sunlight through the non-entity drapes.

The day hadn’t started well. My tea was purple. I’d poured what I thought was milk, but it turned out to be a very thin yogurt that curdled on contact. The only other option was vegan milk, gifted by the Frenchies, which transformed my tea into a glowering lavender brew that tasted faintly sweet. Not awful. But definitely not tea at the Ritz.

As I headed off to Sultanahmet, I remembered Leila saying today was Republic Day in Turkey—a national holiday full of street festivals and celebrations. A perfect day for a wander toward the Blue Mosque.

I grabbed some cash from an ATM on the main drag in Laleli and found myself being watched by a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a circus sideshow. Wiry, with sharp eyes and a splendid imperial mustache, he stood outside a Turkish Delight shop, ladling fragrant steaming tea from a copper pot. He tipped his chin at me and asked,

“Where from, my friend? India?”

“England.”

“Please try, come?” he beckoned.

I accepted a small glass of tea—fragrant, rose-tinted, warm. Pomegranate! It soothed my chest like a liquid hug. Seeing my inner joy, he clasped my arm and led me into the shop like royalty. He offered tea after tea like a magician with a new trick every minute—eucalyptus for congestion (it blasted my sinuses clear), saffron for health (not great), and others I couldn’t keep track of.

As a shop assistant packaged my pomegranate blend, he offered me a “special” Turkish Delight, which was so dangerously addictive I ate three pieces on the spot—nutty, jelly-like cubes that melted in my mouth like sugared velvet.

“You married?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“I have very good tea like Viagra to make you very strong!” he grinned, pumping his fist in the air before slapping me on the back, nearly sending the last Turkish Delight flying.

“I have great tea to help lose weight too!”

He said, patting my belly like an old uncle at a wedding. Before I could protest, he whipped out a lipstick-shaped stick, lifted my hat, and smeared some potent balm across my forehead.

“Tomorrow morning, your head will feel amazing!” he beamed.

“What is that?” I asked, fumbling to pay, already feeling a strange warmth under my hat.

“Have a lovely day! Come back, my friend!”

I stepped outside into the midday sun, dazed, with my bag of tea and sweets, when the burning began. My scalp was on fire. I tried not to panic while the heat spread like a slow-motion explosion under my hat. I pictured myself walking through the plaza like a cartoon matchstick, head smoking, flames licking skyward. I yanked my hat off and staggered to a shady bench, trying to act casual while my head threatened combustion. Thankfully the burn slowly receded and I cooled down. Panic over! 

Broken ankle or toe? Which would be worse, I wondered, tiptoeing between potholes and chunky pyramid-shaped barriers planted at every corner like booby traps for pedestrians distracted by the countless vendors who lined the streets, selling roasted corn, chestnuts, steaming tea, and sesame-coated simit.

At Sultanahmet, the tourist hordes were in full force—bus tours and selfie sticks galore—setting off my reluctant tourist radar. I perched on a bench by the fountain, watching fathers explain the significance of the Blue Mosque’s six minarets to wide-eyed children through the mist while a tabby cat and I wondered what it was all about. 

I decided it was lunchtime. This happens often around the time I become bored of sightseeing. In search of a bite I took a detour down a tiny side street bustling with hungry locals scanning menus, shaded by red and white candy striped canopies. On offer were a variety of skewered meats and an abundance of pungent durums (sandwiches) packed with grilled mackerel. 

I chose a spot that had glowing reviews, but the staff were in the middle of an intense meditation on lunch. Ten awkward minutes passed—no water, no menu, no human contact. I started to wonder if I’d become a ghost, haunting a kebab joint. Then a waiter breezed in, strolled right past me like I was part of the furniture and handed menus to a table of locals. Eventually, a waitress appeared and dropped a menu on my table with the enthusiasm of someone delivering a parking ticket. I left.

It would have been easy to take the rejection personally. Me, obviously a foreigner with brown skin. Them, loyal to locals and unwilling to welcome tourists like me. I blamed it on the ancient art of Turkish indifference and found a busy corner spot selling chicken dürüm. The table I snagged was beside two Kiwi lads pounding beers and devouring durums in record time. I chose a chicken wrap for the princely sum of three dollars. It was perfect—juicy, spicy chicken wrapped tightly in a warm flatbread.

Meat wraps had become the ideal meal. Cheap, quick, not too heavy, and—if you squinted at the salad—pretty healthy. Plus, they spared me the awkwardness of dining alone in a proper restaurant. In New York, that’s practically a rite of passage. Sit at the bar, order something artisanal, and gaze meaningfully into the distance, or at your phone—everyone assumes you're a writer, an artist, or at least emotionally unavailable in an intriguing way. But here? Abroad? I wasn’t sure if the same rules applied. I worried I looked less “mysterious raconteur” and more “lonely man in search of lentil soup and wife.”

Kebabs Forever!

A Turkish bath—hammam—was high on my list. Alex had recommended it, and, although it had similar traits to a spa, I refused to think of it as one—because of Spar! I set off to find the one he’d suggested in earnest but when I arrived at the address, the place didn’t seem to exist. I paced back and forth, phone in hand, aligning my little blue dot with the building. Nothing.

Then a man appeared, doing exactly what I had just done. I watched him mirror my behavior—back and forth, phone out, squinting up at the signs. Finally, I called out:

“You looking for the hammam?”
“Yes!” he said, throwing up his hands and smacking his forehead in defeat. We laughed. Then he walked off in frustration.

My feet were aching, so I surrendered to the inviting sign of Hafiz Mustafa—a beloved spot for Turkish sweets. Neat rows of tables basked in the afternoon sun, and I took a seat, grateful for the warmth on my face. I ordered a mastic rice pudding and a glass of tea. The pudding was creamy, sticky, cold, and rich—washed down with hot tea, it was the perfect hot/cold, savory/sweet combo.

Mastic Rice Pudding

On my way back, I decided to try another hammam, determined to cross it off my list. This one was tucked away in the sub-basement of a small hotel. I felt like I was heading somewhere slightly illicit, spiraling down two narrow flights into a dimly lit nook where a shifty-looking man and woman sat behind a makeshift counter.

The woman handed me a leaflet with prices. I pointed to the full hammam experience. She said:

“Fifty dollars.” I pulled out my phone.

“Cash only.”

I frowned and asked where the nearest ATM was.

“No problem,” she said with a smile. “You do service first. He’ll come with you to ATM after.”

She gestured to the man, who nodded like this was a perfectly reasonable arrangement.

Hmmm.

Why was he so keen to escort me to a cash machine?

I told her I’d go to the ATM now and save her partner the trouble. But once I found one, I stood there, card in hand… and got cold feet. It all felt a bit too “backroom body scrub hustle.” I didn’t want to end up clean but penniless.

I headed home for a siesta.

When I woke up, I made a cuppa with the now Alex-approved vegan milk and saw Leila in the hallway. We chatted about my almost-hammam experience and I mentioned taking a little evening stroll to find a bite. Leila suggested a place called Balat—“definitely worth a visit,” she said.

I was still a bit knackered, but also excited to explore so I took her advice and set off, passing through a vibrant nearby neighbourhood buzzing with cafés and restaurants. I made a mental note to return for food on the way back, hopefully somewhere with a credit card machine.

Kedi

Balat wasn’t just a place, it was a vast bustling neighborhood. But once I stepped into the side streets, it was eerily quiet, the terrain plunged dramatically down toward the Bosphorus. Block after block of pastel-painted houses stood shoulder to shoulder on slick cobbled streets that looked charming until you tried walking on them. It was dark, steep and empty. Cats patrolled the streets, eyeing me with indifference as I picked the safest route to avoid tripping and rolling downhill in a spiral of broken limbs.

Eventually, I reached a livelier street at the bottom lined with cafes, but it was underwhelming. I wandered into a small park and tried to figure out a way home. I didn’t have the IstanbulKart app or enough cash, but Leila had mentioned that buses were free on national holidays, so I chanced it and jumped on my one, which I thought was headed in the right direction.

Ten minutes later I had no idea where I was. I asked the man next to me if the bus was going to Fatih.

“No, wrong bus,” he said. I got up to leave.

But he tapped me on the shoulder and motioned for me to stay seated then pointed at his chest indicating: I help.

Ten minutes later, we were even further off course. I asked again. He raised his palm, calm as a monk. I’ve got you.

I was starting to feel uneasy— I’d just entrusted a stranger with my fate. I sized him up: about my height, younger, maybe late thirties, dark hair and eyes, bearded, wearing a puffer jacket. He must’ve sensed my nerves because he turned, palm raised in reassurance, then checked the front of the bus. When he looked back, his expression said: Patience.
I stayed put. Anxious, but trusting.

Soon, we were swallowed by the sounds of a massive concert. The streets buzzed—people singing, flags waving, fireworks echoing off buildings. We’d arrived in the heart of a Republic Day celebration.

We slipped into the crowd, dodging dancers and revellers, Turkish flags flickered above like a red and white sky. On a side street, away from the mayhem, we picked up the pace toward the correct bus stop.

In quiet gestures and broken English, we swapped stories.
He pointed to his ring finger. Married?
I nodded.
He mimed a child on his hip. Kids?
I shook my head.
He smiled wide, tapped his chest and declared proudly, “Me free!”

He offered me a cigarette. I declined. He lit one anyway, cupping it from the breeze, never breaking stride. I learnt he had three sisters and worked in textiles. He was kind, warm—and walked like he was late for everything. I was huffing and puffing trying to keep up. He turned, saw me struggling, and laughed.

As we rounded a corner, he pointed to a hospital. I looked up—and immediately smashed my toe on one of those cursed pyramid barriers. I let out a yelp.
He pointed at the hospital with a grin. Want to go in?

I waved him off, laughing.

At the bus stop, I thanked him. He pointed at the LED sign. My bus: 5 minutes away. I told him he didn’t need to wait. He shrugged, lit another cigarette, and stayed.

His name was Mesut. I told him mine. We shook hands.

And just like that, he was gone—and I was on my way home. I felt all Blanche DuBois.

Back at the house, I made tea and offered biscuits to Alex and Mil. Alex declined—they weren’t vegan. I sighed.

“This,” I said, “might be the best part of my day.” They laughed.

“Spoken like a true Englishman,” Mil said. 

“Well,” I replied, raising my cup, “Where there’s tea, there’s hope.”