3 Hours in Istanbul

I've got three hours. Tell me your life story. How well could you know a person in three hours? I can usually tell if I'm going to like a person in about three minutes, but I still learn new things about my husband after ten years of marriage. For better or worse, in the rain and after an exhausting girl-trip to Europe, I had a three hour window into Istanbul, Turkey and I took the chance.

Not one for planning ahead, I texted a few friends who had recently visited the city, asking for their recommendations as I waited in line at the visa desk. My coveted blue passport was all the credentials needed for entry into the country. Yusra, my traveling partner with the ugly green passport, was not trusted outside the confines of Istanbul International Airport: A dirty terrorist whose civilization once ruled the world with technology so advanced for its time they were thought to be aliens from another galaxy. Today, their hand-written official documents denote a fall from grace and long, boring stays in airport cafes while their friends go exploring. I did let her borrow my new Neil Gaiman book.

$20 and a what looked like a 1994 postage stamp in my passport and I was on my way to The Blue Mosque... as soon as I figure out how to get there. The only map I could find at the airport was an Istanbul shopping guide with all the luxury brand outlets marked with color coded circles. No good. Where's a Metro map? The lone white-girl tourist turning an over-sized map clockwise in 90 degree increments at the arrivals area must have been a sight for sore tour company eyes.

"You looking.... for what?"

"The Blue Mosque." Question marked face in response. "In English we say Blue Mosque."

"Come, come. My friend, he have shuttle bus. Free for you. Come."

It wasn't a shuttle bus and it wasn't free, but it was a guaranteed taxi ride to the touristic center of town, Sultan Ahmet, and the Blue Mosque. The taxi driver, Mustafa, was born and raised in Istanbul. Fighting through a formidable language barrier, he pointed out the significant landmarks on our twenty-minute drive to Sultan Ahmet; the protective wall that still stands around the city, the fish market and the "other side" of the city where I should never visit. Mustafa dropped me off in the parking lot between Istanbul's two most famous mosques.

"Eight-o'clock. Here. Taxi to airport." I put the receipt for my prepaid return ride in the left breast pocket of my jacket and pulled up my hood. I had forgotten my trusty green floral umbrella in Yusra's backpack... secure at the airport.

As a gray dusk settled around the mosque I stepped carefully along the wet marble stones made slick from the wear of so many feet visiting this spot before my trusty Converse ever left their box - before the poor parents of the poor kids who made my Converse were even born. It was prayer time and I stood outside the courtyard, eating a banana and watching men of all ages roll up their sleeves and pant legs in the damp cold to wash before entering through the ancient doors.
"Bon appetit." A man in a rain coat with an umbrella called from behind me. "Where are your friends? Don't you remember me, from yesterday?"

"No. Not me. Sorry." The hecklers had noticed I was alone. It was time to move on. A building built before rain gutters has no concern for protecting visitors from water balloon sized rain bombs as they pass through arches and doorways. I was getting soaked and it was now too dark for sight seeing. Time for one last beer before Kuwait.

"Hello. Do you speak English? Can I talk to you for a while?" Another man with an umbrella followed me across the street. "I just want to practice talking English. I not selling anything."

"Find another tourist," I said without eye contact.

Walking up the hill from the Blue Mosque was a veritable buffet of foreigner delights: restaurants with their pictured menus displayed in lighted cases facing the sidewalk, hand-made jewelery shops selling earrings and barrettes, falafel stands and rug stores. Everyone wanted to know where I was from and if I would like to take an authentic Turkish souvenir back there. I was not afraid or offended at their forwardness; it was their job to hassle me and it was my job to ignore them or coyly decline.

In a quiet corner a man sat under a work light, cutting pieces of metal into the beautiful jewelery pieces on display. He looked contently busy, unconcerned with the passing of a red-haired American. I took a step closer to some sparkly green and red drop earrings.

"There are more inside," he said without looking up. He kept his head down, but smiled as I pushed back my hood and stuffed my gloves in a jacket pocket. I bought several pairs and he agreed to let me take his picture. Nice old man.

A few blocks farther and I found a shop selling glass lamps like the ones I'd been searching for, without success, at Kuwait's Friday Market. The owner of the store was a young Turkish man who spoke Turkish, English, Spanish and Portuguese. He offered me green baklava covered in clear sugar syrup as we tested the light from different lamps.

"How old are you?" He wanted to know after I told him how many years I'd been married. He was several years younger and looked visibly disappointed with both discoveries. Regaining his graciousness after giving me a long hard look, he offered me an apple tea and his thoughts on bearing children. I paid for my two lamps with a combination of US dollars, Euros and Turkish liras and waited while he ran to a neighboring shop for change.

Also waiting under his glass lamps was a girl, about my age, who had just moved to Istanbul from Rio de Janeiro to write for the Star Tribune. We talked about working in journalism and living abroad and my plan to fly helicopters. For a second I thought of inviting her to join me for dinner and a brew, but changed my mind. I get tired of telling my life story in abbreviated Q&A and thirty minutes of saying nothing sounded nice.

The rain had softened. Rug vendors and jewelery makers were packing up their genuine authentic Turkish wares as I retreated towards The Blue Mosque. A few called to "come look," but their pleas lacked enthusiasm. They passed their verbal torch to the restaurant hecklers and the relay to win foreigner's business got a second wind. I chose a nearly empty restaurant with with pictures of beer bottles I didn't recognize.

The dinner was good. The beer was better and it was time to go. Down the hill, across the street to the parking lot between the city's two most famous mosques; I searched for my return ride receipt from the left breast pocket of my jacket. A taxi's headlights blinked at me and I smiled at a familiar face.

"Hello Mustafa." I tossed my backpack and lamps in the backseat. "Do you mind if I sit in the front?"