Prostitutes, Drugs, and a Magic Vest

By Dave Fox

I was pissed off at myself and everyone around me.

After nearly three months of travel, alone, on a ridiculously tight budget, I was sick of being politically correct. I had been ripped off – twice in two hours. And not knowing what else to do, I blamed the Turks. I blamed the entire country because in a city of 10 million, two people had cheated me out of about eight US dollars. I hated myself for my bigotry. I hated everyone else because they were there to hate. My flu was bad and my nerves were frazzled. I had a nasty case of traveler's burnout. I looked forward to leaving in the morning.

The Istanbul youth hostel was my sterile oasis, where I could sit with other foreigners when I felt too overwhelmed by carpet sellers and shoe-shiners to deal with reality. It was where I planned to spend my last 24 hours, drinking beer and whining about my fever until it came time to find the airport. I had just one more thing to do. I wanted a shirt.

I had seen these shirts hanging in shops. They were cotton, with a gray or white base, and colored lines that faded in and out in bright but gentle hues. The coloring process vaguely resembled batik, but the straight, vertical lines, and the buttons and collars, gave them a formal look. I had never seen anything like them. I liked them enough to brave the chaos one last time.

Halfway to the Grand Bazaar, I changed my mind. The bazaar was too hectic for someone in my mood. Instead, I turned down a side street, to a residential neighborhood sheltered from the touristic mess. It was a street of nondescript apartment blocks with no shopkeepers to hassle me. My mind could settle here. It was where I needed to be.

An old man swept the steps in front of his apartment. I studied his face as I approached. His skin was coarse with age, but he seemed content. He turned when he heard my footsteps. Quickly, insecure, I cast my eyes down. But in that brief moment, it registered. The man had just smiled. And I had turned away. I looked up at him again. He was watching me. Still smiling. Not the vulturous grin of so many shopkeepers. A warm, friendly glow. A look that said, "You look tired, friend."

I forced a smile and his eyes brightened.

Had I looked sad? Or did he smile at everyone who passed his way? In my paranoia, had I run from the smiles of others?

"Hello," I said shyly, wishing I had learned more Turkish.

He nodded reassuringly. I felt almost human again.

A few minutes later, I came to a small bazaar. The old man's smile was still resonating in me, and for once, I didn't feel threatened as the sales pitches began. A carpet salesman ran from his shop and grabbed me. "Hey, man, where are you from? Iceland?" He was looking at my shirt from the Hard Rock Café in Reykjavík. "I love Iceland!"

I knew the drill. "No. America."

"America? I love America!"

"Yeah." I smiled cynically.

"You want to buy a flying carpet?"

"No. I can't."

"Come on!" He was smiling. He wasn't trying to rip me off. He was trying to make a living. And he was making a game of it. He sounded like a friend in the States, trying to drag me to a party when I wasn't in the mood. Only we weren't going to drink beers. We were going to negotiate carpet prices. He was still grabbing my arm. "I give you a good price. Special for you."

"I can't carry it. I'm traveling with a backpack."

"We can ship. Anywhere in the world. To America!"

"I don't have any money."

"You have plastic card?"

"No!" I tried to dislodge his fingers from my arm. "I'm sorry. I can't buy a carpet."

"Okay," he said. "What is your name?"

"My name's Dave."

"Welcome to Turkey, Dave. Perhaps when you are older, you have more money. Come to my shop. I sell you carpet."

"Okay."

I shook his hand and walked on. He had just been friendly. Pushy, but friendly. I didn't have to snarl. And he didn't snarl back when I gave him my final no. Had he been different from the others? Or was it my attitude? In my fear of getting cheated, I had turned every shopkeeper into a loathsome monster.

It was time to meet Bahadir for lunch. Bahadir had been an exchange student at my high school several years earlier, and we had kept in touch. I went back to the hostel to wait for him. The little shop in the hostel courtyard had clothes for sale.

I combed through a rack of vests, colored in the same style as the shirts. There was one that looked okay – gray with orange and pine green. It didn't thrill me though. I could find better.

Bahadir was a tour guide. He had escaped his group long enough to eat with me. We scarfed down several plates of "köfte" – spicy Turkish meatballs. Then we walked for a while. I stopped when I found the shirts I was looking for.

"Oh, you don't want that," Bahadir said. "That's not fashionable."

"What do you mean?"

"That hippie shit?"

"Hippie shit? What are you talking about?"

"Oh, come on," he said, pulling me away.

We walked a little longer until he had to get back to work. I wouldn't see him again until morning.

I started back toward the hostel, wanting a nap. I was still dizzy with fever.

I passed a guy in a hippie shit shirt.

Okay, so maybe they weren't the rage in the Istanbul fashion scene, but I wanted one. I turned toward the market and walked briskly, almost running.

I got less than two blocks when a young boy jumped out of a leather shop.

"Hey man, where are you from?"

I just wanted to buy my shirt and take my nap. "America," I groaned.

"America? Where in America?"

The question threw me. Usually they just said they loved America and tried to sell me something.

"Wisconsin," I said. "Near Chicago."

"Oh yeah," he said, enthusiastically. "I'm from New York, man!"

"You're from New York?" I was amused. His accent was impressive, but this kid was not a New Yorker.

"Yeah, man. You know Greenwich Village?"

Greenwich Village? How did he know Greenwich Village?

"Yeah."

"White Plains?"

"Look," I said. "Be honest. You're not from New York."

"No," he confessed. He lowered his eyes in defeat, but his smile remained.

"But you've lived there?"

"Yes." His face sparkled again and he looked up.

"Your English is great," I said. "How old are you?"

"Fifteen." He took my hand. "Come to my shop."

"No. I don't have any money."

"You don't have to buy anything. Just come talk." He led me up a narrow staircase to the second floor. The pungent scent of leather hit me as we went inside. Jackets and pants, skirts and hats, anything that could be tooled from leather hung on the walls. The room was carpeted with ornate rugs. Three adults chatted in a corner. Another tried to sell jackets to a German couple.

The boy brought two glasses of apple tea.

"How long did you live in America?" I asked between sips.

"You want the truth?" he asked. He held up his hand, forming a circle with his thumb and index finger. I stared, confused.

"Zero," he said.

"What?"

"I've never been there. How's my accent?"

As skeptical as I was of his claim to be American, I was equally skeptical he had never been there. His English was too good. But it was true. Ali had only studied English for four years, but he practiced every chance he got. He had a pen pal in White Plains. He watched American movies, mimicking accents until he mastered them. His dream was to go to America.

He told me about his family, his school, his work in the leather shop. We talked for a half hour or so. As I got up to leave, I told him about the shirt I wanted. He pointed me toward Aya Sofia Cathedral, where he said I'd find a good bazaar.

I passed shops where the day before, I had had to fight off salespersons, and move briskly so as not to show any interest. This afternoon, there was no pressure. I could gaze. I could touch the merchandise. If I wanted help, they'd help me. If I didn't, they'd go away. It was odd. A new and eerie calm had settled over the city. Or was it within myself?

Several blocks later, I found the bazaar. I was about to turn the corner to look for my shirt when I spotted something much more inviting – a small side street – a narrow passageway into unexplored Istanbul. I had no idea where it led. All I knew was there would be no tourists.

I slipped through the gateway. Two boys, maybe eight years old, ran toward me. "Hello, mister!" one shouted.

"Hello," I replied shyly, and he came to shake my hand. I held my hand out. But he was waiting for something more. He craned his neck, like he had a secret to whisper. As I leaned down, he kissed me on both cheeks, the way Turkish men greet old friends. His buddy was hanging back a safe distance, laughing hysterically. I waved goodbye and walked deeper.

This little neighborhood was perfectly undiscovered – two blocks from the tourist-clogged streets, but so different. Foreigners never bothered to walk here. For more than a week, I'd missed this place. This was the Istanbul I had been looking for. Gray-haired men with bushy mustaches filled the corner tea shop. Pudgy women with head scarves gossiped on the sidewalk. People eyed me suspiciously. It wasn't a hostile suspicion, but bewilderment. I wasn't one of them. Was I lost?

The smiles I'd received earlier were multiplying inside me. If someone stared for more than a moment, I would smile at them. Sometimes, they smiled back.

Apartments stood three or four stories high. Most were a drab cement-gray. Laundry hung from open windows. Some buildings were flaking away, ready for a sneeze to knock them down. This was a poor part of town in a city of 10 million. In America, I thought, I would not feel safe in such a neighborhood. But here I felt very alive.

Down the street, a soccer match was heating up between two packs of kids. I tried to walk around them, but as I passed, they lost interest in the ball. I became their entertainment. Adults were too timid to approach, but the children, in their innocent curiosity, swarmed around me. Some tested their couple of phrases of English. Others just stared, tagging along for awhile, then retreating.

I wanted to really meet these people, and I knew I couldn't. Our lives were too distant. A sincere desire to understand them felt patronizing. Their reality surrounded me, but I couldn't comprehend it.

The streets had no organization. No tidy rows of blocks; just a winding maze that ran like a river where it pleased. I couldn't dive too deep. As much as I wanted to, I couldn't get lost here. The sun was low in the sky. The afternoon prayer call would begin soon. I decided I should start winding my way back to the familiar tourist oasis I'd been restrained in all week long.

It was 6:30 now. Most of the shops were still open. I had a powerful feeling of peace in this once-intimidating city now. All it had taken was a few smiles and a walk through a quieter neighborhood. I scolded myself for wasting so much time in this sprawling city. I should have gone to smaller towns days before.

As I entered more familiar territory, my serenity suddenly shattered. I was passing another carpet shop when the owner pounced. He grabbed my shoulders and shook me. "Where you from?!" he demanded.

I stared, dumbfounded, trying to decide whether to stay and chat or run like hell. He was smaller than me, and spindly. He wore an old, pastel green T-shirt and jeans. His hair was messy. He had a wound up look in his eyes and a mangy beard. His feet were bare.

"America," I answered, hesitantly.

"America! I love America! Come into my shop!" he barked.

"I have no money," I resisted, but he dragged me in.

"You don't have to buy anything! I am Ali! Drink some tea! Sit here!" He threw me to the ground, onto a rolled up carpet that doubled as a bench. Another guy watched lethargically, curled in the corner.

Was this another scam? Three times in one day?

"Are you crazy?" he asked in a thick accent.

"Am I crazy? No."

"That's too bad. We're crazy. This is my cousin. You want çay? Tea?" His splintered English came out faster than I could think.

"Uh, yeah. Sure." I answered. I was suspicious, but my curiosity held me there. Ali darted back into the street.

I looked around, trying to assess things. I was by the window. A big, plate glass window. They weren't going to try anything where everyone could see us, were they? The door was wide open. I could run at any time. I might not get far, but at least far enough to make myself seen. If these guys wanted to rob me, they were being pretty stupid about it. I didn't know whether to trust my suspicion. Letting my guard down had made my day a lot more pleasant, but I knew not to get complacent. Ali moved fast, asking question after question. My instincts were clashing, but it felt wrong to try to leave. Maybe I was about to get nailed again. Or maybe I had just become the guest of honor in a Turkish carpet shop.

It was a small shop – about 10 by 15 feet, dimly lit with lights around the ceiling. Carpets hung from every wall. Some were brand new, others decades old. The room had almost no furniture. Just one small table a foot and a half high that supported a large boombox and a shoe box full of tapes. Def Leppard was blaring.

Ali ran back in and fidgeted with the stereo. He sat down. Jumped up. Walked around the room. Looked out the door. Sat down again.

A small boy appeared with tea and I took my glass.

"You want a smoke?" Ali's cousin offered, holding out a pack of Marlboros. He was a lot calmer than Ali.

"No thanks," I said. When offered, I smoked in Turkey. It was the social thing to do, but my throat was too sore for nicotine.

"You don't smoke?" Ali asked.

"Not very often."

My refusal was taken as a polite no rather than a real no.

"But really, you can smoke now," Ali prompted. His cousin nodded, arm still extended with the cigarettes.

I had been sick for two weeks with a dry, hacking cough. "No thanks," I said again.

"It's okay," his cousin persisted. "Really. You can have one."

"Thanks, but I'm sick right now."

"You are sick?" Ali asked.

"Yes. Sore throat." I rubbed my neck below my chin.

"Oh," Ali said. "I'm very sorry." Then he asked me to repeat the word, "throat," three more times to register it in his vocabulary.

Ali scrounged the shop for show-and-tell items, and I began to relax. His photo album was full of cars and friends. Proudly, he showed me an English paperback – a short play by Shakespeare. "So I can learn better English," he said.

I couldn't help laughing. "I'm sorry," I said. "But you're never going to learn English if you read that."

"I know. I know. It's just a gift. How's my accent?"

"It's great," I lied.

His next show-and-tell item was a Turkish translation of the Bible. "Turkey is a Muslim country," he announced. As if I hadn't noticed the mosques on every corner. "But I got this book from an American man. I'm very interested in the Christian religion. Are you Christian? What are you?"

"Well, it's a bit complicated...."

"No, it's okay. It's okay," he interrupted. "If you're not... or... are you... do you like Christian?... Or... Turkey is a Muslim country.... Do you like music?"

It was an abrupt change of subject only someone speaking a foreign language could get away with.

Over the next hour, Ali's true motive became clear. It was the same reason the younger Ali had befriended me in the leather shop earlier. He wanted to practice his English. He was 20 years old. The shop was his own – a gift from his father. His father was a wealthy man with shops all over Istanbul. He had given this little one to Ali to expose him to the tourist trade. Here, Ali was to speak English with the stream of foreigners who drifted through each day. Next year, Ali said, he would move to America, where he would cement his English. Then he'd come back to Istanbul to peddle in the Grand Bazaar with the best of them.

"I work very hard," he said. "Sometimes late at night if people come." But work for him was a game. He had fun – hanging out, drinking tea with his friends, dragging in unsuspecting foreigners when he felt up to it. I doubt he knew how much he did for the travelers he accosted. Bringing them in here for an hour to chat did so much more than plopping them on a tour bus and herding them around all the tourist sites.

A heavy set guy appeared at the door, and an excited dialogue began in Turkish. Ali jumped up again and ran outside. Immediately, he ran back in.

"There is a prostitute outside!" he exclaimed. He waited for me to respond.

"Oh."

"I have to fix it for my brother. I am carpet salesman. I am good businessman."

He ran outside again.

He ran back in.

"No, no!" he said. "I am not peemp. You must not think I am peemp. You know what peemp is?"

"Yeah. I know what a pimp is."

"I am not peemp. I just fix for my brother. I am better talker."

He ducked behind a curtain that separated the shop from a back room. I could see him washing his face and combing his hair. "You like Turkish girl?" he yelled as he groomed himself.

I froze. Was he asking me if I liked Turkish girls, or if I'd like a Turkish girl? Saying no could insult all the women of his country. Saying yes could get me into all sorts of other problems. "Yeah," I said without thinking. It seemed the polite response. Immediately, I regretted it.

"You wait here," he said, and ran out again.

I sat nervously for several minutes, rehearsing a polite exit. This was a misunderstanding that could get me in trouble. Ali poked his head back in. "Come here," he instructed, and ran back outside before I could clear things up.

I followed, practicing my clarification in my head. Ali was waiting by a large white Cadillac that stood out like a camel in Chicago. The windows were tinted. I couldn't see inside. "Sit down," he said, opening the driver's side door for me.

I peered in to see if there was someone waiting. There was not, so I got halfway in. I kept the door open with one foot in the street in case I needed to run. I couldn't figure out why Ali wanted me in the driver's seat. I sure as hell wasn't driving in this traffic. We were only a few blocks off the main drag.

Ali hopped in the passenger side. "How does this work?" he asked, pointing to the stereo.

"What?!"

"I don't understand these things."

I was relieved. He had brought me to the car not to sell me a few moments of pleasure, but for an English lesson. Words like "fader" and "graphic equalizer" were beyond his vocabulary.

A man and a woman sat on the hood of the car. It hadn't crossed my mind the woman might be the cause of excitement.

"In Turkey, they must look normal," Ali explained eagerly. "They are not accepted here like in America."

The couple went upstairs. The light in the window went off. Ali and I got out of the car. Ali ordered more tea.

It was getting dark. An evening breeze arrived, sweeping out the day's smog. Twenty minutes later, the light upstairs flickered on again.

"I think they're coming down now," Ali said.

I looked up at the window.

"No. Don't look when they come out."

I looked away.

"You can fuck her if you want," Ali offered, trying to be polite.

"No thanks," I said.

"Okay."

I was relieved it was an easier offer to refuse than the cigarette.

As we finished our tea, Ali's cousin showed up with five 20-something French travelers. Ali invited us back inside. His brother and the woman had just come down the stairs. His brother's shirt was open, revealing a sweaty chest. I looked at him. He smiled and winked. I looked at the woman. She turned away.

Ali unfurled carpets for the French to admire and sit on. He ordered more tea. Two conversations were going now – one in Turkish between Ali and his cousin, one in French among the new recruits. I sat back and absorbed it. Three hours had passed since I'd wandered down this street.

I was relaxing, listening passively, when a word jumped out that scared me. In the garble of Turkish, I caught one word. Ali said it three times in one breath. It was unmistakable. "Hashish ... hashish ... hashish." He said it with a wide grin.

I had seen "Midnight Express" – the true story of a young American busted for smuggling hash out of Turkey. He had spent seven years enduring torture in a rat-infested prison. Sadly, it was the only image a lot of Americans had of Turkey. It painted an unfair picture of the country as a whole. Nevertheless, I knew not to be around when the pipe came out. My guide book warned of guilt-by-association laws. It said the rumors about drug penalties and Turkish prisons were true. I got up and waited until Ali noticed I was standing.

"It's been great, but I have to go."

He smiled and thanked me for hanging out with him. I thanked him for the tea. I couldn't thank him for the full adventure. He wouldn't understand.

I wandered back to the hostel, at peace with the city and myself again. I hadn't found my shirt. But the distractions were far more valuable. A shirt would wear out in time. These memories would stay with me.

The little shop in the hostel courtyard was still open. I went once more to examine the vests I'd seen earlier. I came to the last vest on the rack, the same one I'd spotted before lunch. I hadn't really liked it then. But now it was exactly what I wanted.

I wondered why I had passed it over before. It was beautiful – gray with faded orange stripes, a green and burgundy leafy pattern dyed subtly into one side. The colors were subdued. It wasn't too loud. It fit perfectly. How had I missed it? The thing I'd spent an entire, exhausting day searching for had been right in front of me.

But if I had bought the vest earlier in the day, I would have spent my afternoon waiting to leave the country, drinking beers with other foreigners, complaining about the cab driver and the shoeshine boy who had scammed me. Now I had found exactly what I had been searching for all week. Not clothing. People.

This vest was magical. I was certain of it. It had appeared dull in the morning for a reason. It had sent me on a mission – into the back streets to find the real Istanbul. It had taught me a lesson about my fears and my prejudices. This vest had led me on my day's adventure, and I was sure if I bought it now, it would continue working its magic.