Istanbul, Turkey
I like to wander the streets in the old section of Istanbul, beyond where the prison made famous in the movie Midnight Express is now a Four Seasons Hotel.
The city walls remind me of the Grand Canyon—you can count down the centuries in their layers.
As I ventured into one of the more remote (read non-tourist) areas, an old man (look on the right in the photo; the guy with the beard and walking stick) began to berate me. Although he was speaking Turkish, there was no mistaking his tone or intent.
I began backing down the street; I usually beat feet when someone starts yelling at me in a foreign language I don’t understand. I’d made it to the corner restaurant when a woman materialized from one of the shops.
She strode up to the man and began scolding him, also in Turkish. He yelled back, brandishing his cane. She didn’t back down. After a few minutes of back-and-forth, he caved. With a final stab of his cane in her direction, he strode away.
The woman hurried down the street to the restaurant where I’d taken refuge. She didn’t speak English, but the waiter who’d watched the incident with me helped translate.
“I am so sorry,” the woman said. “Most Turkish people do not treat visitors that way.”
“Why was he so angry?” I asked.
“I am embarrassed to say this, but it was because of how you are dressed.”
I touched my hair. “No hijab?”
She nodded. “And your short sleeves and pants.”
One of my long sleeves was cuffed, exposing my wrist, so I could see my watch. I couldn’t tell if the man’s problem with my pants was because they showed my ankles or were snug. If the latter, then it’s his country’s fault, for making the world’s best baklava.
“What did you say to him?” I asked.
“I told him to be quiet, that it is not his business what a woman wears.”
I thanked her and asked if I could take her photo, but she declined. So I’ll describe her as best I can.
Height: about 5’2″
Build: ?
Hair color: ?
Skin color: ?
Eye color: ?
Jewelry: ?
Age: ?
You see, this is what she was wearing:
