Favourite Places, Part II
So many people work so hard to eke out a living in Istanbul. Numerous shoe shine guys eager to accidentally drop a brush in front of an unwary tourist, gentlemen in their 50's and 60's selling purses or belts or wallets, all carefully laid out on a blanket. Or the restauranteurs. Wow, the restauranteurs who beckon to every passerby, especially those who look vaguely foreign, inviting them in to try the fish. Come see the fish, come smell the fish, look, hold the fish! Crossing the lower level of the Galata Bridge is like, well, I don't know what to compare it too. But you should try it. Once will do.
Istanbul was a city that welcomed us from the first smile of the cleaning woman who let us into our flat (we'll forget about the jerk who conned us into an unnecessary taxi ride from...wait, we were forgetting about that, weren't we?) to the last, from the man who sold us our train tickets that would take us on to Syria.