At Home Abroad

Although I want to stroll leisurely down the street and look into each shop that helps form the maze of this quarter, I am swept up in the throng of people, my step quickening as the crowd thickens further and further down Istiklal Street. A few times along the way, I make my way to the fringes of the crowd, popping into shops to taste rose-flavored Turkish delight, try on silk scarves, and admire the delicate mosaic glass lanterns that frame several doorways. Eventually, a store owner beckons me into his shop. I tell him I am a student and have no money for ceramic plates, but he will not be deterred. “No problem, Miss. Come, sit, have some tea.”

After the frenzy of the street, this shop feels like an island of calm and I am no longer eager to leave. He offers me tea and explains that it is a slow day for him. Despite the 3 million visitors who come to this street each day, much of his time is spent waiting. As I am in no hurry, I stay for a chat, learning about his nephew who is studying abroad in Ohio and describing my hometown for him. Eventually, our tea is finished and it is time for me to head back toward the metro at Taksim Square. The cacophony of the street now seems too much, so I put in my earbuds and block it all out.

I enter the subway station and take a seat on one of the benches, where two young boys soon join me. The youngest one is seated next to me with his little kid arm, sticky with sweat, resting against mine. I inch over so we’re no longer touching. He looks up at me and asks something in Turkish. I look down at him and say, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.” He looks confused, so his older brother whispers in his ear to explain. “Ah, Ingilizce?” the little one asks. “Evet,” I reply, happy to use one of the few Turkish words I know.
Now, excited to practice his English, he points to my earbuds and asks, “What is this?”
“Music?” I say, confused by his question, then offer him one of my earbuds so he can listen.
He looks thoughtful for a moment, then asks, “Where are you from?”
“California.”
“Ah, Kalifornya,” he says, knowingly.
We have now exhausted this eight-year-old’s English vocabulary, so we sit in silence until I board the train. As I look back at him and his brother on the bench, his face lights up. He’s remembered something. He stands up and shouts, “I love you!” over the sound of the train. I look at him and smile as the doors close and he becomes another memory of the people that make this mysterious city feel like home.