The train from the airport picked its way through the dense, gray apartment blocks that girdled Istanbul. The spine-like appendages of mosques pierced the uniformly-level sprawl as if in attempt to protect from powers above; a concrete sea urchin bristling in defense.
In the gray post-dawn light of a cold, mist-sealed spring morning the train admitted patrons off to start their day. Businessmen, office workers, school children in uniforms, cleaners, and the odd grandmother going to her daughters house to watch the kids all closely regarded our traveler. It was perfectly calm, perfectly still, perfectly quiet, and perfectly unnerving.
Our traveler trundled off the shuttle and eventually found the street car that would take him to the epicenter of the tourist industry in Istanbul: Sultanahmet. The tram was again crowded with a similar cross section of Istanbul, minus the school kids, and was so packed there was nowhere to put any of his bags. Again, he felt as if all eyes were on him. The weight resting on his hips was uncomfortable and he was impatient to get to his stop.
The doors opened and he was instantly coated with a light film of water. Cars sloshed noisily behind the trams, through shallow pools. While walking between Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque, only minutes after stepping off the tram, touts could sense the presence of a tourist--their perceptive powers particularly sensitive in the off season with little else to home in on. Off in the distance men festooned in 'traditional' Turkish costume and armed with reels of postcards indiscreetly changed course to intercept. The crafty would do their utmost to engage conversation, "Where are you from?", "Do you have a light?", What time is it?". The few times he fell for it the short conversations were inevitably followed by insistent invitations to tea at his uncle's or brother's carpet shop so conveniently located just around the corner. The harassment continued all the way up to the door of the hostel and wouldn't end until he left the country. It was an aggravating situation that marred his visit to a city brimming with historical beauty.
The hostel was relatively empty in the pre-season and was rank with the caged smell of mildew. Little light filtered through the cold, mist-clouded days leaving the banks of the Bosporus velveteen and full of oil tanker traffic. Sea gulls wheeled hungrily in the sky waiting for the big ships to churn up their noon day meal.
Walking through the streets one thing was quite visible: there was denim everywhere. Denim jeans, denim jackets, denim bags: it was the unabashed national dress of 75% of the population. It was like East Berlin after the wall came down and there were more square feet of jean material than there was skin to cover. A denim bomb had been set off and our traveler found himself at the epicenter. Nearly no one had escaped uncovered.
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