The coal fog is low. I can barely see the minarets on the mega mosque being built across the river. They are indistinguishable from the phone towers and radio towers up on the hill.

Traffic is insane. My brother's bedroom window looks over the biggest (the only?) bridge in Istanbul, and the traffic lights are solid, barely moving.

A huge red flag, crescent moon and star, dominates the skyline of blocky off-white buildings and terracotta tiles roofs, fuzzy and grey in the fog.

The sunsets sure are beautiful, though.

~

London. Tiled sidewalks (pavement, Rosie, it's called the pavement!). The tiles rock sometimes, and my heels are unsteady. The four pints of stout I've consumed isn't helping.

I left the birthday party first. My commute is long, at least an hour, and I want to be home before the tube stops running.

Men wheel past, in beige trousers and navy blazers. When did that become the new party chic? There's something I'm missing. I think it's an English thing. Is it a class thing? I don't understand class. Canada doesn't really have it, not really. Not the same way.

I see my bus stop, my first bus stop, just past the group of men, spilled out onto the street for a smoke, perhaps, or maybe because they couldn't get into the overcrowded club nearby.

I'm drunk, and I'm tired, and my feet hurt, but man, my lipstick is perfect.

~

"I don't know, I just don't know." My sister-in-law has been stressing for the last half hour. "I hate the white. It's too much white. I have to paint one of these walls SOME colour, but what colour? I don't know!"

I would paint it all saffron yellow, if it were up to me. Heavy red rugs on the floor. Dark brown trim. Embroidered throws. Hang prisms in the multitude of windows, so the rooms would always be full of rainbows.

It feels so weird, looking down on the smoky, wild city from the vantage point of the fourth floor, plus the hill we're on, in this all-white super modern apartment.

~

The street girl can't be more than seven or eight. She has dirty pink sweat pants, and a dirty pink sweat shirt. Her hair is ratty, and stands up all over her head like a porcupine. Her feet are bare.

She skips confidently up to the fruit seller and says a few words to him in Turkish, pointing to a small yellow fruit. He looks are her sceptically, but she hands over a few coins and he begins to weigh out a modest portion. His brother watches her closely, and she grins, knowing she is being watched, and stands waiting, bouncing on the balls of her feet, grinning like a cheeky child.

The fruit seller hands over the plastic bag, and she takes it. Then her hand shoots out and she grabs one more, pops it in her mouth before either of them can say anything, and darts away around the corner.

Neither of them say anything, or chase after her, and I don't see her again.

~

I stare at the men as I approach. The heels are perfect, they make the swing of my hips exaggerate. My new coat swings exactly the way I want it.

Most of the men are talking, heads bent, but one of them is not. He is watching the crowd go by.

His long curly hair is pulled back in a ponytail, but escaped wisps frame is face like a halo, as curly hair is wont to do. His glasses are very round, old-fashioned like, and there's a soft nerdiness about his face that I find particularly appealing.

"I bet he plays D&D," I think to myself, and I like the idea. I like it very much.

He makes eye contact, and I hold it with the boldness only a great pair of heels, perfect lipstick, and four pints of beer can really muster.

I only look away when the danger of the tilting tiles forces me to look where I'm going.

~

"Are you sure you want to go to the Grand Bazaar?" my sister-in-law asks. I respond that I do. I'm really mostly curious. I'm not really looking to buy anything.

We take a taxi there. It costs twenty-five lira. Or about seven pounds. An absurdly low price.

The taxi spits us out at the mouth of a narrow cobbled street, and we fight the flow of traffic to get toward the yawning mouth of the bazaar.

It's everything and nothing like I imagined.

It's like the streets were simply roofed over. The stalls are the tiniest of shops, mostly with wares spilling into the walkways. Windows lined with gold bracelets, lit up with the brightest of LEDs. Purses on hooks up to the ceiling. Jewels, both real and glass, glitter under industrial spotlights. Racks and racks of brightly painted pottery, every stall with the same patterns, the same shapes. Every jewellery store with the same bracelets. Every rug shop with the same rugs.

The sellers, all men, sit on tiny stools, or lean against door jams, or hide in their booths playing on their phones. They drink tiny glasses of dark sweet tea, brought to them by busy looking men with hanging trays, coming from hidden cafes.

The sellers are all aggressive. They all call us 'Lady! Lady!'. They see her pretty blonde hair. They see my nice earrings, and foreign clothes. They think we have money to spend.

One of them follows us for a few stalls, trying every language he knows, but we pretend he doesn't exist and he eventually goes away.

~

We get lost outside the Grand Bazaar. She's looking for something specific. I have no idea what's going on, and I'm overwhelmed by all the crazy shops. We're in the wedding district, I think, maybe. There are heavily rhinestoned dresses on weird, old looking mannequins. One of them has a broken nose that's been repaired mostly with paint.

The shops cater to all levels of modesty, up to and including head and face coverings. All with lots of rhinestones, and netting.

I'm too overwhelmed to consider buying anything.

"Come on," she says, ducking between two shops. "We'll cut through here."

We go into a split level mall, three floors high, and head up.

Every store is selling sleep wear. Most of it is for women, but I see at least two selling sleepwear for children, and one selling men's shirts.

There are exactly zero customers.

All the sellers are lounging in their shops on low stools, chatting with each other and drinking glasses of dark sweet tea.

My sister-in-law stops a man peeling an orange and speaks rapidly with him in Turkish. There are hand gestures. He smiles at me, and I like his face. His beard is gold, like his hair, an unusual shade for Turkey.

I have no idea what's going on.

~

The sky is grey, the pavement is grey, the streets are grey. Everyone seems to wear grey or black in the winter time.

I look over my shoulder, a hard bold glance, to see if the man is watching me go.

His friends, their heads bent low, laughing and talking and smoking. But he is watching me in my heels and perfect red lipstick and four pints go swaggering past. I can see the street light shining off the round lenses of his glasses, like two little moons in the grey night.

I have no idea who he was, but I wish I'd slipped him my phone number.

The red double decker bus wobbles up to my stop, and I get on, and I'm gone.

.

Rosie

Before&After