We walked into the little jewelry shop across from our hotel, Sirkeci Mansion, just outside the tall walls of Topkapı Palace. A full shop window facing the street and glass‑topped counters, chock full of rings, bracelets, and curious little trinkets, all beckoning us inside. A man stood behind the counters, impossibly broad‑shouldered, his arms bulging against a yellow T‑shirt with a crocodile graphic, the short sleeves straining at the seams like they weren’t quite ready for all that muscle. He greeted us with a hearty smile, the kind you’d expect from such a broad chest, and introduced himself as, befittingly, Aladdin. Before we knew it, we were being talked into all sorts of pieces: a blue bracelet with a shining red beaded star like a Superwoman headband, a pair of chunky nickel‑silver cicada earrings, and swirling pendants. As these things often do, the conversation began to open up. Turned out Aladdin was from Syria, came after the civil war broke out in 2011, leaving his village, “several sons”, and “32 sheep”, he said, scrolling back to old photos on his phone. He really was a bodybuilder, he said, then struck a pose, and we giggled. “Then you’re not a real jeweler!” Aladdin’s eyes lit up. He grabbed a pair of pliers from a small workstation by the counter, and with a quick twist and pinch, he fashioned a pair of tiny earrings on the spot within seconds, perfectly matching red teardrops gleaming on the counter. “A gift for you,” he said, grinning.

Our hotel tour was enticingly labeled “A Taste of Life Style on the Golden Horn.” We met in the hotel lobby. A family from Jordan: tall father with thick dark hair neatly combed back, wearing the friendly, relaxed expression of an off-duty businessman on holiday with his family; well-put-together mother in a fine, soft beige headscarf, smart and proper, with a faintly British air; and two teenage girls in short T-shirts and jeans. Two unsmiling, angular-looking Pakistani-American cousins saying they were from Houston, the older one, bearded and in a black trench coat, quickly adding that he worked at PwC. A father and son, Turkish but living in Belgium, spoke mostly French to each other; the father had a slightly disheveled, professor-like look, while the boy’s soft, long hair made him seem like a stereotypical European child to us. Then there were us, Sammy in a T-shirt and very short shorts. And our tour guide, Okay Bey, somehow looking completely different from his hotel-manager self, ready to lead the tour, which one could easily suspect was the more enjoyable part of his job. The van carried us through the narrow, bumpy streets of Sirkeci, where Okay Bey pointed out traces of the Jewish community, then inched past the ancient Aqueduct of Valens, its massive Roman arches towering over the modern traffic. When we finally got off at Fevzi Paşa Caddesi and began walking up toward Fatih Mosque, the neighborhood suddenly seemed drained of all the bright, cheerful colors of the touristy Old Town, leaving muted browns, blacks, and washed-out whites, as if being thrown back a few decades. Along the way, women in black abayas and hijabs hurried past us in heavy steps, casting sharp glances at Sammy’s outfit. Once we got up the hills, the Fatih Mosque was immediately in front of us, sitting on an enormous green lawn. The inner courtyard, with massive marble floors and columns blazed warmly in the sun, duly dazzled and overwhelmed us. Carved stone inscriptions bear the sultan’s tughra, his calligraphic signature, a looping mark of authority and elegance that carries the weight of conquest. Beyond the mosque lies the türbe of Mehmed the Conqueror, modest but deeply charged. Just as we were admiring it all, an old man in a long black imam robe, and a white cap suddenly raised his voice at Okay Bey, his words sharp and insistent. When Okay Bey, by reflex, turned toward Sammy, we immediately understood the objection in the old man’s scrutinizing gaze, something Sammy would bring up often later. When the group walked out of the mosque, Okay Bey asked, “Who would like some simit now?” Seeing our puzzled looks, he added, “Well, I’ll have to take you there then.” We walked down a slope to a tiny bakery, where two men were shoveling long wooden peels into a brick oven. “My treat,” Okay Bey said, handing us the piping-hot simits. Next, we went to the Yavuz Selim Mosque, perched atop the Fifth Hill. The sweeping view of the Golden Horn stretched out beneath a brilliant blue sky, dotted with red rooftops and the shimmering Bosphorus beyond, a moment when you knew you were falling in love with this city. The young boy darted around, keeping up with us while happily absorbed in his own little world, but when we stepped inside the mosque, he surprised everyone by reading the Qur’an in Arabic aloud with calm precision. The Pakistani-American cousins joined in, fingers tracing the large prayer book resting on a wooden stand, a rehal, explaining the punctuation and pauses. Then the older cousin pulled out his cellphone to show an app that “helps you read the Qur’an”. Okay Bey announced that next we would be visiting Fener, home to the Greek Orthodox Patriarchate and St. George Church. The cousins exchanged a quick glance, then asked, “Can we skip that?” “No, we can’t skip this part of the tour,” Okay Bey replied without missing a beat. The cousins froze for a moment, unsure what to do next, leaving the rest of us to follow along. After Fener, we made our way down the hill toward Çarşamba Pazarı, the Wednesday Market, the narrow streets opening into a bustling maze of stalls, scents, and colors — sheer heaven. Vendors called out from behind large tables stacked with spices, dried fruits, and textiles, the clatter of footsteps and chatter blending with the calls of shopkeepers. When we finally regrouped by a cheese stall, we noticed Sammy was missing, but just as we started to look around, a young woman in an abaya and a hijab joined us, smiling. “I got these in that stall,” she said, pointing at a women’s clothing stand with lines of long dark-colored hijabs and scarves. It was Sammy! As it was late afternoon by then, to avoid heavy traffic, we returned to the hotel by ferry. While waiting, Okay Bey took out his phone and showed a photo of a little girl with blond hair. “My daughter,” he said with a smile. Seeing our curiosity, he added, “Her grandmother comes from the Black Sea region of Georgia. It’s all part of our mixed heritage, isn’t it?”

First time in Istanbul, many more mosques to visit, all too magnificent to miss. This time, with a new awareness of dress codes and past missteps, Sammy wore an abaya and a hijab to them all. The first thing we noticed was, suddenly, the street’s hassle and bustle took several notches down, the persistent and relentless invitations from restaurants and gift shops were, for the most part, gone, replaced by the sudden relief of moving around, no longer being bothered by anyone. Sammy’s demeanor had shifted too, subtly, instinctively. 
She even came down to breakfast now wearing her full getup, much to the delight, and perhaps subconscious, approval of the hotel staff. The Jordanian mom stopped by our table, smiling warmly. “Good job,” she said, nodding at Sammy’s neatly wrapped hijab. “Yeah,” Sammy smiled, “Not easy. Took several tries, and YouTube videos.” Somehow, amazingly, no one asked the more obvious question, “Are you converting to Islam?”, as if the answer could either be assumed or skipped altogether, or both. What seemed to matter was that Sammy now wore abaya and hijab and, surprisingly quickly, began to act the part. She sat in the the women’s payer sections of mosques, and knelt on the carpeted floors during prayer. “Not a clue what I’m supposed to do,” she whispered afterwards. This self-contained world held, until the bubble was punctured, for her and for all of us, by Leo, the “Greek guy”, from Istanbul though, as he quick to noted. We met Leo one early morning on the T1 tram platform at Gülhane station, right outside our hotel. We walked up to ask him which tram would take us to the Grand Bazaar. He gave us a quick look over, then said, “Just come with me,” as if we were old friends, before handing us his card. It read: “Leo. Luxury Handbags. Women’s Designer Shoes & Clothing”. “And much more,” he added with a grin. By the time the tram reached our stop, Leo was already talking about the "Asian side" and had offered to show us around his neighborhood in Kadıköy on Saturday. We followed Leo off the tram and were immediately swallowed by the maze and the crowd of the Grand Bazaar, grateful to have him leading the way. You had to walk a few steps down to get to his shop, and once down, it was much bigger than the shopfront suggested. Inside, it felt like what you would imagine the back storage room of a luxury boutique would be like: shelves and hanging racks holding luxury clothes, shoes, and all the glitz before they were arranged and taken out to the shop floor— backstage excitement. It wasn’t hard to persuade Sammy to try on sunglasses first, then bags, then high-heeled shoes. Wow. Wow. Wow. Finally, curiosity held back by politeness got the better of Leo. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked, eyes gesturing toward Sammy, who was busy trying on her fifth pair of sunglasses. “What do you mean?” Sammy heard it all.
 Leo nodded toward her full getup. “Oh, that!” Sammy grinned. “Just something I bought at the market and have been wearing,” as she took it off to put on an little jacket over her very short shorts and high heels. “Wow. For a moment there, I thought you were one of those who come on a little holiday and go home all converted,” Leo said, half-relieved, half-amused, looking approvingly at what Sammy was now wearing. Then, with a glint in the eyes, he added, “Well, you go out there and kill some Turkish boys then!”