What would Frodo do?

Little shops outside of the Grand Bazaar



The Grand Bazaar is one of the largest and oldest covered markets in the world. (It covers more than 58 streets and opened in 1461.) Those who travel to Turkey should know the countries three specialties – rugs, jewelry and leather.

As sophisticated as I’d like to think I am, all I know about Turkish rugs is if you have one, you're probably rich. On top of my lack of interest in leather products and carpets, I forgot to bring my million dollars, which makes buying myself a few diamond earings out of the question. Shucks.

So upon finding myself completely alone in the Grand Bazaar, I skip shopping and begin walking quickly toward what appears to be a Starbucks knock-off when I’m stopped by a Turkish man in his early forties.

“Are you Turkish?” he asks.

“No. American,” I reply.

“American? You look Turkish? No?” His question is answered with a bunch of “Yes, mmhmm’s” from a group of 12 old Turkish men that pop out of nowhere. I’m surrounded.

An example of what an old Turkish man looks like.

Cursing myself for not bringing mace, I politely smile and try to walk through the circle. (I naturally assume I am constantly about to be abducted. Thanks Liam Neeson for scarring me with your spectacular performance in Taken.)

“You are very beautiful,” the man I shall henceforth call ‘Creeper’ continues. “Olive skin like me.”

It's hard being so good looking. 

“Er…Thank you,” I say while walking away.

“I have three shop, I show you.” He is following me.

I wonder what the word for “rape” is in Turkish.

“Um, no I am meeting someone in 20 minutes,” I lie.

He grabs my elbow and begins to steer me down a street.

Shit. I could run but it looks like he knows everyone in the damn city. I assume this based on the fact everyone around is waving and smiling at me. Is this what happens to all his victims? They parade the girls to their death?

“You are scared. I no danger. Be happy.”

It takes every ounce of self-restraint I have not to shout, "STRANGER DANGER," kick the man in the balls and run, because when someone tells you they’re not dangerous that should be a cue to get the hell out of there.

But I'm an idiot.

The next thing I know, we're in a deserted alley. The only witness to a possible missing persons investigation is a cat.



The only witness...half sleeping.



He takes me in to a shop and introduces me to his cousin. I’m guessing it’s not the same cousin he told me lived in America five seconds earlier. One thing I learned through my experience with merchants is it doesn’t matter where you say you’re from – they “have a cousin who lives there.”

I’m in his jewelry shop looking at scarves I could buy from Forever 21 for approximately six cents.

 “Which one you like?”

“Um…this one,” I point to a blue embroidered scarf.

“$60.”

“No.”

“How much you pay?”

“I wouldn’t pay $20.”

“Ok, 20,” he holds out his hand.

“No. No 20, are you kidding? I’m leaving.”

“Wait, wait…” he blocks the doorway. I imagine karate chopping him to escape. “How much you pay?”

“$10.”

He pauses. He thinks.

“Ok, for you, $10 but no tell no one I give you this price.”

“I’m telling everyone.”

I give him $10 and start to walk away. After 15 seconds of me walking forward without looking back, I turn on to a crowded street and breathe a sigh of relief. I am free.

“What you like?”

Damn it. He was right next to me.

“What?” I ask.

 “Here, come with me,” he holds my hand.

“Whoa. What? No I need to go back,” I pull away, in a rush to meet my invisible friend.

“Be happy, why scared?  I no danger,” he grabs my hand again. “Just hold my hand, look at everyone so jealous.”

I look around and it seems as though every man in the street is grinning at Mr. Creeper, giving him a thumbs-up. I pull my hand away and he grabs it within the second and reminds me to just be happy.

As I’m walking down a busy street in the Grand Bazaar holding hands with a 40-something-year-old Turkish man, I can’t help but remember my mom’s 10 second-long lecture before I left.

It went something along the lines of: “Don’t be stupid. And don’t go anywhere alone.”  

Going somewhere alone was inevitable. I wasn’t going to just stay in my hostel. The 'don’t be stupid' part is debatable…what she calls 'stupid,' I call 'something Frodo would do,' which is also known as 'adventurous.'

I base my decisions by asking, 'what would Frodo do?' I’m still alive, so it seems to be working for me…but I’m beginning to think holding hands with a random Turkish man may fall under the 'stupid' category.

We hold hands in to a coffee shop where he buys us two cups of tea. I wonder if it is poisoned.

“Drink one cup tea means 40 years friendship,” he smiles at me.

“On Facebook? Because I don’t live here, remember…”

“You are very cute couple,” says every stranger who walks in.

“He has no wife,” an old man tells me.

“Oh…I’m…sorry?” I say to Creeper.

“How long you stay?”

“I leave tomorrow,” I lie again.

Clearly this relationship isn’t going anywhere since it’s founded on a bed of lies.

“What time?”

“The morning,” I lie some more, trying to ignore the fact his friends are taking pictures of us on their phones. (Is this what celebrities feel like?)

“You come with me to meet my family? I like you much. Very beautiful.”

“What?” I look around to make sure he’s talking to me.

“You like Turkey, no? You stay here. You want ring? I give you ring. I take care of you. You live with me. What size finger?”

“I don’t know I think 6 – wait, what? No. I have to go,” I crane my neck in search of my invisible friend.

He writes down his email address, phone number and address on a paper and hands it to me.

“You write yours.”

“I … uh… you can have my email,” I write down a fake email address. For some reason, I feel guilty.

“What you do now?”

“I’m going to see the whirling dervishes soon.”

“I come with you, then we eat, drink, talk…” he makes hand motions as if I don’t understand what it means to eat and drink.

“Um I already bought my ticket so … I think it’s sold out.”

“I wait for you.”

“No, no that’s not necessary.”

“Ok. I wait.”

“What? No. Um, I will be tired.”

“I wait for you. You like Turkey, you stay you marry me,” he proposed.

“Hah, yeah…oookay.”

“Ok! What size ring?”

“You like gold?” another old man pops out of nowhere. (They have a habit of doing that.)

Suddenly I’m surrounded by men hugging me and kissing me on the cheek, giving me tea and clapping.

Creeper is smiling from ear to ear.

“Oh shit,” I get up and gather my things.

“You go to show and you call?”

“I have to go,” I say as I walk away and wave to nobody to wait up for me.

“I tell my sister she come, you meet!” he yells after me.

And that’s the story of my engagement to a Turkish man named Creeper.

Mr. Creeper giving me his contact information.

Later that night my room’s phone rings while I was Skyping with my parents.

“Hello? Gabrielle?” I immediately recognize his voice and hang up. I begin to panic. How did he know where I was staying? The phone rings again, I don’t answer. After the fourth call I ask the front desk to turn my phone off while my mom yells at me, “Gabby! You did exactly what we told you not to do!” Standard.

I think he must have seen me carrying the hostel's address because I may be an idiot from time to time but I'm not stupid enough to advertise where I'm staying. Him calling my room definitely creeped me out.

It's not like our marriage would have worked out anyways.

According to the CIA World Factbook, 99.8 percent of Turkey's population is Muslim. I assume if he found out I'm Greek Orthodox Christian, he probably would've dumped me. And I'm not particularly fond of being dumped.

But for all he knows, the engagement is still going strong. 

You're all invited to the wedding.

Sincerely,

Mrs. Creeper

God bless Americuh

Tourists, who are probably American, walking toward Hagia Sophia.

I have this problem where I assume every tourist is an American. They could be Asian and I think, “Asian’s! Maybe they’re from Irvine.”

…They aren’t. I make sure to ask all 500 of them.

I decide to take a group tour of Istanbul since I don’t feel comfortable wandering around alone – especially upon realizing that just because I speak English doesn’t mean everyone else is obligated to learn the language.

I’m sitting on the tour bus waiting for the guide and eavesdropping on conversations around me. There is a German couple, a Brazilian couple, an Indian family from England (I was confused about this for a good half-hour), the entire population of Japan and FINALLY an American couple who sits right behind me (jackpot).

They are in their late forties, early fifties and are both wearing a hat that says, “USA.” Not only are they loud (which makes my eavesdropping easier) but they are also unaware that since this is a tour in ENGLISH, the other passengers prooobbabbblllyyyy understand what they’re saying.

 “Look at all these Asians,” the man says to his wife.

“Yeah, I know! Weird, huh?” she replies.

Mind you, these Asians are sitting across the foot-wide isle. Their ears are literally inches away from the couple’s mouths.

“Where are we going first?” the wife asks her husband.

“I think that one mosque…” he replies.

“Oh where the sultan lived?” she asks, as if there was only one sultan who lived in the only mosque they could possibly be talking about.

“Yeah, with that woman.” (I catch myself making a, “What?” face.)

“Oh yeah, I read about her. Apparently she didn’t take shit from anybody. She would make him do things.” (I’m still making the face.)

“Oh, yeah? That’s unusual for that time, I think.” (I nod to myself. It really was.)

“Yeah, she probably caused a lot of trouble. I kind of respect her ‘cause she sounds like a tough bitch.”

At this point half the bus, including children, has turned around to stare at the couple.

…Ah, Americans. I am home.

That "one mosque where the bitch lived."

Lunch during the tour was sufficiently awkward. Since I was the only solo traveler, I had to choose my seat wisely…obviously I chose to sit by the Americans. I figured we need to stick together.

As I approach their table, I overhear their conversation. On purpose.

“She’s going on a boat to Mexico,” the man says.

“Is she trying to get pregnant?” his wife asks.

“What?! What does that even – why? What?”

I take that as my cue to step in.

“You – speak- English?” the wife asks me. Like I’m a cavewoman.

“Yes. I’m American.” I proudly respond.

“Oh well welcome, welcome!” she says, as though she’s the official spokesperson for Turkey. “You’re here alone?”

“Yes, I just wanted to see the country,” I explain.

“Well you are just the bravest - ”

“Wait, what do you mean?” the man interrupts, still talking about the boat impregnation.

“Well you’re American,” the woman turns to me. “What do you think about a single woman in her 40’s going on a boat to Mexico?”

I pause. “She’s going to get pregnant.”

“SEE! I told you!” the wife punches her husband triumphantly.

So there I am, thinking about Mexican pregnancy and domestic violence when lunch begins.

A Muslim couple I hadn’t seen on the bus sits by us.

After speaking in English for a good 15 minutes, explaining they had just visited Mecca but live in South Africa, the American woman leans forward, wide-eyed and mystified by their story.

 “Africa? Wow! So do you speak African or English?”

I choke on my food and from then on, I chew slowly.

The tour ends with the guide walking up to me and giving me this look where his shoulders are up to his ears, his head is tilted to the side and his face is scrunched like he ate something sour.

This can’t be good.

“We missed your stop, we’re going to Anatolia,” he says. Anatolia is the Asian side of Istanbul and I was staying on the European side, which is separated by a strait. If I cross to the Asian side, I’d have to swim my ass through the large body of water, avoid getting run over by a boat all while keeping my camera dry. I consider renting a bus.

“You have to get off here…”

I look out the window.

The view from my window.

“Wait…here?”

“Here.”

I decide to stare at the tour guide until he changes his mind.

He stares back, still scrunching his face faking sympathy.

The bus doors open.

...Damn.

And that is how I end up in the middle of a random intersection with cars honking at me and no sidewalk in sight somewhere in Istanbul.