Author’s Note
This short story was inspired by my recent trip to Istanbul. While there, I joined a food tour and found myself completely mesmerized by our guide — her style, presence, confidence, demeanor, and the way she spoke about the city she called home. I caught myself analyzing her and imagining what it might be like to live in her world.
Ideas started running through my head, and I began picturing a story built around her life in Istanbul. I’ve never considered myself someone who writes fiction, so the urge to write this came as a surprise to me too. She became my muse that day.
This story is a product of travel, imagination, and the way certain places and people leave a mark on you.
— — —
It was 6:30 a.m. when the alarm went off. Shushu lived in a small studio apartment on the European side of Istanbul. Her apartment had a lot of pot plants that she took pride in; she loved how radiant and succulent they looked. A colorful turquoise Turkish rug she bought in Cappadocia covered the floor. On her walls hung three black-and-white photos she had taken on various streets in Istanbul, her favorite being from Taksim Square. She had framed them herself. One of them was slightly crooked, but she didn’t care much about the imperfections.
Her bed was a convertible couch she’d bought off Amazon, and every morning she had to turn it back into a sofa. She could have bought an actual bed, but the apartment was too small to fit both a bed and a couch—and she didn’t want to choose between the two.
Her laptop was still open on her desk from the series she’d been watching the night before-Black Mirror season 7 had just come out. Morning sunlight peeked through her curtains; she always drew them halfway because she liked watching the traffic outside at night. The glow of car lights soothed her, especially when she played soft jazz and stared out the window.
She grabbed her phone to check the time: already 6:40 a.m. She needed a few minutes to fully wake up. Pistachio, her black Persian cat, jumped onto the bed and pressed into her for a snuggle. Shushu wished she could stay like that, lingering in bed with Pistachio, but she had errands to run and a food tour to lead later in the day.
Being a tour guide was a side gig—extra cash to survive as a university student—but she truly enjoyed it. She met cool, interesting people from all over the world, and she loved sharing information about her favorite place in the whole world: Istanbul. There was truly no place like home.
But today, she wasn’t feeling up to it. Her mood was low because of the recent political tension in the city. Shushu was always keen on politics and how it shaped the world around her. She believed in staying aware and doing her part as a citizen. She wasn’t the kind of person to sit and do nothing.
Just last week, she had taken part in a protest against the government for trying to undermine and intimidate the mayor of Istanbul—one of the few politicians who refused to side with the corrupt elites. The mayor was doing a great job running the city, but the political class was trying to sabotage him and smear his name. The people weren’t having it. The protests had gotten a little heated, with a standoff between citizens and police, but thankfully no one was seriously injured.
Shushu unlocked her phone and texted her best friend.
Shushu: Where should I take my food tour group today? I’m bored of my usual spots.
Her best friend responded almost immediately.
Elif: Try that place in Fatih—the one with the Büryan Kebab. And wear sunscreen today. You always forget.
Shushu laughed softly.
Every time she led a food tour, she picked one of her favorite hidden-gem restaurants—spots not overrun by tourists. She and her best friend loved exploring cafes and restaurants around the city in their free time. They had discovered a bunch of cool places with great local food and ambience. Sometimes they would each bring a book and read at a café. Shushu was into memoirs, while her friend preferred fiction. Other times they took their books to the park near the Bosphorus during sunset. It always felt magical.
The Bosphorus was busy with fishing boats, cruises, tourist ferries, and cargo ships. Despite the chaos, Shushu found peace there. The noise, the movement, the crowds—it was all familiar. Istanbul was chaotic and always bustling, and you had to move with the crowd unless you wanted to get swept aside. This was home to her, and she wouldn’t have it any other way.
Time passed quickly, and by 6:00 p.m., she hopped onto the street tram at Kadıköy. The meeting point for today’s food tour was near the Grand Bazaar.
She adjusted her tote bag, glanced at her reflection in the tram window, and whispered,
“Alright, let’s get through today.”
There was a WhatsApp group chat where she could communicate with the clients for today’s food tour. Four of them had already confirmed their arrival at the meeting point, so two more were still expected. As she walked toward the meeting point, she spotted a couple and two men standing side by side, looking slightly confused by their surroundings. It was very easy to tell they were tourists.
Tourists like this often became easy targets for vendors and scammers. Shushu had learned early on to never look confused—confusion made you vulnerable. When she traveled to Montenegro a few years back, she made sure to walk with confidence, like a local, and blend in. That was the trick. And never stop for anyone who randomly approached you on the street acting overly nice for no reason. She’d learned that the hard way in Vietnam.
She exchanged a few pleasantries with the clients who had already arrived, and moments later the remaining two showed up. Now it was time to start the tour.
Today’s group was an unusual mix of people from all corners of the globe. There were two Americans, a Kenyan, an Italian, a Korean, and an Algerian.
This should be interesting, she thought.
The first stop was a street food vendor. She wanted them to try her favorite street snack, lahana sarma—stuffed cabbage rolls—to kick off the tour. She passed by this spot often and was good friends with the shop owner. As usual, there was a long queue, but she had notified him in advance, so her guests were waved through.
She caught a dirty look from a young woman standing in line.
Whatever, Shushu thought, pretending not to notice.
The group gave positive feedback, though Shushu noticed the Italian girl didn’t quite like it, even as she praised it enthusiastically.
Oops, she thought. Maybe the lemon squeeze was a little too aggressive today.
She wasn’t worried, though. The next stop was guaranteed to win them over.
They stopped at a Turkish sweets shop to sample various lokum and baklava. This time, the Italian didn’t make a face—quite the opposite. She looked genuinely pleased.
That’s my stamp of approval, Shushu thought. I’ll use her as my food gauge.
She loved people who couldn’t hide their emotions, no matter how hard they tried. Facial expressions were easy to read. Shushu herself was the opposite. Her ability to mask emotions had been learned out of necessity. She hadn’t had an easy childhood, and from elementary school through high school, her teachers didn’t tolerate frowning.
She had attended a Catholic boarding school run by strict nuns—borderline psychopaths, if she was being honest.
Not a memory she was particularly fond of.
For dinner, she chose Siirt Şeref Büryan in the Fatih district. Her best friend had suggested it over a touristy spot. It was a traditional local restaurant, and they often came here on weekends, especially around sunset. The view from the window was always spectacular as the sun dipped behind Istanbul’s colorful buildings. It filled her with a quiet melancholy she couldn’t quite explain.
The food was incredible—especially the büryan kebabı and the pide. The pide, baked in a traditional stone oven that had been in use for decades, was unbeatable.
The area was also close to the majestic fourth-century Valens Aqueduct, stretching over 920 meters and once supplying water to the Basilica Cistern. Shushu was a history geek, and she loved being surrounded by structures that had stood for thousands of years. Walking streets that once held significance centuries ago made her mind wander back in time.
She liked imagining what life must have been like back then, picturing herself moving through these same streets. The thought gave her a strange sense of nostalgia—and sent chills down her spine.
Shushu loved giving her guests historical context about the places they visited. Often, there would be history geeks in the group, and she loved watching their eyes light up whenever she started explaining the past. She had gotten into some interesting conversations with guests this way, and it was honestly one of the reasons she enjoyed this side gig so much. There was always something new to look forward to.
This neighborhood was on the Kurdish side of Istanbul, rich in history and culture, so there was a lot to talk about.
They all sat at the table, and Shushu placed the food order. Tonight, they were going to feast. Soon, the table was filled from one end to the other with all kinds of dishes. There was barely any space left, yet the plates kept coming—that was the Turkish way.
Kemunto, the Kenyan girl, looked around the table and laughed.
“This is a banquet,” she said.
Everyone agreed.
When ayran, the traditional Turkish yogurt drink, was served, Kemunto mentioned they had something similar back home in Kenya. She described how her grandmother would pour milk into a container, squeeze lemon into it, and let the acidity ferment the milk.
“It reminds me of home,” she said softly.
Shushu smiled. This, she thought, is why I love this job.
She loved meeting people from all over the world, learning about their cultures, and sharing her own. This was her first time meeting someone from Kenya, and she couldn’t deny she was intrigued. Embarrassingly, most of what she knew about Africa came from safari documentaries on Nat Geo Wild. Maybe this was a sign she needed to learn more about the continent.
The mood around the table was warm and lively. The guests were interacting easily, trading stories, and every now and then someone cracked a joke that sent everyone laughing. Shushu pulled out one of her favorite stories, a guaranteed crowd-pleaser.
“So every time you go to a Turkish restaurant,” she said, “they give you a wet wipe at the end.”
A few people nodded.
“And because Turkish people don’t like wasting resources,” she continued, “you wipe your hands first, then your phone—and if you’re really committed, your shoes too.”
Laughter broke out immediately.
Mission accomplished.
As the conversation flowed, Kemunto casually mentioned that she currently lived in Japan. One of her friends nudged her, almost like she needed encouragement to say it.
Shushu found that interesting. Why had she been holding back? Maybe she was shy. Or maybe she didn’t think it was a big deal.
Either way, it stuck with her.
People who managed to build a life far away from home fascinated Shushu. Navigating a completely different culture sounded overwhelming—but exciting. It was something she’d always been curious about herself: leaving, even temporarily, and experiencing a different kind of life. She knew she would miss Istanbul terribly, but the thought of always being able to return home made the idea less scary.
Kemunto mentioned that she liked Shushu’s tattoos and pointed at the small compass on her wrist.
“I got it three years ago in Bodrum,” Shushu said. “I just thought it was cool.”
She didn’t explain how the idea came to her while she was out on a snorkeling boat, surrounded by the ocean. Boats, water, compasses—it had all made sense in that moment.
She had several small tattoos scattered across her arms. Each one marked a memory, moments when she felt happy—not because of anything grand, but because her heart felt full. Moments of peace, of contentment. Times when simply existing felt enough.
She tried to live that way consciously, choosing optimism whenever she could. Even on days when life felt unbearable, she pushed through with that mindset. So far, it had worked.
Then Kemunto mentioned that she liked her style.
“You’d fit really well in Tokyo,” she said.
Shushu felt herself blush. She’d been telling herself she was imagining Kemunto stealing glances at her, but this felt like confirmation. The compliment carried weight—Kemunto was elegant, well put together. Praise from someone like that meant something.
She played it cool and smiled. “Thank you.”
Inside, she was screaming.
Compliments from women always hit differently—deeper, more real. She wanted to return the compliment, but the words caught in her throat. She wasn’t usually shy, but suddenly she felt tongue-tied.
What is wrong with me? she wondered.
Later that night, Shushu couldn’t wait to tell Elif about the tour. Elif was always eager to hear about interesting guests, and Shushu loved narrating stories. It was a perfect arrangement.
She found herself talking more about Kemunto than the food—the way she dressed, the stories she shared, the compliment.
She sounded a little too excited.
Was I awestruck?
That had never happened before.
