I have just discovered another story that I wrote about my Turkish trip in 2013. Some of you may have read it, but I think it’s amusing and hope my newer followers enjoy it
Chora Museum at the top of the hill
After visiting the Chora Museum in Istanbul, our intention is to find an ancient wall, supposedly nearby. We set off, walking down a laneway, where our interest is captured by an old man with a white beard and moustache, leaning out of a window and chatting with a neighbour standing near us. He wears a small black fez pushed back to reveal a smattering of white hair and large ears. His face is lean, his nose long and his teeth are yellowing.
Leaning further out of the window, he smiles and waves to us, his pose creating the perfect photo for my collection of interesting characters. I wonder if he does this on a regular basis and wish it was possible to converse with him. We manage a Turkish thank you – te shekir edeem – as we wave goodbye; he disappears behind the potted red geranium on his window sill.
We continue walking down the hill, stopping everyone who might be able to point us in the direction of the elusive wall but, as we can’t speak Turkish and they don’t speak English, we have no luck.
At the bottom of the hill we round the corner and rush towards a taxi which appears to be waiting for us. Our delight is soon tempered when we realise that the driver is nowhere in sight. It’s lunchtime; we could have a long wait. We step into a tiny shop – the smell of freshly baked bread and pastries dripping with buttery syrup, so tempting that we almost forget to ask about the taxi driver. While we drool over our purchases, still warm from the oven, the shopkeeper goes looking for him in similar establishments nearby—at least that’s what we assume she’s doing.
On her return, her tone of voice and supplicating hands inform us that she has no idea where the man might be. At the same time, she has us wondering if she really thinks he’s visiting the sort of woman our shopkeeper and her friends would shun. 
We thank her for her efforts and continue walking along this winding street, past more tiny local shops, stopping to photograph a very old, dilapidated series of flats. The timber buildings are painted a dull dark brown; wire and what looks like electric cables are strung all over the place like a child’s efforts at Christmas decorations. The structure might be ready for demolition or at least a major restoration, but several TV discs display the occupants’ acknowledgement of proper priorities.
As we walk, we wave hopefully at every passing taxi—to no avail. Then our chap drives up to greet us.
‘You want taxi?’ he asks.
Thinking that our prayers are answered, we pile in. My friends ask for the Grand Bazaar and I show him the card for our hotel. As it’s closer, I assume that he will drop me off first. Before we can even find the seat belts, most of which don’t work, he puts his foot down and we join the stop/start mania that is Istanbul traffic.
Fortunately, speed is generally limited due to congestion and an appalling lack of road etiquette. This doesn’t deter our driver, who zips up and down single lane streets, taking so many shortcuts we have no idea where we’re going. So determined is he, to push into one of these streets, despite the stream of traffic coming towards us, that he scrapes the front of a car parked on the corner. The loud thump is frightening, but the actual damage is minor. No doubt the absent owner won’t think so when he returns to his crinkled and scraped mudguard.
Without apology, our driver leaps out of the taxi and does a sort of war dance, abusing several other drivers who seem blameless. Meanwhile, cars pile up behind those already blocking the narrow street. The meter is ticking over while this goes on and the other ladies mumble about excessive charges, wondering if we should abandon this taxi and try for another.
Istanbul’s Grand Bazaar
Eventually, our man plonks himself in the driver’s seat, still ranting about the incompetence of his fellow road users, and we speed away, this time straight ahead. At the end of the road another jumble of buses and cars has him heading off across a bridge to the opposite side of the city. We see a lot of Istanbul on our lengthy detour, eventually arriving at the Grand Bazaar, where my friends leave me to be driven back to our hotel.
Perhaps the driver realises that I’m not impressed with his antics, or maybe he just gives up on his pushy technique, but he calms down for the rest of the journey. I am so relieved to arrive safely at the hotel that I don’t bother to argue over the excessive fare, but dismiss him as quickly as I can and vow to avoid further taxis unless they are vetted by our hotel.