The Orient Sexpress

Look, I’ve read Orientalism enough times (once, and even then it was a bit half-assed.  So let’s rephrase: I’ve cited Orientalism in term papers without having read the whole thing through enough times) to know a thing or two about Turkey.  In fact, most of my identity actually stems from what Turkey is, and therefore what I am not.  So you can imagine my delight when I read several warnings on the old internet that it’s a common scam for locals to approach tourists by speaking Turkish, and with the tourist stops them and says, “No! I’m not Turkish, I’m a tourist!” the con-artist will then apologise profusely and offer to buy the tourist a drink.  They would then go to a bar of the local’s choosing where the tourist would be robbed of all his possessions, or the drink would be on the tourist and would be 1,600 euros.  Or his kneecaps get broken.  Or something equally horrific.  This happens in Eastern Europe a lot with “hot” girls who walk up to American backpackers and ask them if they’d like to get a drink.  Then the backpackers are all, “Oh, snap, this chick totally wants me because I’m such an American hottie” only to discover later that the hot girl is actually a prostitute (twist!) and has a large, neckless ex-boxer boyfriend who drags them to the ATM to withdraw all their savings. 

While I think you’d have to be pretty stupid to think that a “hot,” eastern European girl actually wants to talk to you, this Turkish scam is a lot more innocent and quite worrisome.  Luckily for me, however, I and my anemic skin tone had beaten the system.  There was no way anyone could mistake me for a Turk.  I am the anti-Turk.  I have \spent enough time in Africa to know that everyone thinks I am Russian or German anyway, so I would be well-aware of any scams in the making; in fact, I am almost scam-proof in this regard.  So when several people, independent of one and other, approached me and ask me if I was from _______, because I have a ____-ish face, I thought to myself, “Oh my god, I know what is going on.  They think I am a sex tourist.”  I was onto their game, and what they thought of people from a specific northern European country.  There is no other explanation.*  In each situation when I was asked if I was from _______, I uttered “NO!” and fled the scene.  Can’t scam me.

So I locked up all my money and possessions in the hostel and spent the entire first day in Constantinople artfully dodging scam artists and trying to soak up the beauty of the sunset in some lesser-frequented neighbourhoods outside of Taxim.  Waiting at a crosswalk I noticed an old man carrying a shoe-shining stool had dropped his brush so I quickly scooped it up and handed it to him, as a conscientious individual might do.  He was so grateful that he insisted he shine my shoes for free.  I told him I had no money.  He told me it was for free.  I reiterated that I had no money.  He reiterated that it was for free.  I then said, “Look, I don’t think you’re fully grasping the situation: you’re not just a homeless person.  I’m not just saying I have no money.  I actually have no money.”  He articulated roughly the same message to me about it being free.  I gave up and said, “Fine, let me enjoy this free shoe-shining.”  When he finished and inevitably asked for any money I had, I reversed my pockets to show him that I actually had nothing on me.  He persisted in asking for anything, and I remembered I had a two Lev Bulgarian note in my fifth pocket.  I pulled it out, handed to him and told him to go exchange it.  He wasn’t happy, and sure I technically got scammed, but my shoes look great. 

*I am not printing the name of said country for so many reasons, but I will let you know that in Chisinau I overheard the hostel receptionist, a sweet young girl whose English was quite impressive, exclaim to a young couple checking in, “You’re the first _____ people I’ve met that aren’t sex tourists!”  While it was a bit of strange thing to say, chiefly because the girl had no proof to back this up, these are the moments I live for because they reaffirm the national stereotyping that movies like Hostel and Hostel II have worked hard to indoctrinate me with.