A shoe-shiner in Taksim. Photo taken by Sandy Smith.
There you are, a fresh tourist, enjoying Istanbul for the first time. Maybe you are walking through Sultanahmet, awed at the majesty of the Sultanahmet Mosque and Aya Sofya. Perhaps you are strolling down Istiklal Street in Taksim, window shopping for deserts. You mentally force the calls of street vendors and shop owners into the buzz of background noise and decide to take a turn down a side street.
Once you turn, you get a little excited by the prospect of wandering the labyrinth that lays ahead. Just if front of you, you see two shoe-shiners. They would be working side by side, except for the lack of customers at the moment. Maybe one of them wishes you a good day or asks you where you are from as you walk toward them and you smile, unsure how to respond. So, you keep walking. The other one seems to realize that he has no prospects on this street and hurries towards you and towards the main streets. You think he is looking for customers, but he knows he already has one: you.
You hear a light thud and turn to see he has dropped his brush in all his haste. Being the kind and helpful tourist you are, you turn back, pick up the brush and call after him. He turns back, smiles embarrassingly as he realizes his mistake and begins thanking you in rapid Turkish, gesturing towards his mobile shoe-shine kit. You speak back in English saying no thank you, but he doesn’t understand your language and continues to gesture toward his kit. He is offering you a gift, you believe, a reward for returning his lost brush. Then, as soon as you set your foot down, he gains the ability to speak English.
He tells you his story, about how his child is in the hospital, in need of an operation. He is not from Istanbul, you see, but only came here from his village so that his child could get better treatment, though he doesn’t know how he will pay for it. He would have been devastated if he had lost his brush, he says, it is his only way to make a living. As he finishes up with your reward, your gift for returning his brush, he opens his hand and says simply, “tip?” When you offer him a few extra one lira coins in your pocket, he may even have the audacity to tell you, “No, paper money only.” You, feeling guilty about his child in the hospital and possibly even more guilty that you may not believe him, offer him a 5 or 10 lira note and you each walk your separate way.
You continue walking through the neighborhoods, discussing the situation with your travel partner or significant other. You want to believe him. You want to believe that you were helping him. You and your friend discuss this unable to come to a conclusion. That is, until you hear the faint thud of another wooden brush behind you and see another shoe-shiner hurrying away. This time, you don’t pick it up.
