Magic, mystery and misery in Istanbul

I WAS most beautifully stitched up by a shoeshine man at the famous Galata Bridge in Istanbul on the calm morning before the storm of Wednesday night.

He hailed me as I sauntered by, miming that he needed a light. I obliged, and we nodded in a friendly manner.

But then he refused to give me back the lighter. Holding it close to his chest, he assured me that I was a “gentleman tourist” and since he too was a gentleman, the least he could do was return the favour by shining my admittedly scruffy shoes.