Nomads, Homeless... or Somewhere in Between?

"Where are you from?" the rug seller asked.

We gave him our usual answer.

"Are you nomads?"

Bob and I looked at each other, shrugged, and nodded.

"Yes."

He paused for a moment before asking his next question.

"Are you homeless?"

Again, we looked at each other. Another shrug.

"No... not really."

It was one of those conversations that stayed with me.

After ten years living aboard Rhapsody, we've become used to people asking where we're from or where we're going next. But home? That's a much harder question. When someone asks if we're flying home, the answer is usually, "Yes... and no."

That conversation turned out to be a fitting introduction to Istanbul.

Having just come from India and Indonesia, Istanbul felt like taking a deep breath. Not because it wasn't busy—it certainly was—but because the rhythm was different. The traffic was more orderly than in India. Cars generally stayed in their lanes, taxi drivers rarely leaned on their horns, and somehow the city just felt calmer.

There were similarities too. In both India and Istanbul, history isn't something you visit. It's simply part of everyday life. Ancient buildings stand beside modern ones, narrow streets twist unexpectedly around corners, and you are constantly reminded that people have been walking these same streets for centuries. The biggest surprise, though, was just how hilly Istanbul is. Some of the streets were steep enough that I found myself looking back down them wondering how we had just climbed that.

The Spice Market 

One thing I noticed almost immediately was how clean the city felt. Garbage bins were plentiful, and we often saw shopkeepers washing the sidewalks in front of their businesses. There seemed to be a real sense of pride in caring for the small patch of city that belonged to them.

Perhaps even more importantly, we felt safe. That may sound like a small thing, but it goes a long way toward how much we enjoy a city. We were comfortable wandering unfamiliar neighborhoods, riding the trams, and simply exploring without feeling on edge.

Then there were the cats.

I'd heard Istanbul was known as the City of Cats, but I wasn't prepared for just how many there would be. They were everywhere—healthy, well fed, and obviously well cared for. Bowls of food and water sat outside shops, and many of the cats seemed convinced that tourists existed solely to provide petting.

More than once, a cat climbed into my lap while we were eating and settled in with a loud purr. I was completely delighted... right up until it was time to leave and I discovered my black shirt had become an excellent collector of cat fur.

One afternoon we wandered into one of Istanbul's beautiful parks. In the middle of a city of millions, it felt surprisingly peaceful. Families watched children play while workers planted roses nearby. Young and old stretched out on benches for afternoon naps. Hooded crows strutted confidently across the grass while enormous seagulls wandered among them as though they owned the place.

It was the kind of place where nothing much happened, and that was exactly the point.

The Bosphorus offered another glimpse into everyday life.

In all of our travels, we have rarely seen the local population swimming simply for pleasure. Here, the banks of the Bosphorus were filled with groups of men and boys enjoying the water. Some were swimming, others were fishing from almost every bridge, pier, and seawall, while others gathered to barbecue, talk, and simply enjoy spending the afternoon together.

What stayed with me most was not only what I saw, but what I didn't see.

During all of our time along the waterfront, I did not see a single woman or girl swimming, fishing, or joining these gatherings.

It bothered me.

Here was this beautiful public space where people were relaxing, socializing, and enjoying the water, yet half the population seemed absent. I found myself wondering what that meant for the women of Istanbul.

Standing on one of the bridges, I looked across the skyline. Everywhere I looked, another slender minaret reached into the sky. We had seen many mosques in Indonesia too, but one thing I noticed immediately was the sound. In Indonesia, when several mosques began the call to prayer at the same time, blasted over loudspeakers, Bob and I jokingly referred to it as "karaoke." Fifteen mosques calling together created quite a cacophony. In Istanbul, it somehow felt more subdued, less of a feeling of competition between the calls, almost woven into the rhythm of the city.

Of course, we visited the famous Blue Mosque.

I have to admit, it was less blue than I expected.

Imagine if everything was as blue as these column sections

Time and restoration have softened many of the original colours, but it remains an impressive building. 

Before entering, I covered my hair, and both men and women had to make sure our shoulders and knees were covered. We were then directed around to the back of the mosque, away from the main entrance used by those coming to pray, and entered through the entrance reserved for non-Muslim visitors.

Bob in purple socks courtesy of Turkish Airlines

As visitors, I believe it's important to respect the customs of the places we travel. Covering my hair wasn't a hardship; it was simply part of being a respectful guest.

What I found more difficult was the feeling that religion or gender could influence where someone belonged. Perhaps that was why the absence of women along the Bosphorus lingered in my mind. I couldn't help wondering about the lives of the women I wasn't seeing as much as the ones I was.

Beautiful domes

We had planned to spend a day exploring the Asian side of Istanbul, but travel had other ideas. Long flights seem determined to leave one of us sick, no matter how carefully we prepare. This time Bob got sick first and generously shared it with me, two days later.

There is no winning.

Instead, we spent the day resting, watching ferries cross the Bosphorus, people-watching from our window, and reminding ourselves that slowing down isn't always a bad thing.

One of my favorite small moments was seeing the Turkish Delight shops. Ever since reading The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe as a child, Turkish Delight has always brought back memories of that story. Seeing shop windows overflowing with every imaginable variety made me smile.

And yes... I sampled plenty.

Between the Turkish Delight, baklava, saffron tea, and ginger tea offered in the markets, I was never very hungry. The shopkeepers were often disappointed that I didn't buy the quantities they suggested. At the rate they wanted to sell it, I would have had enough to last until next summer.

Not every offer of tea or sample was completely selfless. Sometimes hospitality and salesmanship went hand in hand. But many acts of kindness expected nothing in return.

One afternoon we returned to find a box of baklava waiting outside our door from our Airbnb host. Later he surprised us again with a beautifully decorated notebook. Restaurants invited us to sit inside and enjoy tea while waiting for a taxi. More than once, complete strangers noticed we looked slightly confused and stopped to point us in the right direction before continuing on with their day.

Those small acts are what I'll remember most.

I'll remember the Blue Mosque. I'll remember the Bosphorus. I'll even remember picking cat fur off my shirt.

But what has stayed with me most is a simple question from a rug seller.

"Are you nomads?"

Yes.

"Are you homeless?"

No... not really.

After ten years aboard Rhapsody, I still don't have a simple answer when someone asks if we're flying home.

The answer is usually...

"Yes... and no.”