As I tuck the racing camel into my backpack and begin to walk away, the old man reaches out and grabs my arm. He puts something in my hand, I can feel him tremble as he struggles to folds my fingers around the object. He shakes and pats my closed fist with both of his hard bent hands. It’s a tesbih, Islamic prayer beads, each bead a small blue and white evil-eye. I thank him again. He nods politely, rica ederim.
This, too, is Istanbul.