We Lived in a Conservative Area of Istanbul. It Tested the Limits of My Tolerance.

At first, I loved living in Fatih. But the longer I stayed, the more uncomfortable I became.

For the audio version of this article, read by the author, go here.

tolerance /ˈtɒl(ə)rəns/

noun

The ability or willingness to tolerate the existence of opinions or behavior that one dislikes or disagrees with.

Last April, Brent and I spent a month in Balat, a small neighborhood in Istanbul’s sprawling Fatih district. This was the heart of ancient Constantinople.

Balat is now a popular tourist attraction, well-known for its steep hills and famous pastel-colored buildings. Most tourists stick to the twisty warren of streets close to the Golden Horn, packed with restaurants, quirky coffee shops, and stores selling antiques or Turkish Delight.

It’s a great place to eat and explore.

Our favorite restaurant in Balat.

But Brent and I lived higher up the hill, where tourists rarely venture. This part of Balat is more typical of the greater Fatih area. It’s poorer and also one of the most conservative neighborhoods in Istanbul.

One of my chores as Brent and I travel the world is shopping for our groceries.

And one afternoon in early April, I found myself inside a local fruit and vegetable shop.

The narrow aisles were filled with stacks of bright red tomatoes, purple pomegranates, and cheerful lemons, as well as darker piles of potatoes, dried mushrooms, and leafy greens.

All around me, I saw women in black abayas with small children in tow. They smelled the fruits and squeezed the vegetables, carefully choosing ingredients for the meals they would soon prepare for their families.

I was one of the few men and the only Westerner.

At 6’1”, I towered over everyone else. It didn’t help that I was so pasty, a bit sweaty, and not a little confused about how to weigh and pay for my purchases.

I was a stranger in a strange land.

But I didn’t mind in the least.

In fact, I like being a fish out of water. And here in Fatih, I was surrounded by people who at least looked entirely unlike me: mostly traditionally dressed Muslim women. I probably even had a little smile on my face, loving everything about the experience.

I enjoy places like this.

Our first week in Balat flew by. But we’d come to Istanbul so Brent could have foot surgery, which took place the following week. During that time, we were occupied by doctors’ visits, the surgery, and Brent’s fairly painful recovery.

I nursed him as much as he needed me.

But I still had to do the shopping — and I also had other time to myself, especially in the early mornings.

By the third week, Brent was starting to be back on his feet — at least with a cane, if only in the apartment — so I resumed my explorations of Balat and the rest of Fatih.

Balat’s colorful houses always made me smile.

But now my feelings began to change.