We Rented an Apartment in Istanbul. When We Returned a Week Later to Move in, the Landlord was Gone.
Did we fall for the oldest scam in the book?
For the audio version of this article, read by the author, go here.
When Michael and I travel, I’m always looking for bargains. I’m on record as saying that the more you have someone “hold your hand” on your trip, the more you’re going to pay — sometimes two or three times as much.
But there are risks to my approach.
When we arrived in Istanbul, Turkey, in 2021, we booked a hotel in the city center for ten days to see the city’s most famous attractions.
But my plan was that once we were there, we would look for an apartment somewhere where we could stay long-term for two more months. And by being “on the ground,” we would find a real bargain.
I posted a couple of online inquiries, and a few days later, a local man named Farouk contacted me to say he had an apartment in the Beyoğlu neighborhood, right across the Golden Horn.
He didn’t have any photos of the apartment, but I took that as a good sign, bargain-wise, because he wasn’t a slick operator used to renting to “rich” American tourists.
And the rent was five hundred U.S. dollars a month, he said — considerably less than half what it seemed like similar apartments cost.
Would we be interested in seeing the place?
I told him we would, and the following day, we took a cab to see the apartment.
But we hadn’t yet realized how truly horrendous Istanbul’s traffic is, and it took us over an hour to go a mere four kilometers.
Worse, the neighborhood was pedestrian-only, so we had to get out and wander a crazy-complicated warren of narrow streets and winding alleys before we finally found the right building.
I admit the neighborhood looked incredibly charming. The street was cobblestone, and the buildings dripped with what looked like grapevines. Even better, it was right off bustling İstiklal Avenue, a famous, pedestrian-only shopping boulevard.
But we were already forty-five minutes late for our appointment, so I mostly just wanted to find Farouk and, hopefully, still see the apartment.
We rang the buzzer on the building, and Farouk came down to see us. He was a handsome Turkish man and so well dressed that he made me self-conscious. He smelled great too.
“I am so sorry we’re late!” I said, still flushed. “We’ve only been in town three days, so we took a cab, but we didn’t know how bad the traffic would be.”
He smiled, seemingly not annoyed at all. “Yes, the traffic is terrible here, and the subway is a much better choice. But it is fine, and I am excited for you to see the apartment.”
He led us up a darkened marble staircase, the steps deeply grooved from years of use. I confess I was already in love with this grand old building, which had to have been built at least a century ago.
The apartment itself was charming too — well decorated, with a big bed. It was a studio, but big enough to include a dedicated sitting area and a dining room table.
True, it didn’t have much of a kitchen, and there was no washing machine, but the rent supposedly included a laundry service for anything we needed washed.
There was even a little balcony half-engulfed in those lovely grapevines, although up close, I could see that the grapes had only just begun to ripen.
“This is Yusuf,” Farouk said, introducing us to a young man sitting off to one side, someone I hadn’t noticed before. “His family owns the building, but he doesn’t speak English, so I’ll have to translate.”
Yusuf stood up smiling. He said something in Turkish and handed us a box of the country’s famous Turkish Delight candy.
“He says this is for you,” Farouk said.
“Oh,” I said, taking it. “Thank you very much.”
“And what do you think of the apartment?” Farouk asked.
Michael and I looked around again — and also at each other. It was clear we both thought it was an amazing place at an incredible price.
“It’s great,” I said at last. “I think we’ll take it. Can we move in in a week?”
Farouk smiled again. “Sure.” Then Yusuf spoke, holding up a piece of paper, and Farouk said, “Yusuf has a rental agreement for you to sign.”
Farouk took the paper from Yusuf, and I took it from him. I noticed it was all in Turkish. This made sense, since the whole point of this arrangement was to deal with locals, but it still made me uneasy. What exactly were we signing?
“And Yusuf will need some kind of deposit,” Farouk went on. “To hold the apartment.”
“Deposit?” I said, even more wary. “How much?”
“Well, what do you think is fair?”
The more I thought about it, the more I realized this didn’t seem unreasonable either. So I said, “How about two hundred dollars?” He had said during the online chat that he preferred to be paid in U.S. currency — that it was considered more desirable than the Turkish lira.
“That would be fine,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, realizing. “Except we didn’t bring any dollars with us.”
“You can get them from most of the nearby cash machines.”
I looked at Michael, and he shrugged.
“Okay,” I said to Farouk. “We’ll go do that.”
We left the apartment, but not necessarily to visit an ATM. Mostly, I wanted to talk everything over with Michael.
“What do you think?” I said when we were out in the street.
“What do you think?” Michael said.
I looked up at the balcony of the apartment, where Farouk had stepped out, looking down at us. He smiled and waved.
I forced out a smile and waved back.
As we walked down the street, I said to Michael, “Well, it’s a great apartment, a fantastic neighborhood, and a really good price. But… what if it’s a con?”
“You mean what if that’s not really their apartment?” Michael said.
“Yeah. They rented it for the day, or borrowed it from a friend, and we’ll come back in a week, and they’ll be gone? After all, Farouk contacted me. He wasn’t vetted in any way.”
Michael thought for a second. “I think we can trust them. If this is a con, wouldn’t they have asked for more money? The total rent in advance?”
“Well, maybe they’re trying to seem reasonable, to dupe stupid tourists like us. So they ask us how much of a deposit we want to leave. I mean, in Turkey, two hundred dollars is still a lot of money.”
“But if it’s a con to dupe tourists,” Michael said, “why would the rental agreement have been in Turkish? Farouk clearly speaks excellent English.”
This was a good point. Except maybe they were doing that to look more reasonable too. But did con artists really play 12th dimensional chess?
“We don’t have to take the apartment if you don’t want to,” Michael said. “We can just leave now, and you can text Farouk to say it wasn’t right.”
“But aren’t you suspicious at all? Farouk wasn’t even annoyed that we were forty-five minutes late. And a box of Turkish Delight? Really?”
“It is only two hundred dollars,” Michael said. “If it’s legit, we have a great apartment. And if you’re right and it’s a con, we’re not out that much money.”
This was a good point too.
“Okay,” I finally said. “Let’s get them that deposit.”
A week later, suitcases in tow, we returned to the apartment building and rang the buzzer.
No one answered.
We rang again, and still no one answered.
“I knew it!” I said. “It was a con just like I said! Now we have exactly eight hours to find somewhere else to stay.”
“If you knew it,” Michael said patiently, “why did you agree to give them the deposit?”
“Okay, I didn’t know it. But I strongly suspected.”
“Maybe they’re just late. Why don’t you call Farouk?”
I scoffed. “Like he hasn’t already blocked me. This was a con, remember?”
“Just call, okay?”
So I called.
To my surprise, Farouk picked up.
“Farouk? This is Brent. Where are you?” I was trying hard to keep the irritation out of my voice.
“At the apartment, waiting for you,” he said. “Where are you?”
I hesitated. Was this part of the con — a way to somehow extract more money from us?
“We’re standing outside,” I said. “Why didn’t you buzz us in?”
“I didn’t hear anything.”
I pushed the button again. “How about now?”
“Still nothing. Hold on.” I heard something creak. “I don’t see you.”
“What do you mean? We’re right outside!”
“I’m on the balcony, and I don’t see you.”
I looked up, but I didn’t see Farouk.
I also didn’t see, um, a balcony.
Which made me realize that Michael and I had come to the wrong street. That crazy-complicated warren of narrow streets and winding alleys? Many of the streets and buildings looked similar.
“I think we’re at the wrong apartment,” I said to Farouk. “What’s the address again?”
He gave me the address, and we found the right building one block over.
We met Farouk and Yusuf, paid them the $300 we owed, and moved into the apartment.
And we loved it so much, we ended up staying two and a half months. We would have stayed longer, but our visa ran out.
We had an absolutely magical time. We moved into that apartment when the grapes on the balcony had just begun to grow, and we didn’t leave until after they’d ripened.
And oh, how sweet they were.
Both Farouk and Yusuf also lived in the building, and we got to know them well, frequently joining Farouk for tea — and once we all took a fascinating excursion to the ancient hammam in the Istanbul neighborhood where Farouk grew up.
We also got to know the other colorful residents of the building, who were all weird and different, like the characters in some classic Graham Greene novel.
As for Istanbul, we lived the hell out of that amazing city, getting to know it as intimately as you can in that short amount of time and falling deeply in love with its many charms.
In our nine years of travel, our time in that Istanbul apartment building was easily one of our best experiences ever — and also one of the greatest bargains I’ve ever found.
All that worry about our being conned by Farouk and Yusuf was for nothing — we could absolutely trust them.
Then again, I’d told Michael that from the beginning.
Brent Hartinger is a screenwriter and author. Check out my new newsletter about my books and movies at www.BrentHartinger.com. And order my latest book, below.
Your story was Farouking brilliant!
Loved reading this! And I know the feeling so well, wanting to trust and not wanting to be conned. More often than not, trusting was the right choice.