This was probably one of his better ideas. Not like Prague in the winter, that had been a... good idea? Not really though. Rauf hadn't packed for that volume of snow. The city had been gorgeous but Rauf didn't really do snow. This trip was a much better idea though, not to mention he'd never really been this far east before. Let other people photograph the war torn middle east and the Asian continent. He liked Europe and North America more; he could appreciate the architecture.
But Constantinople was an entirely different sort of fish than other European or even Eastern cities. It straddled two continents, but he wouldn't call it Eurasian either. He'd seen Eurasian and Constantinople wasn't it. It was more Arabic and middle eastern and so not what Rauf usually photographed. Which a lot of people thought was strange because he was middle eastern. He sometimes wanted to jam his fist down their throats. Just because his parents were from Syria didn't he liked middle eastern architecture. He was American, not Syrian. His mother wore hijab but they were modern and moderate and Rauf couldn't actually remember the last time he'd actually been to a mosque for prayer. Not since he'd left home really, maybe a bit in college with friends, but since he'd started this job for real he didn't really go to service. He wasn't especially religious but now and then he did shoot a quick word up to Allah. Usually that his shot was good.
Constantinople was full of twisting avenues and little side streets. He was in the middle of the lower paying and poorer districts in the historical area because this was what he took pictures of. His SLR was half full already when though it wasn't even lunch. It was his first day in Constantinople and he was getting a feel for the city and the people and what there was to take pictures of. Everyone took pictures of the Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia, he didn't take pictures of mosques or churches usually; not his thing. He liked taking pictures of every day architecture and people. Especially people actually. His camera was full of women and men and children in the streets and in vendor stalls and markets.
He liked markets too and what wasn't people and architecture was food and spices. Fresh and cooked and heaped and stacked and all piled on plates and bowls, the vendors usually hovering near by as the strange man with a camera took pictures of their wares, though were also usually plenty happy to see him since tourists didn't come down here. No 'rich' Americans here, though Rauf would call himself rich, he could still afford to travel as he did as more than one magazine and editor wanted his photos. That was why he was here actually, on assignment. This wasn't someplace he'd go normally. But the magazine had bought him a ticket and booked his room; he couldn't really say no.
Rauf stopped at an intersection, his camera strap over his arm. He had his lira stuffed into his boots so they wouldn't be stolen and was thinking about lunch. It was nearing noon and after traipsing through a market full of good smelling everything he wanted meat. Meat and rice and pita and funny colored sauces that tasted like heaven.
But... Where did he even start?
He picked a direction at random at the intersection and started down the street. Constantinople smelled perpetually of cooking food it seemed and he just had to follow his nose.
He followed it down the street, and cut through an alley to the parallel street. He stopped there again and this time was drawn not by his nose, but his ears. There was a lot hear in a big city like this. People and children and animals making noise, dogs running in the streets. Music and prayers drifted from open windows from old boomboxes and from a tiny counter store a radio broadcast a soccer game. But this wasn't any of that. It was a guitar.
He followed the music, past the open windows playing pop songs and the radio with its soccer. He passed women cooking and men playing chess on the side of the street, turbans twisted up elegantly and perfectly, arguing over which move the person should make, their beards streaming with salt. Rauf paused long enough to take a picture of them, a man in a white turban gesturing widely at another sitting across from the man he was obviously trying to help. Then he capped his camera and continued on.
He came to the end of the street and looked around. He was in a bit of a better and different area now. There was a cafe down the street and that's when Rauf saw what was making the music. A younger man was hunched over his full belly guitar in front of a cafe, plugged into a tiny, battery powered, amp at his feet. Rauf paused and took a picture of the street, which was empty, the cafe containing a few older men reading a newspaper in Arabic, and the young guitar player pouring over his guitar strings, playing a quick, but not peppy song that had his fingers flickering over the hole in his guitar and neck. He took a few shots, zooming in to get a better shot of the cafe, but really his lens kept getting pulled towards the musician. He took no less than half a dozen pictures of the man before making himself stop and remember his stomach.
He capped his camera and went to the cafe. He was hungry, so he got a seat outside, in the shade of the awning that we an unreal shade of magenta and yellow.
He ordered fish crusted in some spices and a semi clear sauce. Or something. Rauf was a photographer, not a food connoisseur. He just ordered something with fish and garlic and called it a day. As it was his Arabic was rusty when it came to speaking, and even rustier with reading. He didn't even try writing it.
He put his camera on the table and just sat back and relaxed. His feet hurt a bit from walking around. But it was a good hurt. The man on the guitar never stopped playing, and he didn't look up from the belly of his instrument either. It was spring here and the weather was still nice and it was nice in the open air cafe with the guitarist playing music that was ethnic to his ears.
The fish was brought and Rauf dug in. It was amazing. Then he perked up when suddenly Smoke on the Water started playing. He looked up at the guitarist and they were strumming the beat of the song. It was a good rendition and Rauf hummed along a little as he ate his fish. Then when it was all gone and he went to pay. He pulled the lira from his boot and handed it to the man behind the counter, speaking him in slightly broken Arabic about how wonderful the fish had been. He understood enough to smile and thank him profusely.
Smiling Rauf turned around in time to see someone pick his camera up off the table. All the blood rushed from his face. "Hey!" he called and the person holding his camera bolted. "That's my camera!" and he tried to give chase.
Very quickly he lost the thief and himself in the city and felt nothing but despair. That had been an expensive camera and he couldn't just replace it at the drop of a hat. He wasn't that well known of a photographer to have several cameras either. He just had that and his smart phone.
Rauf grabbed his beard with both hands and pulled it in frustration. They'd just... run off. And now he had no idea where he was. He tried to tell himself it could be worse, they could haven stolen his phone and his wallet too. It didn't work very well though. He had still lost his camera and he was on assignment. This was awful and he had no idea what to do.
He groaned. He had to go back to his hotel and tell the person who'd hired him. These roads weren't for cars though and he needed to find some. So he started walking, because he could do nothing else.
He could hear cars and the bigger bustle of a road when his ears perked. He heard someone playing a guitar and it was weirdly familiar. He stopped and looked around. There were no radios or boomboxes around and he could hear it. For some reason he thought of the guy at the cafe, playing his guitar, which was ridiculous since he'd left that cafe far behind now.
His curiosity got the better of him though. He followed the sound of the guitar down a tiny side street to an equally small intersection where five little lanes met creating a small square. Against one of the buildings the same musician was bent over his guitar. Rauf looked around, down one of the streets a pair of boys kicked a soccer ball back and forth. A cat lay on a window sill on the adjacent street. But otherwise they were alone.
He walked over to the man playing his guitar. They looked up as he approached and Rauf tried not to stare. He should have known that while not common his people could have pale eyes. But these were blue. A rich blue with smile lines at the edges that were starting to form. The man was bearded and dressed in bright colors, and while didn't wear a turban had a bandana holding back a riot of black curls. He stopped playing and rested the guitar on his thighs.
"Hi," the man said in Arabic.
"Hello," Rauf said slightly awkwardly.
"I believe this is yours, no?" and from behind his guitar where it was hidden he pulled out Rauf's camera.
"Oh god!" Rauf cried in English, "How did you get it?" he was sure to switch back to Arabic as the man gave it to him.
"I have ways," the blue eyed man said mysteriously.
"Thank you so much. You pretty much just saved my life," Rauf told him. "How can I repay you?"
"Tell me your name," they said with a smile that made the smile lines around his eyes deepen.
"Rauf al-Naib, I'm a photographer," he said. They just smiled brighter. "But really tell me if there's some way I can repay you," he insisted.
"That was all I wanted," they said. "I am Yusuf, also," and Yusuf slid off from the little ledge he was sitting on, and slung his guitar around to his back. "Have a nice day Rauf," and he started to walk away.
One problem with that. "Wait," Rauf called. He knew what he wanted to photograph in Constantinople now.
"Hmm?" Yusuf turned around to look at Rauf curiously.
Rauf grinned a little, also a bit nervous, feeling silly. He didn't normally do this. He was an urban environmental photographer but he wouldn't let this go. He wanted to remember those blue eyes. "Could I take your picture?" he asked. Yusuf's smile was answer enough.