JUST PUBLISHED: I travelled to Istanbul for a man. Strangers saved me instead

I had flown there to spend nine days with someone I had recently grown close to. A rare bright spot during a period when I was desperate for something steady. Something safe.

But three days in, he left. I was upset about him, yes, but my nervous system reacted first. One minute I had plans and promises he’d be by my side. The next, I was in a city I barely knew. His disappearance felt as though the floor disappeared beneath me. I lay on my hotel bed staring at the ceiling, thinking, ah, so we are doing personal growth…again.

Meanwhile, Istanbul roared to life beyond my window. The city thrums and sings and honks and occasionally screams “SIMIT!” like carbs are an emergency (which they were).

Prayer calls drifted over rooftops. Cats sprawled across 500-year-old ruins, tiny emperors judging my emotional stability.

Panic gripped me on trams while my brain whispered helpful things like, “You are going to die here” and “Why did you leave the house?”

Knees shook on ancient cobblestones that photograph beautifully yet behave as though the ground is politely trying to murder you. Tears arrived in mosques and alleyways. Once in front of a pomegranate juice stand, which sounds dramatic, but fruit have witnessed worse.

I thought I would fall apart alone. Instead, strangers kept nudging me back to my feet in small, unexpected ways.

The Grand Bazaar was like someone fed a normal market three espressos and cranked the saturation. Lanterns hung from ceilings, carpets cascaded from every angle, and stall keepers waved Turkish delight at me.

My breath wobbled and my throat tightened. Colours blurred. Voices stacked.

A rug seller gestured me into his shop, away from the noise. I sank onto a low cushion while he brewed apple tea.

“I lived in Melbourne for a few years.” He handed me a cup. “Only a few kilometres from you. I always like seeing Australians.”

I told him about the man I had come for, and how suddenly I was alone in a foreign country.

“Show me a picture of him,” he said.

I passed over my phone.

He examined the screen, frowned, and shook his head. “I already do not trust him.”

Judge Judy with carpets.

A laugh slipped out. My shoulders loosened for the first time that day.

“You do not have to be alone,” he said. “Come back tonight. We will drink Turkish tea with my friends.”

No angle. No flirtation. Sometimes safety arrives in the form of tea and someone treating your heart as something to sit beside rather than fix.

I sat at a cafe near Galata Tower, sipping Turkish salep.

The tower rose above, a medieval lighthouse refusing retirement, smug in its angles and watching cobbled streets full of cats and tourists taking photos for Instagram. My eyes stayed red and puffy, the global sign for, “yes, I cried in public.”

A waiter glanced at my face, disappeared, and returned with a slice of baklava. “For you.”

No questions. No commentary.

I stayed there, held together by pistachios and a waiter pretending not to see me cry.

I stood frozen over Apple Maps in Sultanahmet, trying to work out how to get to Taksim Square. The smell of roasted chestnuts drifted through the air. Men walked past carrying trays of knock-off watches to sell. My brain stared at the screen as if it had never encountered a map. Or a street. Or the idea of direction.

A man appeared beside me. “You look lost.”

“I am. The map keeps losing track of where I am.”

“Apple Maps do not work well here. Use Uber. Easier than public transport. And keep your bag in front. Pickpockets.” He pointed toward the road. “Taksim Square is loud. Honking buses, sizzling food, music vibrating through the pavement, crowds thick and impatient.”

I nodded like this was groundbreaking wisdom instead of basic travel advice.

“Welcome to Istanbul.”

Kadıköy hummed with fish stalls, record shops, street art, and ferry horns, umbrellas overhead as if the neighbourhood insisted colour was a right, not a luxury. A man selling roses moved through the crowd, offering flowers to anyone who paused. One passerby shook their head.

A man stepped forward, bought a rose, and handed it to me. “Everyone keeps looking at you.”

I twirled the rose. “What’s this for?”

“Just felt right.”

Maybe he sensed I was struggling. I held that flower as the street buzzed around me, a tiny life raft in my hand.

That night, I placed it in a mug on the hotel desk. Something in my chest eased each time I saw it.

I’d heard Turkish men could be bold with tourists. Some were. But others offered something gentler. Not romance, but steadiness.

I arrived hoping to feel chosen by one person. Instead, a city steadied me quietly and unexpectedly, through gestures so small they barely made a sound.

A rug seller questioning my taste in men. A waiter avoiding eye contact while sliding baklava toward me. A stranger making sure I did not accidentally wander into the Bosphorus Strait. A rose in a mug lasting longer than my situationship.

Sometimes softness comes from places you never think to look. And sometimes the world catches you when the person you came for does not.