Julia looks around. Despite the early hour, the promenade is already busy with tour groups and vendors selling chargrilled corn on the cob from red and white carts.
She points to a paved walkway. “According to the map, the hostel area should be down there somewhere.”
They descend the cobbled pathway and make their way through a tangle of tiny roads, catching glimpses of the sparkling Bosporus as they go. The mostly three-story buildings surrounding them are well-kept, with wrought iron flower boxes beneath pretty sash windows and big stone pots with olive and palm trees straddling the front doors.
They turn left and the area changes. Buildings become rundown. Paint peels off in leaves. Plaster crumbles in places. Power and phone lines are tangled in nests at the top of their wooden poles.
An old woman in a blue head scarf and PVC scuffs emerges from one of the decrepit houses. She squints at Julia and Leo then shuffles off down the road toward a red-bricked railway bridge.
Leo points to a small white sign. “Hey, what does that say?”
They move closer. Cankurtaran.
Julia examines the map. “We’ve come too far.”
They circle back until they find a street lined with bars and restaurants, most of which have outside seating sheltered beneath awnings decorated with fairy lights and hanging lamps. Clearly, the nightlife area. Most of the establishments are empty given the early hour; the only signs of life are the blinking big-screen TVs inside. Julia and Leo continue on and soon the bars and restaurants give way to buildings converted to hostels and guest houses. Julia stops outside one painted a strange shade of yellow. She tucks the map into her pocket and turns to Leo.
“Let me do the talking,” she says and opens the door.
19
The hostel, aptly named The Hostel, is a little rundown with a pokey unmanned reception area. Definitely for travelers on a budget, Julia thinks, looking around at the drab décor. She’s about to ring the service bell when a beautiful, long-limbed African American woman appears at the top of the staircase.
“Julia?” she says, with a slight southern accent. “I’m Yasmin.”
Julia smiles at her. “I’m so sorry we’re late, we got a little lost.”
Yasmin shrugs an impossibly elegant shoulder. “It happens around here.”
When Yasmin reaches the bottom of the stairs, there’s an awkward pause because no one’s quite sure whether to shake hands or embrace. Finally, Yasmin moves in for a quick cheek-to-cheek and squeeze of the arm, and does the same for Leo.
“There’s a seating area on the roof. The others are up there already.”
“Others?”
Yasmin nods, holding her hands loosely in front of her. “A group of us usually travel together. I thought you might want to speak to them, too.”
“Oh, thank you. That would be very useful,” says Julia.
They follow Yasmin up the stairs and through a wooden door, emerging on the rooftop. Leo whistles.
“I know, utterly beautiful, isn’t it?” says Yasmin, gazing out at the spectacular view.
The Blue Mosque is so close that Julia can see the black webbing on the feet of the gulls circling the stone turrets. Beyond that, the beautiful sunlit waters of the Golden Horn sparkle between the dusty-orange terracotta rooftops and earthy-stone terraces. Julia has to agree with Yasmin: it’s one of the most spectacular vistas she’s ever seen.
She looks around at the rest of the rooftop. The seating area is the typical backpacker set-up with a mismatch of furniture—a few tables, fold-up chairs, and a couple of dingy couches. Over to the right, there’s a trestle table with a water cooler and stainless-steel hot water dispenser, containers of instant coffee and tea to the left.
Four people, three women and one man, sit together on a sofa near a low table covered with a vinyl red gingham tablecloth. Yasmin introduces them to Julia and Leo. There’s Conner, an Irish redhead with a pasty complexion. Sally, a short-haired Australian in cargo pants and red plaid shirt. Nicole, a lean, athletic Canadian eating sunflowers seeds from a ziplock bag. And Debbie, a short, plump woman from Norway.
Yasmin glances at the door. “And Daniel should be here soon. He didn’t get in until late.”
Leo and Julia take a seat opposite.
“Thank you so much for meeting us,” says Julia. “I really appreciate you taking the time.”
“We all knew Toni and want to help in any way we can,” says Nicole, earnestly.
“Toni was such fun. Is such fun,” says Debbie, unpeeling a wrapper from a granola bar and taking a bite. “She has this thing, you know, a gift, where she would hold us all spellbound whenever she’d tell us one of her crazy travel stories, but I’m sure you already know that, being her sister.”
Sally rolls her eyes and reaches inside the front pocket of her shirt for a pack of cigarettes.
“Let’s not deliver her eulogy just yet,” says Sally, placing a cigarette between her lips. “Perhaps she just got sick of you lot.”
“Gosh, Sal,” says Nicole, eyes darting toward Julia and Leo. “You could show a bit more sensitivity.”
Debbie chimes in. “Yes, we all need to keep a positive frame of mind. Send good vibes out into the universe.”
“Kumbaya my Lord, someone’s singing,” groans Sally under her breath.
Julia catches Leo’s eye and he returns her look. He’s clocked the interesting group dynamic, too.
“So how did you all know Toni?” asks Julia.
Yasmin pushes
