Before dawn in Istanbul, the air smelled different. Connor Stark cranked open the hotel window and inhaled the lingering scents of onions cooked on open braziers, overripe fruit, dust, and diesel fuel, now melded into one tangy harbinger of the day to come--yesterday's leftovers with none of the color and freshness.
Still, it beat the stuffiness of his room. In the weak light from a ceiling fixture, he loaded his many vest pockets with film cartridges and lenses and a digital camera, but slung the strap of his trusty Nikon around his neck. With wallet and passport in a security pouch under his shirt, he felt more like a spy than a travel photographer. A last-minute check to make sure he had everything he'd need, then he pocketed his room key and slipped out to make his way across the restive city.
Connor's best photographs usually came from the fringes of the day: sunrise and sunset. Mid-day brought out the crowds, and crowds tended to block out and trivialize the breathtaking scenery that inspired travel. There was a time when he'd been fascinated with churning, teeming masses of humanity, but magazine editors valued the photos that showed off a particular location to its best advantage. So Connor synchronized his internal clock to take advantage of those special times of day. Sometimes jet lag was a boon.
A clear September sky promised a glorious sunrise over the Haghia Sophia, the basilica turned mosque turned museum that was this morning's destination. It had been nearly ten years since he'd photographed Istanbul. That had been one of his first major assignments. He'd worked with a freelance writer to do a piece for National Geographic Traveler, and after he and the writer turned in their article, the two had gone on to travel throughout Turkey. The result was a pictorial guidebook still in print today.
The book lasted longer than the partnership, though. Patrick, so talented at describing not only the tourist attractions but the local life as well, had settled into a steady job with the Cleveland Plain Dealer, bought a house in suburbia, fathered three children, and limited his excursions to an occasional eight-hour drive in the family mini-van. Connor hadn't entirely forgiven him. The book needed updating, and Patrick wasn't available to travel with him. Connor's emailed photos and notes had to do double duty, and still Patrick's writing would be second-hand information; ten years had elapsed since Patrick had been in Turkey, too. Plus he missed Patrick's witty running commentary, Connor thought as he approached the courtyard of the Haghia Sophia.
The city had expanded: modern metropolis bumping hard against ancient architecture. Luckily the children hawking postcards and the guides selling their services weren't out yet. He circumnavigated the building, checking light and angles, using the lightweight digital camera to test several shots before committing to film. As morning splayed its glorious orange rays off the dome, he picked up the pace, alternating between cameras. When the doors opened to the public, he was the first inside.
He started with the more popular sights and wound up with the obscure, creating a visual story of the building's tug-o-war history. The walls and panels where crosses had been exorcised when Muslims claimed the edifice from the Christians made him pause. Patrick wouldn't need to change a thing there; they'd covered that bit of history well in the guidebook.
Before the daily waves of tour groups elbowed into position close to the gilded mosaic of Christ or gazed upward to marvel at the largest expanse of dome built during the entire Byzantine era, Connor had finished. He wandered into the courtyard only to be greeted by a street urchin no more than ten years of age.
The youngster held aloft a packet of cheap postcards, but when he saw Connor's camera equipment he quickly switched tactics.
"Gum? Candy?" the kid asked, and fished a box of Chiclets from his pants pocket. "Cards?" He produced a pack of playing cards with glossy photos of naked women on them. "Play strip poker with your woman."
"My woman," Connor repeated. "Solitaire, more like it." He was tempted to buy the cards just so the boy wouldn't have them, but knew they'd be replaced immediately. "You're pretty good. Where'd you learn to speak English?"
"Working here," he said, thrusting out his pint-sized chest. "Chumps like you teach me everything." He fanned the cards. "You like the ladies?"
"Those aren't ladies, kiddo. You don't know nearly enough." He then broke his own cardinal rule about beggars and flipped the boy a coin without taking anything in return. "Go to school," he said, more to ease his conscience than help the kid.
He escaped before the boy could follow him. Time for breakfast, a cup or two of the strong dark brew the Turks passed off as coffee, and a chance to plan his next foray. He stood curbside, scanning the street for a decent place to grab a bite to eat, just as a high-rise tour bus rolled up. A woman, obviously the tour director, stood in the aisle of the bus facing the group as she talked into a microphone. A portly man in the front seat adjusted his Chicago Bulls cap. The plump woman next to him tugged at the pink and white striped knit top that matched her pink slacks.
Americans. He could tell by their clothing, their bulk, their oh-so-American shoes as they got off the bus. Not that he had anything against his countrymen, of course--except the way they traveled in packs. Connor wasn't a pack animal when it came to exploring foreign soil.
As he looked in through the large windshield, the director hugged the front pole near the bus driver and allowed the passengers to exit. Connor started to walk away, but hesitated as the director reached out to help an elderly woman from the seat behind the driver. He couldn't say what caught his eye. Perhaps the comparison in size, for the petite young director stood eye level to the stooped old woman, to whom she offered her arm.
Perhaps he was just curious to glimpse her face, which was obstructed by the glare off the windshield. But what really held his attention was the delicate combination of strength and gentleness in her manner as she supported the elderly woman down the stairs and onto the street. She hitched her oversized purse onto her right shoulder as though in counterweight to the human cargo on her left. Her back remained his only view of her as she quickly took charge of the group, shepherding them toward the courtyard.
)
Travel photographer Connor Stark captures the inanimate beauty of Istanbul from behind the safe distance of a camera lens. But it's the lively tour guide Natasha Plakouris that captures his imagination. He is destined to work alone while she's tethered to her group of tourists, until a twist of fate changes their itineraries.
