After two weeks in Sofia, Bulgaria and another two in Istanbul, Turkey, I was just starting to feel independent. I was staying with some students at their spacious apartment in a relatively nice area of Istanbul called Ortaköy. It was fabulous: free place to stay, beautiful girls to party with and a wonderful resident chef. Unfortunately, they had jobs and summer classes, so I was left to my own devices during the day. Off I went then, into Istanbul.

The area at which I felt most comfortable was Taksim, a square at the top of a long steep embankment along the Golden Horn (an extension of the Bosphorous channel) and at the northeastern end of Istiklal Caddesi, the hippest strip in the city. My Turkish hosts had already taken me partying at various Istiklal locations. So it came that when cabin fever drove me from the apartment in Ortaköy into the feverish Turkish summer and repetition barred me from yet another mosque or palace, I hung out at Taksim Square, vulturing for the tiny blotches of shade offered by the wisps of transplanted trees and cursing when the sun shifted from behind my sparse shelter.

Many Africans hang out at Taksim Square. I was there on a particular day searching for the South African friend I had made. We’ll say his name was Mark (all the Africans I met had taken on English names). After cruising all sides of the square and trying to afford subtlety in my examinations of each African face I saw, I uncovered not a trace of Mark.

The square was always filled, as was most of the city, with poor Turks trying to sell a little bit of something, usually small packages of Kleenex, or bottled water. The woman who was always there selling tea (served in cups cleaned, supposedly, in a mysterious, unseen fashion) yelled to me in Turkish as I passed. I ignored her, accustomed as I had become to irritating merchants. When I passed later she yelled again and gestured. I could not understand her intention and, as I still sought Mark, I merely offered in return, "Turkçe bilmyorum!" ("I don’t speak Turkish."). Later, when I sat by myself on a bench, the old tea lady sat beside me and began speaking animatedly in Turkish. I reminded her again of my comprehension skills, but she persisted, unfazed. Apparently she neither spoke nor understood any English at all.

She touched my numerous earrings, she pointed to my pink Ray Ban sunglasses, she picked up my long ponytail. I still merely shook my head. Finally she grabbed my breast firmly and continued to talk. I felt no threat from this frail old woman, so I merely gave her a confused look. She took my hand, placed it on her breast and pointed at herself, talking all the while. She moved my hand back and forth, pointing to me then herself alternately. I finally understood. In this culture of homogenized masculinity, she had initially thought I was a woman.

I wasn’t sure if she continued in this ambiguity despite my hairy legs, day’s facial growth and lower voice, so I pointed at my crotch to press her to the final test and said in expressive English, "You wanna check down here?"

The old tea lady took this as absolutely the most hilarious thing she’d ever seen. She took me over to the bench that served as her HQ and sat me down in the shade. I had apparently won her over. She talked to me ever more excitedly, not caring that I didn’t understand. She turned out to be quite kind and eventually told me her name was Anna. She introduced me to everyone who stopped by and told each person the story of my proudly asserted gender. Everyone took in the story with a laugh, though no one was quite as entertained as Anna.

I learned from her and many others that Turks enjoy a good joke and if you show that you’re in on the fun, even when it’s at your own expense, you will be taken in as an approved guest.

I later ran into Mark and we went for $1.75 (750,000 Turkish Lira) beers. Sweet.