Granted, it was a small sample, but from the Turkish TV dramas I’d  watched in passive attempts to learn the language, all of the blonde women were evil. Friends in Istanbul called me Caroline, which I interpreted as a sort of odd pop culture compliment, until I learned that in this particular series, Caroline was a German vixen who stole a Turkish man from his wife and five children. Later in the show, the wife met Caroline in the street and stabbed her. I briefly considered life as a brunette.

One afternoon, I stopped at Taksim Square to sit, take notes, attempt to collect the pieces of that day. A stray dog spotted me, circled me, and rested nearby. I tried various English and Turkish words to encourage him into depart–to no avail.  He only came closer and made himself at home against my boot.

Tourists paused from placing their…