From one hand, I’m taking bites of my cheese simit, and from the other, I’m spilling out my purchases from the spice market onto the kitchen table. Jon, my partner in love, life and travel, is impressed. Saffron, chili, cinnamon, strong Turkish coffee beans, among the aromatic acquisitions. Then a 20 euro note and a watering hose tumble out. Jon looks up at me. “You bought a hose – and you stole 20 euros? There must be a story behind this.”

Well, yes. It all started a few days earlier.

It’s our second day in Istanbul. Crossing the street above ground to catch the tram across Galata Bridge into Old Town is a test of survival skills, so we opt to walk through the underground tunnel instead. It’s late in the day, and the shopkeepers have packed up and closed their doors. Ahead of us, a shoe shine peddler is slowly heading home. His brush drops from his toolbox. Our reaction is instinctive. Jon picks up the brush and calls out to the man, who turns to us, puts his hand to his heart and says in Turkish something like, “Thank Allah. These brushes are so expensive; it is so kind of you to let me know. I must thank you.”

He’s speaking fast. He points to Jon’s shoes and motions that he will clean them. Jon politely protests, but the peddler is insistent. It seems a bit ridiculous. After all, Jon is wearing canvas runners.

In broken English, he asks where we’re from, are we married, do we have children. He tells us he has two children, but one is not well. Here we go. Jon and I exchange glances, and try to pry ourselves loose from our predicament, but it’s too late. The peddler keeps going. His daughter is in hospital, waiting for an operation but he can’t afford it. He repeats this several times, in case the meaning wasn’t clear.

Jon takes control of his feet again and hands over a few lira. We start to walk away, but the peddler gets in our way. “Nineteen,” he says in almost perfect English. Jon laughs. The peddler repeats himself, angry now. I look around – we’re all alone down here. Jon hands over another five lira and says forcefully, “That’s it, buddy.” We hurry out of the tunnel and upstairs to the tram station.

“Some world travelers we are,” says Jon.

“Yeah,” I reply, “but that ‘drop the brush’ con is a good one.” (It turns out it’s an excellent one. Over the next week we see other shoe shine peddlers try the same thing on unsuspecting tourists.)

Fast forward a few days. I’m wandering through the Spice Market in Old Town, losing myself in the maze of passageways crammed with stalls and shops. I’m on the alert for shoe shiners, pickpockets and con artists. In the midst of all the human mayhem, a crisp twenty-euro note softly floats down in front of me, like a snowflake. I watch it, in slow motion, but my brain is working fast.

“Ha! This is another scam – how does it work do you think? Maybe if you pick it up you’ll be accosted by a gang of kids, or a thief!” Then, “Wait, it’s a euro note, not a Turkish lira. Maybe a tourist dropped it.”

So I look around and realize absolutely no one is paying any attention to the note or me. Except a merchant standing by his table of wares next to me. He has been watching me since the note floated down. We look at each other. He motions to me, as if to say, “This is your lucky day.”

No scam. And for that, I decide, the vendor and I will share my good (small) fortune. I will buy whatever he is selling! I look at his table, expecting bags of spices, or an assortment of pashmina scarves, or maybe some ceramic tiles! But no, I have managed to make a pact with the only vendor in the entire market NOT selling any of these things. Instead, he has about two dozen made-in-China water nozzles. I look at him and ask, “What else do you have?” He shakes his head, and his neighbor, who speaks some English, says, “That’s all he has. He just sells these hoses.”

“Really? OK, how much?” The man shows me three fingers and makes a zero with his thumb and index. “Thirty lira?” I ask incredulously. He shrugs. He could really care less if I buy his hose or not. But I have to buy it – I can’t renege on my pact! So I hand over 30 lira, take my Chinese watering hose and stuff it into my bag. I head back to my apartment before I do any more damage to my pocketbook or my psyche.

But Karma’s not done with me yet. As I make my way to the tram, I pass a street vendor selling simit – yummy giant Turkish pretzels. The vendor, a young (to me) man with a lovely smile, catches my eye and gives me his best sales pitch.

“No thank you,” I say, returning the smile. “No money!”

“It’s lunch time, you must be hungry,” he says. Now we’re flirting.

“Yes, I am, but I have no more money, I need to go home.”

“Only one lire!” He gently protests.

“I don’t even have one lire.” I reply, holding up my bags of purchases as proof of where my money went.

He reaches into the cart and pulls out a cheese simit, then hands it to me.“It’s OK,” he says. “It’s for you. Enjoy it.”

“I’ll come back with a lire for you.”

“No,” he says, “You just enjoy it.”

So here I am, making short work of my simit, and explaining to Jon why we now own a Chinese watering hose from Istanbul. ‘We’re learning a lot about the real value of a lira,” I say. “Yep,” he replies, watching the last of the pretzel disappear. “Too bad you just polished off your most treasured possession.”

…