I must confess that contrary what I might seem to express in the last few articles, I’m often not a good person to hang around with. Whilst not a bad person, I’m often too blunt and crass in my views, and I have a deep fondness for irony and sarcasm speckled with black humour. Unsurprisingly, I have an appreciation for gallows humour; when I’ve been in circumstances where I could die, I’ve been known to crack a joke. This works well when I find fellow like-minded compatriots, but it bodes ill when I don’t.
This is something that I’ll probably be reminded of for the rest of my life, yet I learned this once more, one night in Istanbul, almost a year ago. At the time I was in a hostel, in the modern side of town, and as is often the case, I met a lot of people. Amongst them there was a short, and quiet man that was always there. He wasn’t a guest per se, yet he’d once been a guest many months ago. Now that he lived in Istanbul though he would come back for the lively atmosphere every couple of days. His name escapes me at the moment, but saying where he was from will probably be more useful for the story at any rate. He was born and raised in Syria.