Straight off the 14-hour bus from Thessalonika. “You staying in Istanbul, man? Wanna share a room? Be buddies for a coupla days?”
He was backpacker Jacques: 6’2”, gelled blond hair, French Canadian. Both of his parents had died six months before and he’d been in therapy since.
“Didn’t work for me, man. Too much thinking. I went to see an Indian shaman instead. He told me, ‘Go live your life. Life is the opposite of death. Go travel. Keep going until you lose your fear’. That’s what I’m doing man. Now where can I get a beer?”
Backpacker Jacques. We could have been twins. Same height, same looks. But he was my polar opposite temperamentally. Me – the stiff, earnest Englishman with my money belt, my guidebook and my fears of being mugged. When the Turkish girls winked, I looked down.