Women on the plane wore head scarves, others neck pillows, shoes from all over the mall. The only constant was the omnipresence of cellphones and iPads, clusters of people gathered around recharging stations. If Apple can’t make money, who can? Attendants distributed zippered pouches complete with toothpaste, socks, lip balm, and ear plugs. It looked like a shoeshine kit. The bathroom contained lemon verbena lotion and cologne. Dark-haired attendants served hazel nuts and sour cherry juice during beverage service. The chef wore a white cap and apron. The Albanian man sitting next to me hugged an Italian suit in his lap throughout the nine and a half hour flight for his upcoming son’s wedding in Italy. The plane flew across Canada, Newfoundland, across Ireland, England, France, Germany, Yugoslavia to Istanbul. Look up Charlie Gibbs Fracture Zone. Maury Sea Channel. Rhodope Mountains. Kazablanka spelled like I’ve never seen it before. Babies kept fussing with shushes from their mothers. An 18 month old came to claim my spoon. An adoring grandmother turned around to make sure I didn’t get ugly. I walked around the Grand Bazaar until my room was ready and also to the Basilica Cistern that was developed by Roman Emperor Justinian in the 6th century. A photo crew crowded Medusa’s head. There were more people getting their hair done in salons than eating in restaurants. Hawkers attacked me with Chanel, a child’s top, and a scarf. I went back to the hotel and checked my cellphone for messages.