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Yunus spoke perfect English. I don’t know why it surprised me, as we were introduced through common connections abroad. However, standing in the middle of Taksim Square at the centre of Istanbul surrounded by large groups of rowdy party-goers yelling in Turkish, it was a very welcome surprise. We had arranged to meet for a drink. After introductions, I followed Yunus down a side alley off of Istiklal, the main shopping strand in Istanbul lined with luscious desert stands and gushing street musicians. The area attracts a lot of tourists, but is also known for being the home of local artists, Yunus being an art student himself. We ended up at his regular pavement cafe in an alley so narrow I wondered how the constant flow of people could possibly pass through. Yunus ordered two glasses of Raki, the Turkish version of Ouzo - although don’t say this out loud in Turkey. The two countries are always fighting about who invented it first. As we downed our drinks, Yunus was telling me about metropolitan living under the new regime. In front of our eyes, people from all walks of life were passing through the alley as if to purposefully display the array of diversity in Istanbul. A rowdy group of men all in a row were walking towards us. As they passed by, one of them hung back to pick up something he dropped. When he bent down with his back towards us, I was shocked to see a gun sticking out of his waistband. Yunus laughed at the exasperated look on my face. ‘What the hell was that?’ I asked. He replied casually; ‘My best bet would be an undercover cop or a paranoid radical’. As we finished our now second round of drinks, I couldn’t help but think that I never expected Istanbul to be wilder than at home in London. If I wasn’t already convinced, I was about to be. 'Wanna spend the night?’ Yunus said smiling at me. ‘But what about your parents?’ I asked, wondering how a poor art student who lives at home with a conservative family could ever manage to have girls over. ‘Don’t worry, I know a place’ he replied coyly. We weaved our way through the many small alleyways of the Beyoğlu area. On either side of us the walls were covered intermittently in antique islamic tiles and contemporary street art. Suddenly we emerged onto a larger street. All along it were night clubs with low lighting and thumping music. Yunus took my hand and approached a place that did not look like much more than a doorway, large establishments on either side of it. When we entered, we were greeted by a man behind a large counter with two armchairs in front. Suddenly it dawned on me. We were in the reception of a love hotel. A room in the hotel was 200 lira for the night, including only the absolute bare necessities of which toilet paper was not one as I’d later find out. We accepted. As we were waiting for the elevator to our room, Yunus and I looked back towards the reception. A gay couple were now inquiring about a room for the night. They were solemnly turned away. I asked Yunus how-come; ‘I guess there are after all limits to Turkey’s progressive tolerance’ he said, eventually continuing ‘or maybe they just didn’t have any more rooms available’. We spent the night together somewhere between the wild West and the Islamic East.