During Kurban Bayramı, a holiday celebrating Abraham’s readiness to sacrifice for Allah, I flew to Istanbul instead of sacrificing a ram. In a sense, this holiday is like the American Thanksgiving — everyone goes home to their families, eats a specific animal, expresses appreciation for the bounties granted to them, and gets special deals after feasting. Some things don’t change no matter where in the world you are.

I flew to Istanbul and was astounded by the beauty that seems to increase by decaying. Like Turkey, it is a city of contrasts; the 537 AD Aya Sofia lies adjacent to glimmering white decorative fences and a neon blue fountain that looks more like it belongs in Disney World than an ancient former capital.

Never in my life have I seen so many cats. The Istanbul cats seem more aggressive than those in any other city in Turkey… maybe it’s because the tourists here are packed like sardines, pouring out into the sea of streets and squares. Like the sultans who once roamed this place, they prowl their dominion, adept at maneuvering the flood of people in this majesty of land and sea.

As me and one of my dear Fulbright friends were sightseeing, making sure to stop at Topkapi Palace, the Aya Sofia, and several mosques, we asked a man to take our picture. He quietly obliged, even making sure to expand our angle repertoire by taking the photo at a complete diagonal. That was that, we thought.

Walking into the Sultan Ahmet Camii, we noticed he came in with us. “Seriously, in a mosque?!” my friend said, as we saw him making strides as we did. Seriously. For some godforsaken reason, men in every country feel it is appropriate to follow women and hope that their presence will transmit desire through proximity. Sorry, boys…. we just get creeped out.

But because we were in a mosque — a famous, busy mosque— we were able to ignore his childish nonsense and bask in the beauty that seems to accompany every house of God. We see someone trying to take a picture, and my friend offers to do it for her — fulfilling what would have been the simple request from earlier. We start talking and exchange numbers. “I’m going to the Princess Islands tomorrow with a friend, if you want to come!” Why not, I think, and the next day I am boarding the afternoon ferry to meet them at Büyükada.

We spent the evening walking by Princess Island chariots, ferrying to and from sights, and trying special foods — the ice cream from the islands and the tomato-paste slathered burgers from Taksim. It struck me how these experiences would never have happened if not for a question in a mosque. And it struck me more that we had such ease together, us complete strangers, wandering and united in our desire for friendship.

We said our goodbyes, but with the Turkish “Görüşürüz!” which means “see you”. And I did see them again; when I was in Ankara for an opera, they showed me around their university and we caught up over a lovely dinner in a crowded dining hall. Students brimmed in and out of the doorway like the people traversing the thronged masses of Istiklal, except here, everyone was familiar. When I go to Ankara next, I plan to see my new friends then too.

In the past for Bayram, people would keep 1/3 of the ram for themselves, send 1/3 to friends and family, and give 1/3 to the poor. Today, such generosity has been mostly outsourced; instead of sharing food with all directly, people donate money to charities that help the needy. When I heard this story, I couldn’t help but feel a bit saddened at the idea of streamlining this act of humanity. It made me nostalgic for a world I never knew, envisioning a time in which everyone came together, even just for a weekend, as a cohesive whole. A time where efficiency took a backseat to togetherness. But then I remember that those moments of genuine human connection are with us always… and in the most unexpected places. And sometimes, to find them, all it takes is a question.