How to be a traveler, not a tourist

The first time I truly understood the difference between being a traveler and a tourist, I was standing at Kadikoy Pier in Istanbul, clutching a warm simit and sweating through an existential crisis.

Volkan, the man who sold me the sesame-crusted bread, had just made a passing comment as he handed me my change: “This city… sometimes I miss when it belonged to us.” He wasn’t angry, just tired—the kind of tired that comes from watching your home become a backdrop for peoples pictures and social media posts.

My face flushed. I’d spent weeks patting myself on the back for “living like a local”—taking the metro daily, shopping at the same grocery store, even learning to curse in Turkish when the tram was late. Then Volkan smiled. “But you’re different. You’re a traveler.”

“How am I different?” I asked, bracing for performative praise.

He shrugged. “You’re here. Really here. You sit at this pier every sunset. You try to speak our language. You care.”

He was right. By then, I’d spent six weeks in Turkey—hiking Cappadocia’s lunar valleys, getting lost in Istanbul’s backstreets, drinking çay to bear the cold and warming my nights in the occasional cigarette and few efes on the street under the streetlamp. This wasn’t a bucket-list pitstop; it was a slow unraveling of a place’s soul.

A litmus test for travelers:

1. Time: You stay long enough to see a city’s mundane magic (laundry days, tea breaks, grocery shopping).
2. Curiosity: You ask “How?” more than “Why?”. You truly care to learn about the people. 
3. Humility: You accept that some doors aren’t yours to open—and that’s okay. Some places are not meant for you to be in, and that, is ok.

Become a traveler people remember fondly:

1. Let the Place Set the Pace

In Cappadocia, I learned to wake at dawn not for Instagrammable balloon shots, but because villagers did—to tend vineyards before the sun scorched the earth. In Istanbul, I stopped rushing to museums and instead lingered at kahvehanes (coffee houses), watching old men play tavla (backgammon) for hours.

Try this:

• Spend your first day doing nothing. Observe when streets buzz or nap, how people greet each other, where silence is sacred.
• Ask a local: “What’s one thing I shouldn’t miss that guidebooks ignore?” (In Kadikoy, it’s the stray cats who rule the fish market.)

2. Learn the “Hello” and “Thank You” Test

You don’t need fluency—just enough Turkish/Swahili/Thai to show you see the culture as equal to your own. My butchered “Merhaba” and “Teşekkür ederim” earned me more smiles in Istanbul than any Google Translate paragraph.

Pro tip: Learn to say “beautiful” in the local language. Not to locals—to yourself, aloud, while walking. It reshapes your thinking. It really helped me appreciate my time in the space I was in and ground myself in the beauty in the moment. 

3. Ask Before You Assume (Especially with Cameras)

In Jerusalem’s Old City, I watched a tourist shove a camera in a shopkeeper’s face without a word. The man turned his back and spat.

Do this instead:

• Point to your camera, raise eyebrows: Universal code for “May I?”
• Learn “photo?” in the local tongue (“Fotoğraf?” in Turkish).
• If they say no, smile and buy a coffee anyway.

4. Become a Regular Somewhere

Find your version of Volkan’s simit stand:

• A bakery where you nod to the same cashier daily.
• A shop where you get your daily çay.
• A ferry you ride just to watch commuters doze against windows.

These tiny rituals build trust—and often, invitations. My Kadikoy pier habit led to a fisherman teaching me to knot nets.

5. Leave No Trace (Except in Hearts)

Tourists take souvenirs. Travelers take lessons:

• How to brew Turkish coffee with just the right foam.
• The etiquette of splitting a bill (in Turkey, it’s an Olympic sport).
• When to speak up and when to listen (hint: listen more).

Why It Matters

Traveling like this isn’t just respectful—it’s an act of love. Love for places that let us borrow their rhythms. For people who share their homes despite the cost. For ourselves, learning to move through the world not as conquerors, but as students.

The best souvenirs can’t fit in your suitcase. They’re the way a city changes you—and the quiet hope that you left it a little better than you found it.