His raffish outfit caught our eye as he placed his wares outside his shop. A floral shirt worn under a rust coloured vest. Paisley scarf tied loosely around the neck. Purple pants. Stylish suede loafers. Eyes that twinkled behind his glasses. Bohemian chic executed perfectly.

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And we caught Zeki's eye as we admired the items on display. He shuffled over, established we were Australians, and immediately offered to make us what he boasted was the best Turkish coffee to be had in Istanbul.

So began an hourlong interaction far more memorable than the sightseeing walk around the nearby Blue Mosque and the Hagia Sophia, on this day cloaked in scaffolding.

Zeki led me to a tiny space at the back of the shop, spooned coffee into a long handled pot and placed it on a gas cooker until it foamed. He then poured it carefully into three tiny cups. We sat down to hear his family's story. They'd moved to Turkiye from Bulgaria in the 1840s, at first farming then going into business. Zeki has had his little souvenir shop for three decades.

He wanted to hear our stories too. When I told him I was a journalist, he beamed, telling us how much he admired Kiwi correspondent Peter Arnett's work, especially his reporting from Baghdad during the first Gulf war. The conversation ranged over world affairs, philosophy, art and shopping. Go to the Gypsy market, he urged, much cheaper than the Grand Bazaar, where they charge tourist prices.

Other foreigners wandered in. A South African in a hijab, who Zeki spoke to in Arabic. A young Russian woman, who revealed she was from "Leningrad", the name St Petersburg dropped long before she was born. Here, at the crossroads of the world, we strangers were all smiling, brought together by Zeki's infectious charm.

This, to me, is what travel is about. People as much as place. The human interactions that complement the story of a destination's landmarks and monuments.

My lasting memory of Penang, for instance, is not the crisp, whitewashed colonial buildings of George Town but rather sitting down with the owner of Sam's Batik to discuss world affairs and the inconvenience of ageing, something I've done many times.

The smile I raised on the otherwise grumpy face of the hawker in Singapore when I praised her delicious chicken rice is worth a thousand photos of the Merlion and Marina Bay Sands resort.

The playful ribbing I always get from the flamboyant Razman in the club lounge at the Mandarin Oriental in Kuala Lumpur always lures me back despite the eye-watering expense of staying at the hotel.

Walking away from Zeki's shop with an armful of little treasures I realised we had not just bought mementos of a place. We'd come away with precious memories of the person who'd sold them to us. Unlike the swarms of........

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