By Ho Ai Li

I am standing in the magnificent Hagia Sophia Grand Mosque in Istanbul, surrounded by swirling dervishes of visitors awestruck by the dazzling motifs on the walls and ceiling.

But I can't really see.

I point my mobile phone at the ceiling and enlarge the image on the phone screen. I squint to make out the flowery design on the screen while watching out for people who might bump into me.

After 20 dizzying minutes, I follow my tour mates out of the mosque, careful not to knock into people or trip over the ledge of the door on my way out.

This is the first day of my 12-day sight-seeing tour of Turkey – and I can't see.

A few hours earlier, on my flight from Singapore to Istanbul, I had woken up to a nightmare: the pair of glasses which should have been hanging off my ears was nowhere to be seen. The plane was still dark. I waited an hour or so for the lights to come on before I started to rummage around in my seat and surroundings. Half blind without my glasses, I was grasping at nothing. Desperate, I turned to the woman behind me, who looked to be in her 40s like me, and asked if she had seen my glasses. Her young son had irritated me throughout the flight by frequently kicking my seat, but that was water under the bridge now given my dire circumstances. The woman agreed to help: she looked underneath the seats but her search turned up nothing.

Could I have flung my glasses off during my sleep, possibly during an angry dream in which I had unleashed my repressed rage and hit out at someone? Or a joyful dream in which I cast off all my possessions to be free? In any case, this sightless flight was no time for dreaming. I needed to act. I made pleading enquiries further up the row, to the left and right, but nobody had seen my glasses. I asked a flight attendant for help, but she and her colleagues could not find my spectacles either.

I had not thought to bring an extra pair. I did not know whether to laugh or cry: my Turkey holiday was in real danger of turning into a turkey.

Back at Hagia Sophia, I am hanging on to my tour mates for dear life. I have managed not to fall flat on my face or get knocked down by a car – so far. Another person in my situation – travelling alone in a tour group with impaired sight – might have been freaking out, but I am rather calm. Too calm, perhaps. I tell our Turkish tour guide about my situation and that I need to buy contact lenses. But he does not seem to understand the urgency of my plight and how crippling my lack of vision is, and says there is no spectacles shop in the vicinity. The Hagia Sophia, one of the wonders of Istanbul, is practically a washout for me. On the tour bus, I cannot even see the Wi-Fi password, written in large letters, stuck to the top of the divider behind the driver. 

Despite being someone who has lived overseas for years on her own, I can be quite a nincompoop when I travel. I once forgot to bring the Vietnamese currency I had exchanged before a trip; I would sometimes annoy my travel companions by not signing up for roaming mobile data and ending up not being able to help with navigation. But losing my spectacles – practically an outgrowth of my face – is a new low. 

After about an hour on the bus, my group stops by a blustery lake. In the photos I take of myself at Abant Lake, I am squinting, almost grimacing. I comfort myself by thinking: "Hey, I am rocking a new look and looking kind of good without my usual glasses."

Through it all, my surface composure is astounding. I sit down for meals with my newfound friends in the group without appearing like someone who is losing her marbles. At lunch, I find myself at a table with a young Indonesian couple and Hwee, a solo female traveller like myself, but a decade younger, who is carrying the same value-for-money black Decathlon backpack as me. Our conversation flows easily over grilled meat with chips and salad, at a small eatery with chequered tablecloths overlooking a river. We are in Amasya, a pretty Ottoman town. I mention that I have lost my spectacles in passing, not making a big deal of it.

At breakfast the next day, I happen to sit near Mr Chen, an outspoken and somewhat pushy older businessman who is travelling with his wife.  He must have overheard me talking about losing my spectacles, and offers me the use of his prescription sunglasses. I look at him gratefully and thank him. For sure, it is a rather ugly pair of sunglasses, with a crack in one of the lenses and an old-fashioned string attached to the frame. But beggars can't be choosers.

Armed with my borrowed lenses, I explore the riverside town of Amasya with Hwee. We cross a stone bridge to the other side of the town, which is on hilly terrain and lined with charming houses with white walls and wooden beams. We walk through shops selling soft apple candy and apple tea, souvenirs like T-shirts and brightly coloured beads, and climb to a scenic spot overlooking the town. As we call it a day and start walking back to our hotel, the sun is setting, adding a golden glint to the river. In the middle of the town, outside a supermarket, we bump into Mr Chen and his wife.

"Hey, we are looking for you. We passed by a spectacles shop just now and went in to ask. The shop is still open," he tells me.

My first reaction is annoyance with our Turkish tour guide. I had asked him earlier if there were any optical shops in Amasya, but he'd told me it was a public holiday and the shops were closed. My second reaction is gratitude. Before I can even open my mouth to thank Mr Chen, Hwee has already whipped out her iPhone to look up directions to the shop.

Even with my glasses on, I can hardly follow maps. But I am lucky that I am with Hwee, who is formerly of the air force and an ace at navigation. With her help, we swoop in on the optical shop like homing missiles in double quick time. The two men manning the shop are chatting behind the counter, though the surrounding shops are already closed. I ask for a box of contact lenses, as close to my prescribed degrees as possible, and also a bottle of saline solution. Hwee uses the Google Translate function on her phone to help me confirm that I had asked for the correct lenses.

When we walk out of the shop later, I am awash with gratitude. The lenses and solution are not expensive either, possibly cheaper than back home. I am finally going to see clearly now. What a relief. I might have lost my glasses and a chance to experience the splendours of Hagia Sophia, but I have also found much kindness amongst my fellow travellers. Not only can I see better for the remainder of my time in Turkey, but everything I see also appears richer and warmer in colour.

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