“It was considered one of the most disagreeable places we could have been sent to,” the French woman said. “People told us there was only one worse place on the entire continent.”

We were standing with our husbands waiting to check out of a little hotel in Safranbolu, not far from Turkey’s Black Sea coast. Her well-behaved dog, an Irish terrier, had broken the ice between us. To my surprise, she spoke perfect English.

“Really, we were dreading it,” she added.

I agreed, “I have told people what a nice place it is and how pleasant the folks are, but I get funny looks. I don’t think they believe me, although one friend did say that people there have something special, something outsiders don’t know about.”

“When we first arrived, I got so lost,” she told me, gesturing for emphasis. “I mean, really lost. I was in a panic. But then someone showed up and asked me if he could help. He went at least a half-hour out of his way to show me where to go.”

“Wow,” I said, and told her about my experience one day in a bakery. “They had given me my pastry and a receipt, and I had to wait in a lengthy cashier’s line to pay for it. The woman behind me saw me standing there with my little bag, and she told me I shouldn’t have to wait so long. She took the receipt right out of my hands and told me she would pay it. I offered to give her some money, but she wouldn’t hear of it. She just smiled and told me to have a good day.”

The French woman nodded and we talked about reputation and reality, and how past conflicts or violence can tarnish the image of a place for a very long time.

Sankar was finished checking out and the porter was picking up our bags. “Great to meet you,” I exclaimed. “I am glad you had such a good experience living in Birmingham.”