While there's the poetic presence of legendary artists from the past, there's also the literal presence of dreamers of the present. I meet such a girl in Istanbul.

Istanbul feels... warm, and familiar right away. On the way into town from the airport, the streets reminded me of Beijing. It is, after all, half Asia half Europe. I love it immediately. Wild, raucous, noisy, cheerful Istanbul. I love its Euro-Asian exoticism, its Middle Eastern bazaar, its graceful arabesques of tendrils on the walls, its over-the-top displays of grandeur. A city of 14 million, Istanbul is bigger than London (8 million) or New York (8 million). Traffic jams are a way of life here. Just get used to it.

Having arrived in Istanbul alone, I very much hoped for a sight-seeing buddy. That was when I met Katie. Almost haphazardly. We never would have met if she hadn't gotten her travel dates mixed up, and landed in Istanbul an entire week ahead of schedule. Her existence was abruptly thrust upon my awareness through a text message, on a Thursday, late in the evening.

"I'm with my couchsurfer Katie. She's American. Works for a charity," wrote my friend Erkan, "Come club with us!"

Instead of giggling with delight at the prospect of a female travel companion, my reaction was really... an image. As soon I saw the words "clubbing" and "American" appearing together in one sentence, my mind immediately formed a picture of Katie. I imagined a pretty and petite ditzy blonde in her early twenties. Loud, obnoxious, immature. A character out of "Mean Girls" most likely. Not at all the kind of sweet and reliable eager beaver travel companion I was hoping to find.

Needless to say, the charity bit completely went over my head.

Politely, I declined their invitation.

The next day, we arranged to meet in the afternoon at Café Nero - a popular European coffee chain originated in Turkey. I waited for a good solid 15 minutes, before two towering giants emerged through the doorway in a power gait - MIB like - against the blinding brightness of the sunlight. For the first few seconds all I could see were two black outlines. By the time my eyes had adjusted to the light and they've flanked me for conversation, I lifted my head, stared skyward, and made out their features for the very first time.

Erkan, our host, is a professional tour guide in his 30's. Born and raised in Turkey. He had invited both Katie and me to stay in his spare bedroom in the center of Istanbul through Couchsurfing. Of course, it was never Erkan's intention to have two strangers invade his home all at once. When Katie shocked him with the message, "I've just landed at Attaturk airport!" an entire week before she was supposed to arrive, Erkan had no choice but to bring her in. Which was how the two of us, by a twist of fate, became "couchsurfing neighbors".

Katie, as it turned out, and much to my private amusement, is indeed blonde, loud and attention dominating. Her physical resemblance to Lindsay Lohan could not be exaggerated. A "Mean Girls" character indeed. With minor adjustments though.

For starters, she wasn't obnoxious, immature or annoying. Katie was 29 years old. Grew up in suburban New Jersey. Founder of a charity. Due to the life consuming nature of her work, a friend booked her a ticket to Turkey, forcing her into vacation-mode. Katie had been in Istanbul for a week now yet hadn't seen anything, because, like a good American, she'd been working. I had been in Istanbul for 3 days and had only ventured to the Grand Bazaar. That made us both very lazy tourists. We bonded over this commonality. And made plans to rectify the situation just as quickly as we could. Namely, we shall visit the Topkapi Palace and the Hagia Sophia - the most important parts of Istanbul - together.

Amid our girlish yakking and coffee sipping, I found myself starting to like this girl. She's warm, charming, and engaging. But then I noticed something rather odd. I noticed that Katie's attention-span was almost comparable to that of a two-year-old. She was constantly typing away on her iPhone, on her Istanbul prepaid phone, on her laptop, checking emails and updating her Facebook, interrupting our conversations frequently and comfortably, with ever more glances at her electronic devices. This progressed to the point where I began to wonder if she perhaps suffered from a mild condition of ADD? Which worried me slightly. I got this nagging feeling that somehow our plans to sightsee would not materialize. But then when you do have her attention, she is a forceful exhibition of delight and charisma, and this nagging thought was quickly swept away as far as the ocean breeze.

After coffee, our host, our tour guide, Erkan, took us on a little walking tour of the neighborhood.

We wandered through Besiktas (one of the centers of Istanbul), walked past the high walls of the Dolmabahce Palace with its ornate wrought iron gates suggestive of the Ottoman's opulent grandeur and beauty waiting inside, and arrived at a market on the banks of the Bosphorus where the locals go. We sat down at the patio of a restaurant, and ordered some Turkish red tea, served in tiny hour-glass shaped clear cups, each on a China saucer, with two cubes of sugar.

A boy of about nine or ten approached us, asking in Turkish if we perhaps wished to buy some socks. I turned to look at him and was surprised to find a very handsome face - sandy blonde hair, sun-kissed skin, eyes that are a translucent blue-green. It seemed as though he had absorbed all that heat and light from the sun during the day and held it inside, and now by dusk, was emitting this glow of residual sunbeam like a firefly. He looked more Greek than Turkish to me. He was dressed in an outfit that looked like he had just returned from a soccer match. Which made me wonder if David Beckham perhaps looked like that when he was ten.

Anyway, just as I was about to say, "No, thank you" and wave him off, Katie interjected.

"How old are you?" She asked.

The boy didn't speak English, so Erkan translated.

"13," he replied.

"13?!" Katie asked, surprised, "I would've thought he's 9 or 10."

"Turkish kids are generally small," Erkan explained.

"You're very handsome!" Katie teased, "do a lot of people tell you that?"

The boy didn't respond, completely uninterested in his own devilishly good-looks. He probably gets it all the time.

Katie patted on the bench next to her and invited him to sit with us.

I had assumed she called him over to buy socks. But no, she called him over to chat. To have a real, adult conversation.

"What would you like to drink?" She asked.

He thought about it for a moment then made up his mind, "Coke," he said.

"Do you go to school?" Katie asked.

"No."

"Why don't you go to school?"

"I work," he said.

"Do you like your work?" she asked.

"Yes," He said, surveying his turf - the neighborhood streets that are his empire - with satisfaction.

"Do you have brothers and sisters?" Katie asked.

"I have a little sister."

"He probably needs to work to help support the family," Erkan added.

Meanwhile, a little girl around the same age walked over and offered to sell us something else. The kids' eyes met. She smiled at him shyly.

"Is that your girlfriend?" Katie teased.

"No, she's just a friend," he replied in all seriousness.

"Do you have a girlfriend?" Katie asked.

"Yes," he replied in all seriousness. Apparently, girlfriends are a very serious topic for him.

I sat there sipping tea as I watched Katie chat with this kid, wondering when she was going to buy socks from him. But that never did occur. I don't think she, at any moment during the conversation, regarded him as a pitiful poverty-stricken social case that needed rescue. She seemed to genuinely enjoy his company, as she contorted her face into odd shapes to amuse him, taught him how to play these ridiculously addictive iPhone games 90% of the adults on the Tube play during rush hour, all the while hugging and rubbing her head against his head affectionately. Adoration spilled out of her like hot soup in a bubbling pot, overwhelming and out of control, flowing off the edge of the table and imbuing the air with homely warmth. Then suddenly she turned to me, aghast,

"Shit! I forgot there's probably lice in his hair."

I laughed.

Then stiffened, realizing we shared the same apartment.

"Kids on the streets often have lice in their hair," she explained, "I've been homeless before."

I sat there frozen for a moment, teacup in midair and all, as I tried to digest this last bit of info. She looked away first.

"How many pairs of socks do you sell a day?" Katie asked.

"15, 20," the boy replied.

I bought 4 pairs. He only sold men's socks.

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The next morning, our lovely host Erkan woke up before all of us, and ordered freshly baked bread, then proceeded to making a fabulously vibrant feast of a breakfast.

Erkan offered us free tickets to the Topkapi Palace and Hagia Sophia and volunteered to be our personal tour guide. My mind leapt at the idea of the Sultan's Harem. It's so many interesting and exotic things to me at once. Forbidden, mysterious, seductive. I envisioned it would be much like entering the movie set of One Thousand and One Nights. Dimly lit, flickering candles, sheer draperies, arabesque archways, fountains and marbles, sound of trickling water, jeweled robes, jingly bracelets, women in veils, dark eyes smoldering with mysterious secrecy...

I turned to Katie to find her hunched over her laptop, unmoved.

"You aren't typical tourist," Erkan remarked.

I sighed.

"Do you want to go or not?" I asked Katie.

"I have to meet up with a friend first. But it's only going to take half an hour max. You should come with. We can go to the palace together after."

I nodded with uncertainty. Half believing her.

This morning she was working on her bio for an upcoming speaking engagement.

"How did you get started with the charity?" I asked casually, taking a bite of the grilled peppers.

Now folks, I was expecting a little executive summary, short and sweet, appropriate for breakfast conversation. But oh boy, this girl gave me long and intense. What she did was: she recited a poem. I was startled for a few solid seconds. I don't think anyone had recited a poem to me before. The level of intimacy and emotion poetry conveys has a tendency to make me squirm in discomfort. I'd much prefer poetry in the privacy of my own company. Sharing personal poetry over breakfast is very much like stripping naked in the middle of elevator conversation, where you're supposed to be chatting with coworkers about the weather. And here I am trapped in this elevator, with my half-eaten breakfast!

But Katie didn't care about the occasion. She took a deep breath. And began with that single-minded intensity like a fire beam.

I am about to bawl my eyes out

All these emotions tucked inside

They need to find a way out

How did we become a society where we can walk past a man sleeping in a suit on a wet street

Never asking ourselves twice how did this come to be?

Or what if this was me?

We just walk by...

Walk by...

Over and over we pass an eye to the world outside of ourselves

Thinking that if we put our hand out

To lift our sister out

There will be nothing left for ourselves

But that's the only way out

For her, for you, and for me

I don't get why I'm the weird girl

I'm crazy because I fight for my dreams?

Well that's right that's me

But don't think that I don't bleed

My youngest memory is my dad trying to burn my skin off with hot water

I lived a life with a mom who told me she wished I wasn't her daughter

I woke up next to my dead uncle

Heroin was his slaughter

My sister, my hero

In the emergency room twice

Almost lost her life

Cooked cocaine was her game

Now my nephew is left with a mom who's cooked her brain

So what if it's true

I walk around trying to love you

Because I want you to love me

And you don't get the fucking message

So I have to play it on repeat

With my chin up

I smile at a hungry world that wants to swallow me for every penny of passion I have

Chew me up and spit me out like I'm some kind of clown...

What she said after that was a blur to me now. With each new verse she revealed another dysfunctional member, and with it my brow knotted further and further into a deeper frown. Shock, disbelief, compassion, flooded my mind in that order. I had no idea she'd endured such trauma from the people closest to her. Letting her down one after another. I looked down into my plate, trying to conceal all that I was feeling inside, trying to carry on with breakfast, hoping to push back the tears and that the poem would end. All the while thinking, "It's so embarrassing to cry at the breakfast table!"

I fall off the boat

My lungs fill up with water

I'm about to drown

Until the last second, the sound of hope is found and resound in the picture of an 8-year old girl named Regina

Who slept on a cement floor with rats

Surrounded by thieves and held down by illiteracy

But Regina still believed

And she looked at me, and I knew she would make it

So I walk around this world naked, showing my most vulnerable parts

Hoping to stir your heart

To shake you up Mr. numb

I don't blame you because you've become what everybody else here has become

Marching to the beat of the American Dream drum...

And go to that job that you hate?

And I'm crazy?

"Am I crazy?" as I recalled the time when I'd decided to leave my good job in consulting to travel and write, the horror, bewilderment and disapproval disguised in feeble encouragements it unleashed in my family and friends. Everyone was visibly fearful for my future, but was too polite to say it. I looked at their worried faces, reflecting back to me my own terror buried beneath the shiny veneer of optimism.

At last, I looked up, letting the tears flow how they will. Abandoning all efforts at maintaining composure.

"Sorry," Katie apologized, "I forgot the family stuff can be quite hard-core if you've never heard it before. This is a little intense for breakfast."

I nodded in agreement. Wiping my face with a napkin.

"That was a really good poem," I said.

She wrote this poem in New York City while riding her bicycle in the rain, at 3:30 in the morning. It came to her complete and whole in a flash of inspiration, and she quickly jotted down everything on a piece of napkin, with no edits afterwards.

As I later found out, when I helped edit her bio for the speaking engagement, how far she had truly come.

Katie started More than Me - a charity aimed at getting kids off the streets and into schools - when she was 26 years old, against the opposition of her family and contemptuous disbelief of her friends. "Are you crazy?" was the most popular response. In the past four years, she has worked in the poorest slums of the world, getting the most vulnerable children at risk of sexual exploitation off the streets and into schools, rubbed elbows with luminaries who've graced the covers of New York Times magazines, folks with last names like the Borgheses, and the Smiths (you know, as in Will Smith). She has spoken to tens of thousands through the Oprah Angel Network, been recognized by the United Nations, and most recently, won a million dollars on national television for her charity. Yep, that's Katie the crazy, the million-dollar baby. "When people think you're cray cray, that's how you know you're on the right path," Katie mused.

After breakfast, we went to meet her friend for coffee. The meeting that was supposed to last 30 minutes ended up lasting 8 hours. We never did make it to the Topkapi Palace or the Hagia Sophia. But I wouldn't say I regretted spending that day with Katie. No, sir. I wouldn't say I regretted anything about that day. I wouldn't have wanted to spend it any other way.

Being with Katie was like experiencing the four seasons in the course of one day. You get thunderstorms, scattered showers, cloudy periods (when she was sitting in the cab worrying about how she was going to raise the next million), as well as sunshine and rainbows all within the span of 24 hours. We could be laughing one minute and crying the next. We would start off fine-dining by the Bosphorus and tea-sipping in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods of Istanbul, then end up at these dingy dives of diners in the backstreets of Taksim, eating piles of barbecue pork and lamb and chicken and jalapenos, drinking spiked OJ, playing with street kids.

When the night fell, we hit the clubs, and Katie would bust out her moves like she'd been possessed by the exorcism of Emily Rose, complete with graceful movements such as bending over backwards, intense hair whipping, and wild animal calls. She danced like no one is watching. And she wasn't even drunk. As Erkan aptly described, "Katie, she cares. But she also doesn't really care."

The next day, Katie left for Macedonia. Erkan took her to the airport at 3AM, then waited with her till dawn.

A few months later, I saw Katie's Facebook status. It went like this: Going to bed. I'm tearing up. I'm just really happy & thankful that I get to live my dream every day.

The first More Than Me Academy opened its doors in Liberia, West Africa. This September.