"I was Superman."

I came across Superman on my way back to the hostel at about 2 in the morning, in the Beyoglu district of Istanbul. Superman was crouched behind his shoeshine kit, next to a table full of drinkers at one of the dozens of chic cafés off Istiklal St. I was wearing flip flops, but that didn't stop him from looking up at me with pleading eyes, gesturing for me to let him do his work. The contrast between the downtrodden, anachronistic man—whose name was Zia—and the bustling nightlife around him caused me to stop in my tracks. I sat down next to Zia. I wanted to take his picture, but I wanted to make him comfortable about it first. Plus, it was dark, and I would need him to sit very still for me, so I figured I had better gain his trust.

Zia's face lit up when I sat down. He pulled a tattered Fuji Film envelope out of the breast pocket of his sportcoat and starting flipping through it. Turns out Zia was an actor. He showed me photos of himself costumed as a mobster, a rebel, a knight, and, his favorite, as Superman, chest out, chin up, fists on his hips.

Zia said he was 45 yrs. old and that he'd been homeless for three years. I couldn't get much more out of him, other than that he clearly misses his acting days. That much was clear by the way the tears welled up in his eyes when he looked at himself in the photos, then up at me, then back at the photos, then at me again with a look that asked a question: "How did this happen?"