The paragraphs have indents. My last trip to Turkey was during the height of algorithm fashion, where it felt like every girl was wearing the same thing. I wore loose shapeless linens in neutral tones with shoes to match, practical outfits to stave off the summer heat. But the energy of both tourists and locals was infectious. In a town of resort wear, I looked out of place, a bore. Wouldn’t it have been better for me to wear the jeweled sandals?

On one of my days of sightseeing, I took the ferry from the Asian to European side of the city where the Grand Bazaar stands, a domed stone building originally constructed by the Ottomans (since rebuilt several times, after fires and earthquakes) in the 15th century, then a hub of trade, now utilized primarily as a tourist attraction. The Grand Bazaar is a closed market where both locals and tourists gather indoors to buy everything from linens to candy amidst glowing mosaic lamps, one next to the other, lighting up little rectangle rooms in jewel-toned hues. Tiled patterns of deep blues and reds illuminated by electric bulbs create boxy patterns next to artisans selling ceramics painted in geometric florals and oriental rugs hung up on display. Ocean blue evil eye trinkets dangle off racks or are laid out on tables for tourists as stands of shopkeepers selling jewelry, textiles, rugs, and linens watch and wait for approaching customers.

The bazaar is huge, with quarters delegated to specific goods; shoes, books, fine jewelry, carpets, all through different gates and access points. It’s impossible to see the whole thing in a day, so I didn’t try. Instead wandered through twists and turns of different hallways. It’s common, if you appear to be a tourist, to have shopkeepers beckon you in, eager to sell you things, with “Hey lady, come here,” or a polite “hello.” Couldn’t they tell I was barely a tourist? I thought to myself. Surely my ancestry had earned me some kind of recognition. But that just wasn’t true. I didn’t even speak the language.

From Istanbul I went to Bodrum, on the Aegean Coast, and stopped at an outdoor flea market before hitting the beach. There were patterned bedspreads and towels hung up on clothing lines for full viewing, delicately billowing in the slight breeze. Beaded sandals, loosely modelled on the traditional Turkish sandal designed with intricate, ostentatious designs and bright colors, were laid out on tables.

Q: This is a paragraph heading?

A: My last trip to Turkey was during the height of algorithm fashion, where it felt like every girl was wearing the same thing. I wore loose shapeless linens in neutral tones with shoes to match, practical outfits to stave off the summer heat. But the energy of both tourists and locals was infectious. In a town of resort wear, I looked out of place, a bore. Wouldn’t it have been better for me to wear the jeweled sandals?

This is also a Paragraph Heading

On one of my days of sightseeing, I took the ferry from the Asian to European side of the city where the Grand Bazaar stands, a domed stone building originally constructed by the Ottomans (since rebuilt several times, after fires and earthquakes) in the 15th century, then a hub of trade, now utilized primarily as a tourist attraction. The Grand Bazaar is a closed market where both locals and tourists gather indoors to buy everything from linens to candy amidst glowing mosaic lamps, one next to the other, lighting up little rectangle rooms in jewel-toned hues. Tiled patterns of deep blues and reds illuminated by electric bulbs create boxy patterns next to artisans selling ceramics painted in geometric florals and oriental rugs hung up on display. Ocean blue evil eye trinkets dangle off racks or are laid out on tables for tourists as stands of shopkeepers selling jewelry, textiles, rugs, and linens watch and wait for approaching customers.

Another Paragraph Heading

The bazaar is huge, with quarters delegated to specific goods; shoes, books, fine jewelry, carpets, all through different gates and access points. It’s impossible to see the whole thing in a day, so I didn’t try. Instead wandered through twists and turns of different hallways. It’s common, if you appear to be a tourist, to have shopkeepers beckon you in, eager to sell you things, with “Hey lady, come here,” or a polite “hello.” Couldn’t they tell I was barely a tourist? I thought to myself. Surely my ancestry had earned me some kind of recognition. But that just wasn’t true. I didn’t even speak the language.

From Istanbul I went to Bodrum, on the Aegean Coast, and stopped at an outdoor flea market before hitting the beach. There were patterned bedspreads and towels hung up on clothing lines for full viewing, delicately billowing in the slight breeze. Beaded sandals, loosely modelled on the traditional Turkish sandal designed with intricate, ostentatious designs and bright colors, were laid out on tables.

My last trip to Turkey was during the height of algorithm fashion, where it felt like every girl was wearing the same thing. I wore loose shapeless linens in neutral tones with shoes to match, practical outfits to stave off the summer heat. But the energy of both tourists and locals was infectious. In a town of resort wear, I looked out of place, a bore. Wouldn’t it have been better for me to wear the jeweled sandals?

On one of my days of sightseeing, I took the ferry from the Asian to European side of the city where the Grand Bazaar stands, a domed stone building originally constructed by the Ottomans (since rebuilt several times, after fires and earthquakes) in the 15th century, then a hub of trade, now utilized primarily as a tourist attraction. The Grand Bazaar is a closed market where both locals and tourists gather indoors to buy everything from linens to candy amidst glowing mosaic lamps, one next to the other, lighting up little rectangle rooms in jewel-toned hues. Tiled patterns of deep blues and reds illuminated by electric bulbs create boxy patterns next to artisans selling ceramics painted in geometric florals and oriental rugs hung up on display. Ocean blue evil eye trinkets dangle off racks or are laid out on tables for tourists as stands of shopkeepers selling jewelry, textiles, rugs, and linens watch and wait for approaching customers.

The bazaar is huge, with quarters delegated to specific goods; shoes, books, fine jewelry, carpets, all through different gates and access points. It’s impossible to see the whole thing in a day, so I didn’t try. Instead wandered through twists and turns of different hallways. It’s common, if you appear to be a tourist, to have shopkeepers beckon you in, eager to sell you things, with “Hey lady, come here,” or a polite “hello.” Couldn’t they tell I was barely a tourist? I thought to myself. Surely my ancestry had earned me some kind of recognition. But that just wasn’t true. I didn’t even speak the language.

From Istanbul I went to Bodrum, on the Aegean Coast, and stopped at an outdoor flea market before hitting the beach. There were patterned bedspreads and towels hung up on clothing lines for full viewing, delicately billowing in the slight breeze. Beaded sandals, loosely modelled on the traditional Turkish sandal designed with intricate, ostentatious designs and bright colors, were laid out on tables.