Anyway. I think I started the first half of this post trying to process the two extremes I experienced last Thursday. With Angie in the afternoon, I heard about and discussed Turkey as a very Western foreigner. We went on at length about our (I'll be frank) morbid interest in the very real, very frightening religious conservative contingent here. We gabbed about the headscarf movement, the burkas, the political role in all of it, and the very uncomfortable gender dynamic we often feel here as non-Muslim women. With Angie's friend, I got to hear all about the dazzling social life of the wealthy ex-pat community (barf) and what it's like to own a beach house on the Aegean. I sat quietly in my seat as the two of them talked about tour guide kick-backs and cooking classes at the Four Seasons and who to call for x, y, and z. In the evening, I found myself transported to a seaside dialogue about personal disenchantment, ennui, and best of all... toilets. Yes. Toilets. After our candid conversation about Western and Eastern sexual attitudes in December, I think Ömer and I have tacitly agreed that nothing is off limits. How did toilets enter the fray? He asked me if Americans thought Turkish people were dirty. I think I was honest when I told him that most Americans associate Turkey with a) the bird, b) Turkish baths, c) Turkish towels, and d) body hair. Turks are probably the cleanest group of people I've ever met. No joke. He then leaned in and said, "I have a personal question. This is private, but I want to ask." I thought "Oh god. He's going to ask about shaving or circumcision."
Nope. It was so much funnier. He said, "How can you sit on a toilet?"
I blinked. "Uhhh... what do you mean?"
He took a moment to find the words. "I mean, other people sit there. Don't you think that's dirty?"
I think I laughed for at least a solid minute. Here's a (somewhat bad) photo I took of Ömer that night so you can visualize just how hilarious this was.
To summarize, I guess he's a major germaphobe and doesn't trust in anyone else's hygiene, including his own family's. I told him that most public bathrooms in the U.S. now have toilet seat covers, and have for a while, but he seemed dissatisfied. I made sure to express my displeasure with Turkish toilets, which he of course thinks are better, but he's never had to use one with female genitalia and jeans. (You're welcome for that mental image, by the way. LIVE IT.)
Ömer and I came together as two people from two very different backgrounds. Our talks always go between cultures. There are always questions and slight miscommunications, but I think what I walked away with from last Thursday night (that is, after he insisted on walking me to my doorstep!) was that we'll always just be two people - two friends - at the end of the day. We don't need to generalize. We don't need to see one another as some kind of exoticism. Ömer is dreamy, for sure, but he's not a dream. He's a bored 25 year old banker. I want to know him so much more than I want to know THE best guy to go to for blah, blah, blah. I want us to argue. I want us to disagree about religion and God and abortion. Because that means our relationship is real. That means I didn't just sit around in Istanbul for this long and observe.
Now I kind of promised to teach you guys how to buy a Turkish carpet. Well, I think I implied it, at least, in the title.
Here it is. Are you ready?
Don't.
It's hard to walk five feet in Sultanahmet, Istanbul's historic/tourist heart, without tripping over some dude trying to hawk you a carpet, kilim, or scrap of dubious-looking wool. As the daughter of an avid Oriental carpet enthusiast (not even joking - she even took a class at UCLA on them...), I'd like to think I have a more discerning eye than your average American tourist, but I think I'm probably just pickier. Not more educated. I was told before I even left Californian soil that I should treat my stint in Istanbul as a reconnaissance mission, with eyes on the prize, rather than, uh, a formative life experience. Now that my departure date is looming and I am still textile-less, I've been making more of an effort to look for something worthy of my mom's scrutiny. By which I mean that when Angie invited me to visit her carpet-selling friend in my personal hell, The Grand Bazaar, I knew I should probably go.
If you've never been to the Grand Bazaar, imagine yourself in a series of endless corridors filled with greasy young men - and greasy old men - trying to catch your attention by saying "YES PLEASE!" and "YOU ARE ANGEL FROM HEAVEN" and "ITALIANA? ESPAÑOLA?" or, my personal favorite "YOU LOOK LIKE YOU WANT TO SPEND YOUR MONEY!" Now imagine they're looking at you like you're a kebab and it's Ramadan. Add a wall of tourists, some shiny stuff they want you to buy, and boys sifting through the mess delivering cups of tea. And then turn up the temperature and eau de l'été. (Scent of summer.) I'm not claustrophobic, but I am agoraphobic to a certain degree, and The Grand Bazaar is a perfect combination of overwhelming and wretched. I think about looking for a rug there and my body decides it would rather watch Masterchef Australia. (Yep. That's how much I don't like it.) The knowledge that I will most certainly be ripped off doesn't help, either.
So Angie's offer was pretty seductive. She assured me that she's known this guy for years; he has very reasonable prices; and she took her tour group there and two women bought carpets. I noticed two things as soon as we got there: 1. There were no shady looking dudes heckling outside, and 2. next to the door was a sign that said "Hassle-free Shopping." Interesting. We were welcomed inside and there met the owner of the shop, Hasan, and most of his employees. He offered us coffee, which shocked me in this tea-obsessed country, and seemed more interested in talking to Angie about her book than about selling anyone anything. (Which is a BRILLIANT sales technique.) As my usual precaution against being ripped-off, I told him straight away that I'm not a tourist, but that I live here. I mentioned my neighborhood so he knew I was legit, and then I shut up and listened. We spent about an hour chatting with Hasan in his shop... mostly about his kids, Turkey's president and the ridiculous shenanigans he's been up to lately, and some carpet lore. When Angie and her friend were ready to go, I mentioned that I might stop by later on my mom's behalf. I told him I was looking for a carpet with a Tree of Life motif, and some navy. He had one of his guys dig through a few stacks and pulled a few for me to see. None of them were right, but I took a few photos and told him I'd return. He said I was welcome back anytime, even if for just a chat and a cup of tea. Angie asked him for directions to a lunch place, and we were off. When we got there, finished lunch, and asked for the bill, we were told that there was none - Hasan had taken care of it.
That, friends, is how you sell a Turkish carpet.
My mom and I agreed I wouldn't be purchasing one, per say, but I am going back to his place tomorrow to check out his salt bags and kilims.
Here's the salt bag I want for myself
and here's Hasan and a lovely kilim
2 comments:
Anya, do you read The Rumpus (therumpus.net)? If you don't, you should—there are so many beautiful pieces of writing there. And if you do read it, you should submit some of your writing. I think it would be a great match.
Thanks, Meagan. I'd never heard of it before, but I can't fault a website of that name... ever. I'll definitely look into submission if I ever write something that isn't self-indulgent and sarcastic. Haha.
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