Turkey

The second I stepped out of my hotel room in Istanbul, I fell in front of the watchful eyes of at least 47 cats roaming the streets at 7:00 am. I got up quickly from the newly washed sidewalk and brushed myself off, irritated at the dampness of my shirt around my lower back and the seat of my pants. I hate being wet when I travel. It’s so hard to dry off when you are not at home.

I continued down the street toward the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, the first of the few destinations on my to-do list for “What to do in 24 hours in Istanbul.” A friend of mine from back home, who had spent a lot of time in Turkey, had made great recommendations for where I should visit on my short trip/long layover home from Nepal. She had even called the hotel I booked ahead of time to check to see if the accommodations were suitable. It was also an excuse for her to practice Turkish. I did find my hotel to be exquisite—a cute boutique hotel called the White House, which I had reserved online for a great price within the  Sultanahmet area, where I could walk to all the destinations I planned on visiting. As I made my way toward the Blue Mosque, arriving just as it was opening, I heard a voice calling close by, and I turned to see a young man, maybe 25 years old, smoking a cigarette while sitting at a small café table in the square, looking right at me. I gave a polite smile in his direction, only turning my head slightly to catch his gaze, not really interested in interacting with anyone unless I needed to ask for directions or the price of an item I was interested in purchasing. He rose from his seat and started to approach me, and I slowed my pace to give him a chance to speak to me as her got closer. He said hi and asked where I was from, and I answered vaguely: the United States, and he asked if I was interested in looking at Turkish rugs. Not now, I told him; I am on my way to the mosque. Maybe when you get out? he suggested, and I nodded my head to indicate a maybe answer that probably didn’t translate between our different cultures. He stopped walking with me just shy of the entrance to the mosque, and I continued in, excited by my first sightseeing adventure.

The mosque was as incredible as I imagined, and somehow I managed to forget about my rug suitor during the tour, because when I returned to the square an hour later, I found myself surprised that he was still there at the same café table waiting for me. Damn it. I really just wanted to go about my day without unnecessary distractions. When he saw me, he popped up quickly and scurried over, asking if I would like to go to his shop to look at his beautiful rugs. I really don’t have any way to get a rug home, I told him. That’s OK; we handle everything, he said. We can ship. I paused and thought to myself: it’s 9 a.m, it’s a public shop, I am in a popular tourist destination. Just go have this experience, Shelley. It’s fine if you go off your made-up schedule. You are only here one day.  

I stopped and turned to look at the man. Alright, I will look at your rugs. He smiled and motioned his hand for me to follow him, and started to walk away from the square, toward a row of shops in the distance. When we arrived at the street, he led me through a nondescript doorway and up a narrow set of carpeted stairs, and into a large, windowless room with a small couch, where he offered me a seat, a cup of tea, and a small plate of Turkish delights. I declined the sweets, leaving them on their decorative dish, but accepted the tea and sat patiently waiting for the presentation of the rugs. Although no presentation was really needed. The room was engulfed in rugs—rugs were dripping from the walls. Stacks of rugs were piled high on metal shelving. This was rugs on rugs on rugs

Another man, older and scruffier than the young square-to-square salesman who had accompanied me to the showroom, appeared and asked me what colors I liked, what size rugs I could use for my home. I sipped my tea, shrugging casually. I never think about rugs, I thought to myself. The two men started to pull rugs from the shelves and flop them down in front of me, creating a new pile of reds and blues and golds, hoping to spark interest.  After about 15 minutes, I told the two men, “Honestly, I can’t spend money like this without talking to my husband, and he’s in America.” This is not a true statement. Although it would have been ruder than rude to purchase a $2000 anything while on vacation without considering our family’s budget, which I would never do, the only reason I said what I said is that I couldn’t think of another way to get out of this situation abruptly. My tea finished, and my OIALTE (once-in-a-lifetime experience) looking at Turkish rugs in Turkey was over, I just wanted to get back to my day, having found this attempt at trying something new quite tedious. It turns out, I don’t have feelings about rugs! I set down my teacup and thanked the men, who by now had started to put their rugs back on stacks upon stacks of other rugs with a certain grumpiness of knowing they had wasted their time on me. They were no longer interested in my existence, even enough to show me the way out. I made my way back down the stairs and out into the daylight, continuing back toward the Hagia Sophia, only an hour of my time having gone by since I left the Blue Mosque and my otherwise delightful day alone exploring Istanbul.

After a mesmerizing spell through the Hagia Sophia, I found a Turkish bath that offered a whole-body scrub and massage that left me exhausted and rejuvenated. What magic! How? I found a small restaurant by the water with a view of the Bosporus and ate a small snack of anchovies and olives, not wanting to spoil my plan for a big dinner near my hotel later, where I could splurge on a few evening drinks in the comfort of knowing I could stumble back to my room safely, full of delicious Turkish food and maybe Raki. I made my way to the Grand Market to look at shops and wander, hoping to find some souvenirs to take home to my husband. But no sooner than I had left the restaurant, I started to hear calls from street vendors, which were reminiscent of my morning in the square. Where are you from? I heard from the left. Can I buy a coffee? to my right. Want to look at rugs? Are you alone? Can I show you something?  I waved my hand to say no each time, and with each new voice I heard, I lowered my head a little more from view, no longer looking at the goods and housewares and street food I had come to admire and photograph, no longer wanting to touch fabrics or trinkets I had come to see and admire. I tried to make myself small so as not to create any more situations in which I would be asked more questions. I knew what they wanted with their kind demeanor— they wanted to sell me things I wasn’t interested in and try to keep my attention long enough for me to buy items I didn’t want or need. I kept walking, realizing that this was not going to change as a female walking around in Istanbul alone. I was no longer interested in my adventure in the cities. I could only see my shoes, the cobblestones, and the cats running across the streets in front of my feet. I wanted to go inside and have some peace. I cut my day short and headed back to my hotel, looking forward to the comforts of a quiet room with nothing to do. It was only 4 p.m. The sun was still shining outside my hotel window, and I could hear the hustle and bustle of the city, the tourists and locals getting ready to make their way to outdoor patios to gather with friends for cocktails and snacks before dinner, before late afternoon tours of the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, for nighttime river boat tours and Turkish parties.

I closed the curtains, turned out the lights, and got into bed. My stomach grumbled. I thought to myself, I should have taken those Turkish delights.