Flying carpet

In the back of my mind, I secretly wanted a Persian[ish] carpet, but I refused to look.

Heading toward the Bosphorus ferry and knowing my way, a young man approached. “Don’t worry I am not a guide.” The last one said he was not dangerous. We struck up a conversation as we walked toward the ferry. He said it was his day off and he’d been looking for lunch. He would show me where to buy a ticket.

He asked if I liked fish and was hungry, then pointed to ornate boats serving fresh fish sandwiches, pickled cucumbers and cabbage. We grabbed two and had a seat. Omar told me all about his wife and young daughters, showing me beautiful pictures. Said he had a friend building a new hotel across the river and that he’d take the cruise to film the progress. Seemed fine with me. He’s working to get something like our GED at home, then wants to get a bachelor’s and become a tour guide. He’s smart, reads voraciously and knows a lot about his adopted city. He is Kurdish, but his parents and five brothers came to Istanbul when Omar was pretty young.

It was a beautiful sunny day and I got a more visual knowledge of the city by boat as well as some historical information. Istanbul really fits its billing as the cultural crossroads. My home base and where I did most of my exploring was the oldest section, Sultanahmet. I am sitting here writing, waiting for my airport shuttle to take me to my next destination and periodically looking out my small-balcony window to the mosques, their domes and minarets, the Marmara Sea and Bosphorus River. It is stunning. I hear traffic, the ezan five times a day and sea gulls.

Just when I thought Omar and I were parting, he said he’d guide me toward the Spice Market. We stopped by one stall to greet his wife’s cousin and were instantly invited to tea: mint/ginger for healing; pomegranate for heart and circulation; plus nuts and sweets. I tasted my first Turkish Delight. Fresh and unlike anything I’ve ever had.

Omar led the way back toward my hotel, mentioning his shop was along the route. I already knew we’d wind up there. He wove me through the labyrinthine rooms stuffed with carpet. I watched artisans repair rugs, then we wandered down grand marble steps to a showroom. Before I knew it, Omar had my foot on a stool (he knew I’d slipped in the bath), I had a Turkish coffee and rugs were being unrolled left and right and another gentleman was asking which I liked. We had a conversation before he said no obligation, but money is not an issue. “You like and we’ll work it out. You don’t have to pay me now.” I plead that I was not looking for a rug, that I still had two weeks of vacation to fund and no idea nor probably the means to purchase a rug. Still they emerged out of nowhere. I always wanted to buy my own Persian rug in/near Persia. As an artist I was torn between mid-century, neutral geometrics of a looser Kilim weave and new, but traditionally handmade, double-knotted pile. I finally wiggled a price out and gasped. No way, I said. The wheeling and dealing began. I am a straight shooter and hate negotiating. The price kept dropping as I resisted. I heard final offer a couple of times and was ready to walk. But something called to me about this rug and the entire experience. It was worth something and had just about hit my threshold. I knew this was the last offer, said I needed a minute, which they gave me. The poor soul heaving the rugs with only a smile, shot me one more and I was hooked. “OKAY,” I told Sharif (I think that was his name). He lit up. “Only for you since you just lost your mother and had a birthday!” The smiling rug holder wrestled my prize into a small brown package for my carryon. I completed the sale with Omar, who gave me another $50 off because he said he knew I wasn’t really shopping for a rug.

Omar said he had a school friend with only one exam left to become a travel guide available tomorrow at a reduced rate. I tried to stall, wanting a day to myself. Before I knew it, Ayhmed materialized. He offered to walk me part way home at the same time Sharif invited me to come back at closing for a glass of wine. Overload. I wanted neither right now, only to get back to my hotel for some down time. The afternoon had been incredible, but I needed to decompress. Omar walked me out of the shop and said it was fine if I didn’t return for wine. Ayhan was sweet and eager. I said I would let him know.

When you meet someone Turkish, I guess you get his entire package of relationships. There’s an honesty and sweetness, but it can be daunting.

I found my way back home, richer for the adventure.

Omar's shop is El Rincon de Fehmi, with stores in Santiago,Chile and Madrid, Spain.