Wild Turkey

In my husband’s long professional career as an academic, one of the best perks was his opportunity to speak at a meeting in Turkey.  Nestled away in Antalya—along a stretch of the Mediterranean nicknamed “the turquoise coast”—this meeting was an interesting gathering of oral and maxillofacial surgeons from mainly eastern European, Middle-Eastern, and former Soviet nations.  It was interesting to be among the minority as Americans and Westerners, and to feel completely at ease with the great camaraderie among professionals.

The best part of the trip, however, was our side trip to Istanbul.  Straddling the Bosphorus Strait, a gateway between Europe from Asia, this largest of all European cities was an unexpectedly pleasant surprise.  Offering an interesting mix of foreign flair with political friendliness, Americans feel the love in Istanbul.  There was none of the condescension of the French, or the superiority of the British.  Here in Turkey we were merely brothers of another mother; they were anxious to share their sites, their food, and especially their wares with us. 

There were a few challenges, however.  For one thing, Turkish is a very foreign language.  If you studied French or Spanish or even Latin there is no advantage here.  Although their alphabet may fool you by its similarity among a few of the letters, make no mistake:  you cannot pronounce Turkish words no matter how hard you try.  At the suggestion of the manager at our hotel, who corresponded with me by email for six months in nearly perfect English, we hired a local English-speaking guide.  He turned out to be worth his weight in gold, saving us from the brash corruption of the taxi drivers as well as getting us to the front of the line at every attraction.  It was a little disconcerting when we met, however.  We sat in the hotel lobby getting acquainted when he asked me, “Do you sometimes play Bach?”  He had me at a disadvantage, having researched our identities extensively on the Internet before our arrival.

Turkey is a predominantly Muslim country, yet religious freedom is a matter of law there.  Nonetheless, orthodox Muslim practice is as all-encompassing as orthodox Judaism.  Minarets soar above the many mosques, the muezzins issuing their call to prayer five times a day over blaring loud speakers beginning at dawn and ending late at night.  It took us a couple of days until we were able to sleep through the morning prayers.  Despite the predominance of this ancient ritual, Istanbul is a modern city bustling around its ancient artifacts.  One of the only oppressive restrictions we felt during our visit was the inability to access YouTube.  Apparently, some Greeks decided to taunt some Turks by producing a possibly humorous (though decidedly uncomplimentary) video about the great leader Ataturk.  This action is a violation of Turkish Law 5816, which specifically prohibits the defamation of Ataturk, the man revered for establishing Turkey’s modern constitution, its secularization, and its inclusion as a European nation.  In response to the viral impact of this video, the Turkish government simply banned YouTube from Turkey’s own parsec of cyberspace.  This was unfortunate for us, as it caused us to miss Adam Lambert’s incredible performance of Mad World.

After visiting Topkapi Palace, the Whirling Dervishes, the amazing Hagia Sofia, and the incredible Archaeological Museum (which includes a remnant of the Byzantine chain that was once pulled across the Golden Horn to restrict unwanted ships) I couldn’t wait to hit the Spice Market and the Grand Bazaar.  For a shopaholic foodie like me, visiting these two markets on the same day was nirvana.  The Spice Market conjures images of ancient times, their crowded booths jammed with large sacks of every spice imaginable, ready to be scooped into small plastic bags for travel.  Imagine the bulk aisle of Whole Foods Market expanded to the size of a small neighborhood.  The perfumed air tells you that these are the freshest spices anywhere in the world.  The variety and quality leaves no doubt that such treasures were once prized as much as gold or jewels.  I found my own treasures:  rare and fragrant Iranian saffron, Turkey’s own apple tea, and the same spice mix that flavors the yummy meatballs found in the local traditional restaurants.  Beware the “Turkish Delight,” a cloyingly sweet confection that defies description.  Instead, try the “Turkish Viagra,” a dried fig or date stuffed with a whole walnut.

By far, the highlight of our trip was the rug merchant.  Our guide stopped me every time I tried look at rugs in the Grand Bazaar, insisting that we accompany him to a special warehouse around the corner.  As we entered, I felt as if we had “American tourist” stamped on our foreheads.  Other customers were pushed out of the way to make room for us on velvet-lined benches in a viewing gallery.  A man with remarkably good English offered me apple tea, and then asked me in a whisper what my husband’s favorite liquor was.  When I replied ‘single-malt Scotch,’ he pointed at someone in a corner who disappeared, returning a moment later with a bottle of Glenlivet and a clean glass. 

First we were treated to a demonstration of the rug-weaving craft.  A traditionally-garbed woman seated herself on a small bench while two men carried in a large loom and placed it before her.  She completed several rows of an intricate pattern while we were schooled in the difference between single- and double-knotted techniques.  They allowed my daughter to sit at the loom and complete several stitches herself while we followed their cues and took photos.  The glass of Glenlivet kept filling itself; we were putty in their hands.

Then the show began.  From every corner of the room men appeared, each carrying a large rolled up carpet.  The first man stepped up, grabbed his roll by the fringe end and flung it open in mid-air, causing it to come to rest in the center of the room.  After just a second or two to glance at it, another man did the same with another from the other direction.  Then another, and another.  There was red, blue, green, brown.  Graphic, tribal, wool, silk.  Before we knew it, there were at least two dozen room-sized carpets stacked in the center of the room.  The English-speaking man looked at us.  “Which one would you like?” he said, pouring more Glenlivet.

The rugs were each spectacular, but none really spoke to us.  They either didn’t fit our décor, or the size of our rooms.  As specifically and politely as possible, I tried to reject the rugs.  “I don’t want red, or bright green, or navy”.  “I don’t want round.”  “This is too large.” “This is too small.”  With each rejection, the rugs disappeared as quickly as they materialized.  I pointed at a specific rug hanging on the wall.  “I really like the pattern and colors on this one,” I mentioned coyly, “but too bad it’s not the right size for our rooms.  Instantly two similar rugs appeared—one smaller, one larger.  The smaller one was a perfect fit for our entrance hallway, and gorgeous in its earthtones.  The rug merchant explained the symbolism in the design, including the use of indigenous plants (tulips, cloves).   When he pressed me for a decision, I switched subjects.  I mumbled about the need for a very large rug, big enough to anchor a king-sized bed, but in the golden tones of our bedroom, colors I had never seen in a Turkish rug.  I could not believe my eyes when an exquisitely intricate rug of maize, butter, chocolate, slate, and pumpkin appeared.  If I had designed this rug myself, it could not be more perfect or more beautiful.  But I was really hoping for something for the family room, I explained, trying again to avoid capture.  It needed a more modern quality and had to be perfectly square to fit two identical sofas set perpendicular to one another.  It also had to be a very particular color of green.  Convinced I had finally stumped the rugmaster, we sat back and sipped our drinks, confident that we could now beg out with feigned disappointment at their inability to meet our needs. 

Miraculously, the very rug I had imagined in my space appeared.  It was more contemporary than traditional, although it was based on an ancient tribal pattern.  Its combination of wool and silk blocks caused the light to bounce differently across the monochromatic celery green.  It, too, was perfect.  I conceded defeat.

I turned to my husband, too exhausted emotionally to choose among the three rugs I had found among the dozens we had seen.  I begged him to pick.  He swirled the Glenlivet in his glass then polished it off.  “When will we ever be in Turkey again?” he asked.  Then turning to the rug guy, he said, “We’ll take all three.”

If I ever need to prove in a court of law that my husband is crazy, I’ll only have to tell this story.  But in the meantime, I love my three Turkish rugs.  They are a daily reminder of the graciousness of the Turkish people and the generosity of the man that followed me home.

Tomorrow's blog:  To Sleep Perchance to Dream