Buying a rug at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul
My other post from that experience ("R." is my fiancee; anonymized for this publication):
We left the hotel and walked up Taşdirek Çeşme to the Çemberlitas. We then continued on Vezirhan past the Mosques, following the stone street into the bazaar district.
The street was crowded; DC Red Line downtown at rush hour crowded. The shops’ goods spilled out onto the sidewalks and blended with the stall and table displays. Every eight feet, as we crossed to a new storefront and tabletop, we were assured these were the finest goods in Istanbul, no need to go any farther; no, come here, friend, sit here and I will bring you tea and you can try on this fez, this authentic fez, handmade by my own family.
This is, in fact, something that living in an American city prepares you for; the texture of it at least, but not its continuing for quite so long. The jostling was less than on the East coast, so my guard was actually more down than it would be in New York, where you have to watch out for the occasional pedestrian hip check. But the merchants saw nothing wrong with grabbing my arm, which would get a hustler in Long Island City punched: “No need to continue, sir, this is the last store on the street.”
Three blocks in we both stopped at the smell of coffee. We tried different directions to follow it: not that way, that’s sewage; not that way, that’s saffron; this way. We turned a corner and saw a long line of people waiting at not a coffee cart like we had hoped, but a coffee grinding house. Vexed, we kept moving and ran into the stall of a smaller grinder who handed us a styrofoam cup with his brew.
We had edged off of the street where Turks cheat tourists, and onto one of the streets where Turks cheat their fellow Turks. The talk was much faster, and English and German had disappeared, but little translation was needed to understand most conversations:
“It is outrageous that you would charge this much for a package of paper plates”
“But look at the quality here, ma’am; look at the workmanship!”
This part of the neighborhood was even more crowded; Queens on a Saturday evening crowded. We returned to the main street, and entered the Bazaar itself.
The Bazaar was built before electric lights, so there are skylights every few feet. This has not stopped the current shopkeepers from hanging both floodlights and neon signs from every vertical or nearly-vertical surface.
There were the shops you would expect:
“Saffron, sir, the finest Iranian saffron.”
“Others will say their tea sets are Turkish, but they are in fact Chinese. Mine are handmade in Anatolia with true Anatolian copper.”
The head shops had fewer pretenses: there were a few porcelein hookahs with calligraphic designs, but most were glass or metal with cannabis-related figuring, as well as many with the Istanbul skyline and “Turkey” written on them. Because nothing says authentic like writing the name of the country you live in on the thing you make. (“Sir, we just call it ‘Delight’ here…”)
We stopped at a backgammon store and I looked at a chessboard. The owner assured me it was the finest handmade board, inlaid only with mother of pearl, and the inside doubled for backgammon.
“And it’s handmade in Turkey?”
“Oh yes, sir, quite handmade. Let me show you.”
At that he opened the board and the plastic dice for backgammon fell out.
“They are the finest Turkish plastic, sir, and the pips were hand scored in Cappodocia. For you, 160 lira.”
“100 for an old friend, if you put the hand-pipped dice back in.”
“You are my first customer today, so you are lucky…”
Having bloodied ourselves, we went to our actual objective: Hassan and Adnan’s carpet shop.
One does not navigate the Grand Bazaar. There is no map, there are no stall numbers. The streets are not a grid but the kind of meandering ox paths you see in the old parts of coastal cities in the US. Asking for directions can be like asking for directions in Mississippi: “turn left by where the old church was that burned down in ’89…” Still, we tried our luck asking the backgammon man.
“You want Hassan and Adnan’s carpets? This is Istanbul; many Hassan’s, and many Adnan’s. But let me ask…”
A furious conversation ensued between him and a much older man who was sitting and drinking tea. After an improbable amount of talking, he returned: “down that passage, then the second right.”
We walked dubiously down the passage, but miraculously the crowd parted for a moment and we saw “Hassan and Adnan” in an Arabesque script. Osman was standing in the door, looking like he expected us.
“Please, please, sit down! Can I get you water, coffee, apple tea?” We declined.
The showroom was small, maybe 10 feet by 15, and one entire side was stacked with carpets. To the right was an open stairway up to a loft with his desk and computer; to the left was an open doorway that was so deep we could not see in to the next room.
“We are looking for a rug; either something small to hang, or possibly a runner.”
“Friends, we have many rugs here, all Turkish. Many places you will go, they will say they are Turkish, but in fact they are made in India or China. Please, sit down.” (We did.) “Can I offer you some water, coffee, apple tea?” (We declined.)
R. began to sound him out, “I have one rug to hang, which I like, but it is Kashmiri. We’re looking for something Turkish to pair with it.”
Osman’s face grew a little more serious. “You, um, you know there are prices for Turkish silk rugs, yes?” We nodded and he seemed very relieved. “Come, I’ll bring you some coffee. Or tea?” We asked for coffee. He summoned an assistant from the other room and whispered to him; the assistant left and closed the front door to the shop. The air conditioning kicked on.
Osman reached to a stack of rugs to his right and pulled out a small faded runner. “You may not think it to see, but this is my most valuable rug. It is an original Mercer made of Manchester cotton. Look on the back…” He turned it over. The faded pattern on the front was immediately visible in bright orange.
“This is knotted at 12 per centimeter. Most of our silk is knotted at 10, but we have some that is knotted more tightly. Of course, the price increases with that. Your Kashmiri rug, is it made from the, I cannot think of the word, the antelope?”
R. smiled, “Inyala? The chest hair of the deer? No, but I’ve heard those are very soft.”
“Yes, very soft. But let me show you some Turkish silks.” He reached for the first silk rug, felt the nap, and laid it out with the nap towards us; it was a fountain of some sort, with birds, in dull blue and grey.
“And now, see it against the weave…” He turned it around; the whole rug shimmered. The light bounced along the waves from the fountain and the birds’ plumage; they seemed to move as the rug settled. The dull blue and grey immediately became bright metallic colors, shining out from the rug. Breaking the first rule of buying, we both gasped at once.
Osman’s assistant came back with a tray and two turkish coffees in silver cups. Osman moved a small table in front of our sofa and invited us to drink (he took tea in a small glass, but set it aside). As we drank, he continued showing rugs to us with and against the nap: fountains, birds, the shahada, prayer niches, flowers, rivers, swords.
We finished our coffee and Osman’s assistant suddenly appeared to take our tray. We pointed to two rugs we liked and asked him to leave them out so we could look at them, and to bring out a few runners as well. “How much would one of these be?”
“Well, these are Turkish silk, you see…” and he named a price that was much higher than we were going to pay for anything that wasn’t a car.
Breaking the second rule of buying, we came clean and said how much we wanted to spend. His eyes lit up. “By an astounding coincidence, that is exactly the price of this runner!” He reached two deep into the stack that his assistant had just brought out, pulled out a 3′x10′ runner, and laid it down on the floor. We gasped again.
“This is cotton on cotton, handmade in Turkey; it is 50 years old. It is Mercerized; true Manchester cotton. You can clean it like you would your clothing, if you want. These central figures are prayer niches, signifying the belief in God. These birds signify love and piety. These flowers, abundance and increase. These tent figures signify shelter. This river signifies abundance as well, and these trees are the tree of life, signifying life beyond this life.”
The cotton, of course, did not shimmer like the silk, but the colors were also more direct and true. The blue changed to grey with the nap, and the red to a kind of brick or russet, but the piece was beautiful, and we couldn’t say no. He packed it in paper, and gave us a carryon bag to take it home.
Anyways, here's the rug we bought:
= new reply since forum marked as read
You're a good writer.
Love the rug, too!
Great story. Sounds like you're having a wonderful time. 
So how's the food? Details please. 
Response to Recursion (Original post)