Echoes Above the Grand Bazaar

Today would be shamelessly devoted to shopping—we were headed to the Grand Bazaar.

Visual Overload doesn't begin to describe it. The Bazaar is a warren of narrow lanes connecting hans—courtyards surrounded by rooms. The word “han” means “house” in Persian, and traveling tradesmen would stay there when they came to market with their goods. The han usually had a place of worship, a stable for animals, and a kitchen, and the merchants worked there as well.

Gold bracelets and necklaces near the jewelry han

Because of the han structure, merchants selling like kinds of items tend to be grouped in the same area. If you want leather goods, go to the northwest sector of the bazaar; if you want jewelry, it's along the main drag near the front entrance. There are fabric areas and copper areas, although you can find miscellaneous merchandise (athletic shoes, scarves, pottery, kitchen wares) scattered throughout.

A runner leaves a gift shop after picking up empty coffee cups. The blue glass disks are "evil eyes," displayed to ward off bad luck.

Our first stop was a little storefront that sold inexpensive business-card cases, inlaid boxes, and chess sets. She knew the owner, and when we asked the prices of some items, he leaned in closer.

“My regular price is 15 lira,” he said, “but I will sell to you for this.”

He picked up a calculator, typed 10 onto the screen, and held it up for us to look so that other customers would not hear what he quoted. I had seen the same item in other stores for 12 lira, so we agreed that this was a good deal.

“I have another store where I usually buy inlaid items,” Sue told me quietly as we selected our business card holders. We paid for the card holders and moved into the crowded hallway, walking a short way to a scarf merchant with whom Sue has established a friendship.

Stacks of colorful scarves

She picked a handful of inexpensive “pashmina” (most likely rayon) scarves for a friend who had asked her to bring some back. Then she looked for a higher quality scarf for herself. A redhead, Sue leans toward greens, and she has a preference for stripes. The merchant pulled out scarf after scarf in a dazzling array of greens: lime, olive, kelly; but nothing was quite right. He showed me an iridescent royal blue silk scarf with blocks of purple and red. I loved it but was nervous about the cost. It was the first major purchase I'd considered, and I was hesitant to make a commitment. However, as I was considering it, a striped scarf in shades of sage and rust caught my eye. I pulled it from the stack and salesman opened up to show to Sue. It was perfect! She added it to her stack of purchases, paid, and shaking hands all around, we left the store.

Exotic shoes and lanterns displayed in the bazaar make it clear that when you are here, you are in the East.

Our next stop, a few stalls ahead and to the left, was a Persian merchant of inlaid items. His shop held tiny painted boxes carved from camel bone, larger jewelry boxes inlaid with geometric designs, chess sets from tiny to grand, and mirrors in frames decorated with inlay and miniature scenes of Persians on horseback. Sue had one of these mirrors in her house, and I fell in love with it the moment I saw it. I had not come to Turkey expecting to buy something like this, but for 70TK ($40 US) it was a bargain I couldn't pass up.

We broke for lunch at a little cafe inside the bazaar. Sue had been there before and the proprietor greeted her like an old friend. The restaurant served what she called “Ottoman Lunch.” It is like a buffet of several varieties of cooked vegetables and meats served with your choice of potatoes or rice. I picked kofta (ground, seasoned meat) and a very thoroughly cooked ragout of tomatoes, broccoli, and spices. Sue ordered beef stewed with tomatoes and french fries. Other selections available were eggplant with meat, stuffed grape leaves, and a sort of potato and chicken curry.

Sue had another experience planned for us. Through another friend, she had heard of a place near the bazaar—the roof of an old textile han—where we could go to hear the afternoon prayer call from the many mosques around the city. We entered the ancient building and walked through a crumbling, unlit gallery, peeking in doorways where screen printers still plied their trade. At the end of the hall was an elderly man, a former weaver, who unlocked the door to the roof stairway.

We climbed the steep, uneven steps and walked out onto an undulating roof of domes, taking a seat on one.

Istanbul's well-cared-for strays live even up here on the rooftops

The city spread out below us, and minarets pierced the sky on all sides. A handful of other people were there, and they spoke quietly among themselves, anticipating the first notes. At exactly 2:34 the calls began, first from one mosque and then another, the haunting tunes weaving themselves into a Turkish symphony.

I wasn't able to get my own video to load, but here's a link to the Istanbul call to prayer from Vimeo:

http://vimeo.com/23611118

I was entranced. When the last of the notes trailed off, every stood quietly for some time before filtering back down the steps.

Sue took me to a little room near the stairway where an abandoned loom sat, decaying. It had been shut down some years ago by the government because it made the old building vibrate dangerously. It seems that nobody was interested in, or capable of dismantling it, and so it stayed, its delicate metal parts rusting and wires snapping.

On our way back toward the bazaar, we stopped to get glasses of freshy-squeezed fruit juice. The proprietor asked us if we wanted all fruits: pineapple, apple, grape and pomegranate. He began by tossing a whole bunch of grapes, stems and all, into the juicer, followed by halved apples and pineapple spears. Then he cut the ends off three pomegranates and squeezed them in a standing citrus juicer. He combined them all and poured them into two glasses, offering us straws and little plastic stools to sit on while we drank.

As we sipped our refreshments, he asked Sue—using a word unfamiliar to her—about the big storm in the eastern U.S., Hurricane Sandy. After a few tries, Sue figured out what he was getting at, and was able to tell him about how her son, who lives in lower Manhattan, was marooned at a friend's place in Philadelphia and would eventually return to his apartment where the power has been off for days.

Sue needed some sofa pillow covers, and as we walked back through the bazaar, we found a good bargain late in the day at another merchant, who agreed to a lower price when she asked in Turkish. I thought hard about the beautiful scarf I had passed up that morning, and went back to buy it.

As we left the bazaar, we stopped to visit with a rug merchant, Ghengis, who had become a friend of Sue's. He ordered us each a glass of tea, which was brought by a runner who carried it on a handled tray.

A tea runner carries his cargo swiftly through the bazaar. They carry the tea on trays equipped with a swinging handle so that their cargo stays upright even as they weave their way through jostling throngs. Getting a photo of one of these guys was difficult. They are quick and the bazaar is often crowded. It's like trying to get a good photo of a gazelle.

We had seen these guys rushing with their spillable cargo through the throngs in the bazaar. Sue explained that the couriers brought refreshments to merchants who could not leave their shops.

Sue and Ghengis visiting just outside the main gate of the Bazaar

Ghengis is the first person I've ever met who, without knowing my family background, pegged me as a Jew. I have my mother's turned-up little Irish nose.

“It's your eyes,” he told me. “I am Muslim, but we are all friends. If I see a person is hungry, I must make him food. Does not matter, he is Christian, a Muslim, a Jew.”

Sue and I then walked to the tram, where we crammed in like sardines for the ride back across the river. From there we caught a bus to her neighborhood and staggered into the apartment, where we fixed a quick dinner of leftovers and fell asleep.