Assignment #3: Wrting Istanbul

Rugs and Kilims


Outside a rug and kilim shop, a young Turkish man caught my hand and would not let go. Like all conversations in Istanbul that start with “where are you from?” he lured me in with his enamoring smile and beguiling curiosity. Inside the carpet shop, he wanted to show me his world of carpets. I told him I was a student without money in my pockets, but he insisted I stay and offered me çay.

Outside, the street roared on with yellow taxis, bargaining tourists and distant callings of “colwata colwata colwata!” The clouds raced through the mid-afternoon sky behind half crescent moons and minarets while bodies, glistening with sweat, slid sluggishly passed each other shoulder to shoulder. The humidity left a mask of condensation on my face and a damp band on my right shoulder where my messenger bag hung, filled with cashmere scarves, evil eyes and blue jeweled earrings - all the little pieces of Istanbul I could afford to take home with me.

Inside, the room was hot and stuffy, a musty smell of wool and old incense drifted towards me slowly and disappeared quickly. Bright colors and bold geometric patterns insulated the floors and walls, turquoise and purple to the more traditional red, pink, ivory, green, and blue. Heavy textures, some wrapped in thin plastic, draped from the ceilings.

But this was not what he wanted to show me. Taking my hand and without a word, he led me to the back of the room and down a long spiral staircase dimly lit by a single orange bulb at the bottom. I wanted to walk quickly, longing for the thin cool air rising from beneath. But I walked slowly, uneasy to part with the refuge of the busy streets and clammy crowds outside.

The so called “friendliness” of strangers in the street, especially that of men, is all too familiar to me. They come in forms of flattering words to sell jewelry and cat calls to intimidate, or even to degrade, if you cross to the wrong side of town. And even though the hospitality of Istanbul is renowned, my guards are kept up high, always in fear of tourist traps and trickeries, afraid to be taken advantage of as a single female wandering through an unfamiliar space and culture. In the states, there is always thin line between nice men and creepy ones.

We stepped into a room furnished in one corner with a couch, loveseat and coffee table, and the others with rolls of rugs. The walls, like upstairs, were dressed with carpets and kilims, but this time arranged with a more tactful touch. I was invited to sit on the couch draped with furs, silks and textiles, and our çay arrived in the familiar “ince belli” glass with two cubes of sugar.

He flipped through a book of business cards and spoke of his high society costumers from all around the world. I learned that he shared this family business with an uncle and cousin, that he was excited to visit the states for the first time this December, and that Turkish oriental rugs is more than a job, but a passion.

He asked to show me his favorite rugs, and slowly unrolled one after another onto the wooden floor. One by one, he translated to me the patterns of the borders – tree of life, birds of prey, horns of ram. He pointed out the central themes and motifs – strength, fertility, fortune. He revealed to me the material and animal of which the rugs were weaved from – cotton, camel, sheep. Many other insights though, became lost to me through the Turkish language of rugs.

His eyebrow crinkled inward as he delved deeper into the history, and when he noticed my confused stare and blank nods, he would look up, smile and ask “do you think it’s beautiful?”

All the while, I let the black tea drain through my system and relax my senses, filling in English words that he stumbled on, smiling at his shy but obvious attempts to boast and noticing that outside, the afternoon was progressing to evening, the crowds were dispersing into restaurants, and the rendezvous time with my friends was quickly approaching. But I was not concerned, because inside, I was immersed in the most exotic world of ancient nomadic travels, camel woven rugs and Turkish hospitality.

When he thought I had enough, he sat down next to me, scanning over his kingdom of rugs, silently admiring and expecting me to do the same.

I admired with him, and I admired him.

When the silence became uncomfortable, but before I could try to make an escape back to the outside world, he stood up and again took my hand. “I have another room” was all he said as he led me again towards the back of the room, and down another long spiral stairway, deeper inside.

This time I could see nothing at the bottom of the stairs.

He let go of my hand and I heard him walk away. I stirred quickly out of my Istanbul dream: I was alone with a stranger, three floors down in a dark room...

Before my nerves and frightening thoughts could translate into a fleeing response, the lights flickered on from one corner to the other, illuminating an even more ancient world.

“Antiques” he said through his wide grin.

There was also a couch and table in the corner of this room, but we did not sit down. He led me gently by the shoulders, walking from rug to kilim. I saw reverence in his eyes, but only dull worn textiles on the wall. He touched the delicate embroideries as if he felt magic; I felt stiff and crusty wool and quickly pulled away. He traveled to Egypt to bid for that one, this one is in a rug book. Each is original and unique, the only one in the world. I nodded, smiled, told him they were beautiful, but I knew nothing of their beauty.

He forgave my ignorance.

Who knew that every moment I spend in Istanbul, I would become more in awe of this city. I fell in love the first night as we drove in from the airport. Through the dusty windows of our tour bus, I saw antiquity; I saw deteriorating brick walls; I saw mosques illuminated by an orange glow of the street lamps at every turn; I saw a city that did not sleep. I drifted in and out of slumber each morning to prayer calls, breathed in the scent of the Bosphorus, and stuffed myself with Turkish meats and delights. The merchants of the streets, with their trinkets and treats, made comedic remarks and indulged their visitors. The hills grew from both sides of the deep blue, sometimes turquoise colored Bosphorus, and all around, domes of the mosques and their minarets, remains of the Byzantine and Ottoman treasures, pierced through the hills and valleys of red tinted roofs.

And here, two long spiral stairways below ground, far removed from the exhausting city outside, calm and cool inside, I am drawn to a Turkish carpet man and his rugs.

He asked me to accompany him to Taksim Square that night. I took his business card as if I had a phone. He would be waiting there, in his rug and kilim shop, but I made no promises.

He drew me close and showed me a Turkish goodbye, his hands firmly on my shoulders and his lips lingering on my cheeks. I thanked him for the çay, walked up two spiral staircases and reentered the noise and commotion of the streets outside.



Inside the Egyptian Bazaar, a good five minute walk from his shop, I paused to let my thoughts catch up with me. Amidst the aroma of tea and spices I thought about rugs and kilims.

I walked outside onto the cobblestone square and the evening prayer rang from all sides. I closed my eyes as the breeze of the Bosphorus swept through my hair and the wings of the pigeons glided across my skin. I took a deep breath and salvaged the spices, the bodies, and the beef of the döner stands.

Outside, I was surrounded by a mystic Eastern melody, drifting from minaret to minaret, lifting me high where the seagulls hovered over the fishermen. Inside I was filled with content, but overwhelmed with longing to stay in this moment forever.

The prayer ended and I stood a moment, letting the three day dream of Istanbul and all its sensuous wealth wash over me before I crossed back over the Bosphorus to Bilgi Dorm.