Chapter 22

Trapped in the Bowels of the Grand Bazaar

I'm a fairly seasoned traveler. I've spent over 100,000 miles in the air to far‐flung places, near‐flung places and flung places in between. I feel comfortable in countries where I can't read the signs or the menus. But when I found myself deep in the bowels of the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul drinking apple tea, haggling over a beautiful Turkish rug I had no intention of buying, it was one of those moments when I fully understood that I was in over my head. But we'll get to that.

Istanbul is one of those cities that holds a magical place in the mind's eye. It is a city that has been built up and torn down many times over a couple of millenia. There are staggering pieces of history at every turn. When you go to Istanbul you are both at a literal crossroads of East and West, and a metaphysical crossroads of time and history. It is a city that I had always wanted to see, driven by my love of history as well as one of my favorite They Might Be Giants songs: “Istanbul Not Constantinople” (the “Tiny Tunes” video is a classic).

I only had a short time in Istanbul as my final destination was a gig in Munich, so I wanted to get in at least a few of the highlights: the Blue Mosque, Grand Bazaar, some good eats. Being the type of person to read up on the do's and don'ts of any particular place I'm traveling to, I did my requisite research online. I enjoy reading opinions of whether you should or shouldn't put your valuables in the safe, to carry or not carry cash, and what seems like an odd obsession of carrying that cash in a money belt fastened under your clothes like some sort of Elizabethan corset. I guess if I'm going to get mugged and have to give up my cash, I'd rather just hand it over than to also have to face the humiliation of lifting up my shirt and having said hoodlum get a look at my somewhat hairy physique. I imagine the thief taking my money and sadly shaking his head as he says in a language I can't understand:

One particular warning stood out from all the rest for its detailed specificity. The helpful author had some for‐real advice for any newbie paying a visit to Istanbul's Grand Bazaar:

You'll find that within minutes of entering the Grand Bazaar a friendly man will sidle up to you and strike up a casual conversation. In a short amount of time that friendly man will have gotten you to say where you are from and that he knows someone from where you are from, most likely from a specific neighborhood. In short order you'll be being lead through the labyrinths of the bazaar, deeper and deeper into the bowels of this ancient marketplace until you are deposited at a rug seller's stall where you will be served delicious apple tea and be presented hundreds and hundreds rug choices.

Well, that's a pretty damn specific scenario and one I was sure I could easily avoid. I mean it's not like some complex misdirection scam where one person is keeping your attention while another person is slyly reaching under your shirt for all that cash you have taped to your rib cage like some sort of mule for a Columbian drug cartel. (I have been binging Narcos on Netflix. No offense meant to Columbia or any of the cartels.) This seemed to be a pretty obvious situation that could be avoided.

So there I am with my travel companion at the majestic Grand Bazaar, the ancient marketplace where traders, travelers, and merchants have bartered and haggled and tried to get the better of each other for eons. Me, I was just looking to stroll through the corridors and kiosks, taking in the sights, sounds, and smells of this very old mall. My travel partner, well, he collects snow globes. Hey, to each their own. So he steps into a vendor's stall that sells snow globes. Yes, apparently that's a thing you can get at the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. As I stood outside waiting for my companion to purchase an authentic Turkish snow globe, sure enough a friendly gentleman approaches me and begins chatting me up. Being a Bostonian I am very adept at the “no thanks, not interested, leave me alone” vibe. You could try to hand me a hundred‐dollar bill and I would be mumbling, “I'm all set, I'm all set, no, thank you, I'm all set.”

So I was feeling fairly confident as the gentleman casually asked where I was from. Now, asking where someone is from is one of those questions that tends to reach down into one's brain in such a way that it is almost impossible not to answer. I've gotten quite a bit of advice from people on how to answer this question in a foreign country. By and large, the answer most generally suggested is, “Say you're from Canada.”

Apparently saying “I'm from Canada” is the universal phrase for “I am incredibly nice and of no threat to you and you will get nothing of interest from me.” I did not use the “Canada” defense but instead uttered the words “I'm from Boston.” What an asshole I am. As my travel companion took an interminable amount of time choosing between the snow globe with the Blue Mosque in the center and the one with the little boats on the Bosphorus, my new found friend became excited at the mention of Boston and let me know that he too used to live in Boston. Brookline, in fact. Well, no kidding? I spent the better part of my 20s living in Brookline and Brighton on the edges of Boston. My new friend, Sam, definitely his real name, proceeded to pull out his iPhone and show me some pictures of his friends who are still there.

While all this was going on, what I consider to be one of the most amazing demonstrations of subtle psychological influencing happened. I found myself walking with Sam deeper and deeper into the bowels of the Grand Bazaar where I was deposited at a rug seller's stall and handed a delicious cup of hot apple tea. Clearly my mind is so fragile that I can be influenced far, far more easily that I have ever imagined. I now know that if I am ever in a situation where I am being interrogated, a bit of friendly conversation and something tasty will be all it takes for me to spill any and all trade and state secrets.

As I was shown various different rugs – Persian, Turkish, Indian, nothing that looked like it would be offered for 70 percent off on Wayfair – I started to regain my wits and realized that I did not know where I actually was or how I had gotten there. Nor did my traveling companion. As I continued to listen to the merits of the various rugs being proffered I started to explain that, no, I wasn't interested in the shipping prices to the USA and that no, I wasn't in the market for a carpet at all.

Sam, by now my very good friend who I was definitely going to meet up with the next time he was in Boston, which was very soon, he assured me, inquired as to whether my travel partner might be interested in a rug. Me, saying the only thing a true and stalwart friend would say when it looks like another might be drawn into a wicked web of deceit and commerce, immediately said, “Yes, I think he might be.”

Sam ducked out of the stall and the hard sell stopped as I was offered more tea and some sort of delicious pastry with candied nuts on top. Within minutes my companion stumbled into the stall somewhat confused as to just what was happening. The rug merchant handed him some hot spiced apple tea and said, “Your friend mentioned you are interested in purchasing some of our fine carpets.” I just shrugged my shoulders and gave him a half‐assed look that said, “Sorry dude, I had to say something.”

Forty‐five minutes later we were exiting the bazaar and my friend was holding receipts for a lovely Turkish area rug and a lush, Persian throw along with his snow globes (he bought both). I was on an airplane to Munich less than 24 hours later. I'll be back, Istanbul, and your apple tea and candied nut cakes won't win me over so easily next time (they definitely will).