Istanbul, Turkey: The Etiquette of Apple Tea (cont.)

I was still wary of him, but I was also tired, and so very cold.  I saw no reason not to let down my guard a little and answer him honestly.  “Yes, I did.  The rooms were beautiful.  And the sultan’s costumes.  I bought a scarf.”  I showed him my purchase, and he nodded his approval.  I let him walk with me down the esplanade and back toward my hotel.

“It is colder here than you expected?”

I hardly needed to answer.

The carpet seller gave me a sympathetic smile.  “Won’t you come inside and drink some tea?  No pressure to buy, just have some tea.  It won’t take long.  And your hotel is just there, yes?”  He pointed down the block toward a group of hotels, one of which was mine.

I allowed myself to be led into his carpet shop, where two clerks were busy unrolling a series of rugs for an American couple who were deliberating between carpets in shades of green and beige.  My host sat me in a chair beside the couple and went off to fetch the tea; and while I waited for him, I looked around at the rugs.  There were colors as opulent as the tiles I’d seen in the Topkapi harem—vivid blues and greens and golds.  One of the clerks explained to the Americans the provenance of the carpet they were considering, and I tried to imagine the look of the loom that had produced such a treasure.

Soon my host returned with the tea set.  He poured my tea into a delicate tulip-shaped glass, and offered it to me with a saucer and a tiny spoon for stirring.  It tasted like hot apple cider, and was just the restorative I needed after my hours in the frigid palace.

We sat in silence for a time, drinking our tea.  I couldn’t bring myself to ask how much the carpets before us cost.  The Americans still had not made up their minds.

“You like this?” the carpet seller asked, pointing to a rich maroon rug the clerks had just unfurled.

“It’s beautiful,” I admitted.

“You could buy one from me.  A very good price.  Take it home with you.”

I explained to him the nature of my trip; such a carpet would never fit in my backpack, and that was the only luggage I had.

“You know,” he said, “we ship worldwide.”

The next day dawned just as cold, and with no fewer invitations to drink tea.  As before, the carpet seller was beside me before I had reached the first corner outside my hotel.

“What will you visit today?”

I paused and thumbed through the dog-eared guidebook that had served me throughout my trip.  “I’ve heard there are ancient cisterns beneath the city.  I’d like to see them.”

He beamed with enthusiasm.  “Yes, I know them.  Please, allow me to be your guide.”

I hesitated.  “I have no money for a guide.  Really, I must save for the rest of my trip.”

He waved his hands in the air.  “No cost.  None at all.  I would just like to show you my city.”

I weighed his offer.  What was he after?  And how much trouble could I get into if I accompanied him to the cisterns?

We each bought our own tickets at the entrance to the cisterns and descended with the other tourists to the dark, subterranean caverns beneath the city.  We did a delicate dance on the wooden catwalks—I would stray ahead and he would catch up; I would linger beside a particular column and he would find me—never too familiar, but not exactly strange.  He told me a little of the cisterns’ history, and pointed out the giant stone heads—remnants of pagan statuary—that had been incorporated into many of the cisterns’ supporting columns.

As we left the cisterns, he stopped me.  “What will you do for dinner tonight?”

In truth, I didn’t know.

“Have dinner with me,” he said.  “There will be many people there.  You will enjoy it.”

I told him I’d think about it, and he didn’t press the issue.  He also left me free to wander by myself in the afternoon, and I spent a quiet hour in the Hagia Sophia.

Evening found me returning to my hotel, and the carpet seller was there on the corner to greet me.  Dinner was soon, he explained.  The taxi was on its way.  Indeed, as he mentioned it, the car pulled up outside his shop.  I was aware then how dangerously close I could be to catastrophe.  Wasn’t this how modern tragedies began, with women getting into cars with men they didn’t know?  Still, I climbed into the back seat.

The taxi took us through parts of the city I hadn’t seen—crowded, busy areas brightly lit with advertisements and flashing neon.  It was a cold night, but that had not deterred the locals from hitting clubs and bars that looked a lot like those I’d visited at home.  After a day of ancient history, I had emerged into a modern Turkish night.

But dinner, my host assured me, would be traditional.  The taxi dropped us at a small lokanta where a long table was already waiting.  The people seated there greeted the carpet seller warmly and made room for us at one end.  Most of our companions were Turkish, but there were a few foreigners like me.  A South African woman sat across from me and offered up a few pleasantries.  As I sampled the rabbit stew and had my first taste of raki, I wondered about my fellow diners, all of whom seemed connected to my host.  Who were they?  Were they family?  Old established friends?  Or had he scoured the city, building a collection acquaintances, and summoned us here—for what?  I’d been trained to equate skepticism with self-preservation, but I could find no evidence for an ulterior motive at this table.  Did the carpet seller sit a little too close?  Refill my glass of raki once or twice too often?  Did it matter?

There was live music in the restaurant, and after the meal the men got up to dance.  They formed a line that snaked its way around the tables, but their efforts were clumsy, prompting both laughter and applause from those of us still seated.  By the end of the festivities I was red-faced from laughter and exhilaration.

Late that night I climbed into the back of another taxi for the return trip to the hotel, joining some of the same people I had sat with at dinner.  There was much multilingual bantering as we crossed the bridge back to the European side of the city, and we dropped a few passengers here and there in neighborhoods I could barely make out in the darkness.  I didn’t recognize my own stop when it came, but the carpet seller nudged me helpfully toward the curb.

“I must pay you,” I told him.  “For dinner, and the taxis.”  I held out what cash I had, and he accepted a wad of lira.  It was a lot, more than I had budgeted for the day; but this evening had been far from typical.

“Sleep well,” he told me, just before shutting the door.  “Tomorrow you will come and drink tea with me.”

And that I would have, if I had not left Istanbul the next morning to continue onward with my travels.  But even now I sometimes raise a glass to my Turkish carpet seller, although I never learned his name

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