Knowledgeable travelers do not go to Turkey to visit downtown Kusadasi. They travel through this Mediterranean port town rather than to it–on to the southern resorts, or the island of Samos, or inland to ruins and more bucolic villages. Most guidebooks call Kusadasi a good connection town.
I planned to spend three days there. So while others stood in the customs line talking about clean beaches in Kas and Bodrum, I set off to find a place to sleep.
The most direct way to town is through the local bazaar, where shop owners call to mind college men cruising Daytona Beach at spring break. They holler after you, ask where you’re from and try anything to get your attention. Make the first right up Aslanlar Caddesi to get away from them. At the top of the hill is a small pansiyon. It’s hard to miss because the owner stands outside looking up and down the street, as if expecting a parade to pass by any moment.
What he’s actually waiting for is you. And when he sees you, he invites you on to his front stoop. Only then does he tell you about his pansiyon, talking in perfect English because he spent many wonderful, ready to be relayed, years in Australia.
It doesn’t take long to realize he is not only friendly, but genuinely interested in getting to know you. He also genuinely wants you to stay at his hotel. So after he unabashedly asks all the intimate details of your life, he proudly shows you the board hanging outside. It lists all the selling points of his hotel. There’s a downstairs bar he tends himself and his mother cooks you breakfast. The final selling point is he provides cheap transportation to all the tourist sights. All for $12 a night? How can you say no?
Once you check in, you are told all the warnings. He recites them solemnly and mysteriously, as if he shouldn’t be disclosing them to you:
– Everyone will try to sell you something in Turkey. Make sure you don’t buy antiques. It’s one of many illegal acts that will get you thrown in jail.
– Also, do not make fun of Ataturk. This founder of modern Turkey died early one morning in 1938 and was all but canonized by day’s end. You can be arrested for showing his name disrespect.
– His final request is that we not be too noisy at night. We’ll wake up his mother.
He ends by reminding us no one loves his country more than he does.
This leads him to his other board, the one inside. It lists the daily events. And for $1, one of his most dear friends will drive us to the ancient ruins of Ephesus. He pauses to give us an encyclopedic history of the city. Then he mentions it’s 10 miles north of the city, but a 45-minute drive because this friend’s van doesn’t have a second gear. He has to go very slowly over the hills.
Of course, to make the ride worth our while, his friend has arranged a stop afterward at the finest carpet store in Turkey. As if to solidify the arrangement, he explains this friend lived with him in Australia and liked it there just as much as he did. Eight of us signed up.
On the ride up the next morning, this friend tells us he doesn’t understand the attraction of Ephesus. Sure the Temple of Artemis is nice and it’s where St. Paul went to work, but it’s not that great.
Did he know how many people visit his country solely to see the ruins? I ask. He only shrugs. “Plenty do. So it’s one of the Seven Wonders, but it’s also hot and dusty this time of year.” He is certain we won’t want to stay long. It won’t take more than an hour to walk down the Arcadian Way. That’s where everything is, he tells us. He makes it sound like a morning paper delivery route that we’ll want to hurry through and be done with.
He stops the van at the hilltop entrance and tells us to meet him at the bottom gate. Short of fleeing into the hills, there’s no way we can avoid him. He’s at the exit, peering through the gate looking for us. “Let’s go. You can buy postcards in town,” he assures us.
By noon we are at the carpet store in Selcuk, an unimpressive cement building that, if transplanted to the U. S., would feel very at home in a suburban strip mall. Not the first image that comes to mind when you hear “the finest carpet store in Turkey.”
But it has the authentic smell of wool combined with the ubiquitous apple tea. Rolled rugs are piled against every wall and hanging from above like canopies. They’re the kind of carpets found in corporate headquarters and private banks in American cities.
We are herded into the store like a group of touring buffaloes. What happens next is suggestive of a masterfully choreographed ballet.
Our driver disappears and two other men appear from the back. Another man slips out from among the carpet stacks and introduces himself as Bobby. It becomes clear very quickly this is no small town businessman.
He offers us drinks. Tea or Coca-Cola? He turns to one of the other men. “Suli, turn the air conditioning on for these friends of mine.” He goes on to insist, “My friends, let me explain the beauty of our native carpets to you.” He tells us to touch the carpets, to lean on them, to sit on them. After all, they’re only rugs.
“Of course, they’re the nicest rugs you’ll ever see in your life, but still only rugs. …”
None of us say anything and Bobby grows serious. He knows all of us have traveled a long way, so he wants to make our trip worthwhile.
He gets down to specifics. Apparently, national statistics show 80 percent of tourists who visit Turkey purchase a carpet. This makes sense, Bobby says, since they have the most treasured carpets in the world. “This means six of you will buy a carpet, for statistics do not lie my friends. It is a fact!” Nobody bothers to debate this mathematical interpretation. He tells us why his store is the country’s finest. We will find no better quality and no lower price. We can trust him.
It is during his pitch that I happen to look behind me. Bobby’s eyes follow mine and we meet at Suli, who is now closing all the front shades and guarding the front door. Suli is huge and wears a thin, cut-off T-shirt to remind us just how huge he is. Bobby quickly translates the look on my face and tries to calm me. “It is fine. Don’t be bothered. It helps the air conditioner.”
Oh, that’s right. I forgot.
And I’m supposed to trust this man?
Bobby returns to talking carpets, explaining how he travels to Isparta and Balekesir in search of them. Young girls spend years weaving carpets and each one tells the girl’s life story. “It is a humiliating experience for them,” Bobby sighs, “for they are hung outside her house when she is finished. It would be like you hanging your diary up for others to read, to see your dreams and fears.”
No one dares to ask why the girls do it then. Nobody asks anything and so it becomes embarrassingly clear no one is going to buy one. Bobby tells us not to rush our decisions. Each carpet is a story and we must find the one that speaks to us.
He pulls a new carpet out and begins explaining. He talks about tight weaves and natural dyes. He points out the symbolic patterns. The girl who made it wants to marry a man and leave her village. Bobby points to the woven birds as proof. She’s very traditional though. The lines along the edges return to the middle, showing she cannot leave by herself. She will wait for the man to come for her.
Out comes another rug. This is particularly interesting, Bobby tells us. There are arrows in the corners, showing the girl has many dreams. She’s very young. “You can see by her choice in colors, simple but bright.” Bobby lays out another one for our inspection and stares down wondrously at this new conclusive specimen of his. “Of course you see the difference, yes?” Prudently and eagerly, we promise we do. Still, no one comes forward to buy one.
Bobby shakes his head sadly. “My friends. Surely it cannot be because these carpets are not beautiful. I must think the only thing holding you back is you have no money with you. That can’t be. If I was truly your friend, would that matter?”
As it turns out, Bobby has a payment plan to suit just about anyone. He welcomes any currency, credit cards, checks and even IOUs. He mentions he has friends in many countries who will be happy to stop by our homes and pick up the money.
Just what I want: to owe Suli money.
Bobby encourages the college students to call home for their parents’ approval. Maybe they will wire money and, by the way, maybe their parents would like a carpet for themselves?
A frenzied panic spreads across our group. No one is sure what to do. One man from South Africa tries to whisper plans to take the front door en masse. There has to be a dolmus heading back in to Kusadasi. His wife discourages the idea. She’s worried he’ll hurt his back.
Most of us stand around awkwardly, hoping someone else will take charge. I start playing with my camera lenses. The South African is hissing something about extortion. We all listlessly agree.
People begin to fidget now and Bobby takes each of our movements as a sign of interest. His eyes follow us the way a dog’s eyes follow someone holding a hamburger. This goes on for several long minutes. By then, it becomes necessary for everyone to share little life stories, if only to kill the silence. Even those stories start running out.
A young woman finally steps forward. Nobody has expected this to happen. Megan wants to buy a rug, the one with the arrows in the corners.
She has made a great choice. It’s one of the best rugs he has seen in all his years, Bobby says.
No surprise there.
Suddenly, everything changes. Megan is a hero. More tea comes. Someone goes out for food. Even Suli relaxes his shoulders. The rest of us quickly rally around to encourage and support Megan. The carpet certainly is beautiful, we all admit. Someone safely mentions they wished they’d noticed it first. We talk about how rich the colors are. It will be perfect in Megan’s living room. Does she have a living room? Nobody asks. It doesn’t matter. We tell her it’s the perfect rug. We cheer her on, wholeheartedly and mechanically, the way one does when someone else offers to be the first to use a karaoke machine.
Our owner is on his stoop waiting for us when we return that night. We walk past him with mumbled greetings and he follows us up the stairs excitedly. “My friends, wait one moment.” He cries out that we’ve forgotten something.
“You must remember to look at the board! I need your answers soon. There is a trip to Pamukkale tomorrow! For $15 you can visit the mineral springs. Trust me, from the looks of you, a day in the hot springs will be very good. And, because you are my friends and I want you to make the most of your trip to my beautiful country, the bus will make a special stop. I have a friend who has a leather factory. . . .”
