Bazaar Mindgames

The first blast into the olfactories is the unmistakable odor of cinammon, dancing in between tangs of thyme, turmeric and cardamom. Streams of saffron, wisps of mustard, jets of curry. Istanbul's Spice Bazaar is a staggering, sometimes lachrymose, aggression on the nostrils. And what a sweet assault it is, thousands of odors downsampled simultaneously into the brain. at dizzying bitrates. How could a country that generally smells terrible -- cigarettes, hookahs, cheap-cologne, body odor -- produce an entity so incredibly sensual? .
For the first time in seven weeks I am thankful that the gods of genetics have granted me superhuman smelling abilities. Except, perhaps, for the fragrant bouquet of an elegant perfume gently emanating from a slutty girl's neck, this bazaar is the apex of exquisite aroma on planet earth.

More chaotic and infinitely less pleasant smelling is the world famous Grand Bazaar, several huge blocks worth of shops absolutely jammed with Turkish tiles, fabrics, jewelry, linens, rugs, anything. And the smooth-talking vendors will try their best to bait you into their stores, taking you by the arm and showing you the single most beautiful belt buckle in all of Istanbul, all for very low price. Nothing can quite prepare you for this experience, there is no way to not get lost in the trampling masses -- it is chaotic, big, and fun.

Every street corner in Istanbul has at least one dude hawking something, usually there is a tag team at work. What they desperately seek with each passerby is that code word that will get them to turn around, crack a smile, slow down; because then their chances of a sale spikes tremendously. I like to watch them work the Americans, they are the easiest marks. "You from USA?" And the answer is generally yes with a big smile (Why yes I am from the United States, the best country on the earth, what do you think about that you miserable Turk? <- Reading into body language).

The followup continues: "What state are you from?" "Oh, really, my sister lives in North Dakota too! Please come have some tea, my brother, and look in one of my seven stores! You get special deal!"

When the magpie sees me, he never knows which word to select as his opener. I laugh to myself as I hear his brain whirring before the inevitable "Amigo!" comes flying out. After my blankfaced iron-eyed nonresponse he will cycle through Bonjour!, Italiano?, Guten Tag! and then, finally, Hello! By this time I am wistfully out of reach.

In the Grand Bazaar, I actually wanted to do a little shopping, so I just bit my lip and went in, having to simply endure the slippery salespeople. Even in the USA, if someone comes up and is even the slighest bit too helpful, I will bail. I hate the sleazy sales pitch as do, I think, nearly all Americans. This is why online retail is such a godsend. To make the horrible process more enjoyable for me, I decided to turn the game around on itself and adopt a new persona with each vendor. For each booth/stand/store (there are thousands of them) I would freely offer "Hello!" just to establish the lines of communication. (These Turkish sellers are extremely sophisticated and the best ones know six or seven languages, fluently). When they would ask me where I'm from, I would reply with some other country than the US (they will not bargain as much if they think you are a rich, spoiled American). First Canada, then Australia, New Zealand, South Africa. Very soon I was just getting ridiculous: Iceland, Mexico City, Tunis, Japan, anywhere an English-speaker *might* be from. I'm sure I still got ripped off, but at least I had some fun haggling with them.

In about 12 hours I hop onto Lufthansa Airlines as I slowly wind my way back home. If past patterns hold, I will undoubtedly be wedged between the noisiest snot-filled bawling microbe-infested infant and the embittered man-hating grimacing old woman who hates life and those who choose to live it.