The Iranian Consulate opens at 10 am this morning. We hurry down to wait at the doors but, after waiting 20 minutes inside, we find out our visas are not ready. “Tomorrow” we are advised. What now, Coen asks. “Netsimukelut” Vincent shrugs. “We will just come back tomorrow.” I am not really as sure about his show of coolness as I catch a glimpse of disappointment in his face.
Our day is completely wide open, without plans. It is a cloudy day, best kept for indoor activities. Vincent wants to see the Blue Mosque, which both Coen and I have seen. I suggest to Coen I want to go shopping for a souvenir of Istanbul, since I have been here longer than any place I have visited in the eight months of my trip. Coen agrees to come with me.
I am not sure where I want to go but a clerk at the hostel has suggested I check out
the Grand Bazaar on a side street a few blocks away, up the hill from the spice market. It is not the easiest place to find if you come at it the wrong way, as we seem to have done. The entrance we find is through a courtyard off the side of the mall and seems way too small to be the right place. Through the door though, it is a huge complex with dozens of corridors that go on forever. It is visually overwhelming. After half an hour Coen says he feels like going back to the hostel for a rest. He has been sniffling and occasionally sneezing. 
Once on my own with no one to talk to, the constant stimulation of music, crowds and merchandise begins to tire me too. Too much stimulation always does that to me. I seek out the quieter corridors that dead end. In one of them I run into Jamal, a handsome young man who is looking after his father’s carpet shop. He smiles so sweetly that I stop to talk to him. He isn’t like the other sellers who constantly come after me, calling me friend and offering to take me into their shops to display their carpets. I suppose he would not be considered a good seller as he is not aggressive enough, but he certainly drew me in. For the moment, I am happy Coen has gone home.
Jamal is not in his element here, which is why I am drawn to him I suppose. He is grateful that I want to talk even, especially after I tell him I am not interested in carpets. I think he is sick of talking about them but he must ask as it is his job. I can tell he wants to know me, as pointless as that seems. He can’t meet me after work. He lives a forty minute bus ride away and works from 9 am to 11 pm when he isn’t studying to be a bookkeeper. He says lots of workers have to work long hours in Istanbul because wages are regulated nationally but the costs of living in Istanbul are much higher than the rest of the country. He tells me I have beautiful eyes and I tell him he is very handsome, which makes him both beam and blush. I brush his hand in a discreet way and he locks fingers with me, glancing nervously to see if anyone is watching us. He lets me take his picture. I explain that I am looking for something I can carry with me while I cycle to India, and he is filled with animated interest. He suggests I check out the vests in his father’s other shop in the next corridor. I thank him and blow him a kiss as I leave. I am not sure if I have made his day or just made him lonelier. Sometimes life asks too much of us, right?
His father’s shop is on a busier corridor with more customers. I spot what I want on a rack of vests right away. I also pick up a ‘kafia’, one of those red and white patterned head and neck wraps that Yasser Arafat wears. It might get pretty cold in the mountains east of here. The father is a stout, balding man with a working class build. Jamal doesn’t look like him at all. His shop is busy and he cannot chat. I make my purchases and leave. On my way back to the hostel I pass a ark skinned man with a brown bear on a leash. It looks like they have just stepped out of a circus. I stop out of curiosity. He asks if I would like to take a picture for a small price to pay for the bear’s food. Caught off guard, this seems like a good thing to do but later I realize he might be keeping the poor bear in cruel circumstances to make his living. Perhaps it is no different than having performing dogs and monkeys, but the bear did not seem to be enjoying being hauled around on a leash.
I am beginning to see the city as it is for its residents. Jamal’s taxing hours, the ticket and bagel vendors who can never marry because they cannot afford to keep a wife, the brown bear on a leash, his unemployed owner, Ilio’s life on the street, even the taxi drivers who beat and robbed him when he arrived in the city – life in this city is very hard for those who are not rich. Even though the election that has just passed has brought in a new party, it’s just another right-wing government that will cater to the rich and powerful. PHOTO 1: courtyard entrance to the Grand Bazaar
PHOTO 2: the Grand Bazaar
PHOTO 3: Jamal
PHOTO 4: my new Turkish vest
PHOTO 5: bear on a leash, possibly drugged
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