I love Turkish rugs and high-quality rugs in general. I have two Uzbekistani rugs I bought years ago and they are two of my favorite possessions. On this trip, I knew I’d be stopping by Turkey and the one major thing I reserved a budget for, of the whole trip, was a hand-woven Turkish rug.

It helps that I understand how to tell quality rugs from crap, and for the most part, machine-spun fibers from hand-spun fibers. When I intend to buy something significant, I go all-in for research. (Ask me about refrigerators, ovens, and dishwashers.) 

I ignored many Turkish rug stores by the port, with many annoying storekeepers, and instead walked further away until I reached an area where everyone around me spoke Turkish.

I sat down and had the best sahleb ever at a cafe, with cinnamon on top, 4.5 Turkish lire (~79 cents USD). Everyone else was Turkish but me, signifying I’d properly left the main tourist area. 

After finishing the delicious sahleb, I walked across the street and found another bazaar. Here I located the right store for my purposes.

I walked in looking like any random American tourist, but I was a Trojan horse Israeli—not that I said I was Israeli anywhere in Turkey; it’s the one place I decided to be safety-conscious first. I said I was from Chicago (would have said Iowa but no one in Europe ever knows where Iowa is and shopkeepers sometimes like you better when they know the place you’re from).

I knew within two minutes of walking in which rug I wanted to buy. 

It was beautiful, with hand-spun fibers, rich colors, the tightest woven stitching, a lovely Tree of Life design. 

It was much higher quality than the average rug they had. 

I badly wanted this rug and I wanted to pay 250 euros for it.

(In Israel, the same rug would be over 3000 shekels without a doubt, i.e. about 780 euros).

Thereafter commenced the events below, which from beginning to end was about an hour.

I asked to see more and then asked the price of a lot of them the shopkeeper showed me. Among them all, this one I actually wanted was given a 390 euro price.

I asked a few questions, inquired about some of the designs, and caught the interest of the shop owner, Besir. I’d been speaking to his father. 

He brought me upstairs to see more. He showed me many more rugs. We sat down and drank hot apple cider.

For half an hour, we never spoke of prices. 

We spoke of his shop in New York, where he lives for half the year in off season (which was about to start next week), and how I was a writer who grew up in midwestern USA. 

We finished the cider and we started drinking Turkish coffee. 

We talked more, he showed me more rugs, I mentioned what I liked the most and what I didn’t like. 

I turned over the rugs and commented on the quality. 

He showed me his favorite rugs and I agreed how beautiful they were. His selection was wonderful and he had excellent taste.

(There was one especially lovely one he would have given me for a thousand euros, except I don’t have a thousand euros and told him up-front, which was a stunning depiction of plant life under the sea. It was marvelous and I should have taken a picture because I’ve never seen its like.)

Implied in everything I said: I don’t have the budget for these gorgeous pieces you’re showing me; thank you for showing them! I love them! There’s no way I’m buying them. Also maybe I can consider this one, since it’s the smallest, but meh, I’m not sure I want it (the one I BADLY wanted). 

He nodded and spoke about how my trip to Turkey was such a unique event and the rugs I purchased (of course he always assumed I would buy five rugs, not one, as Besir was a great salesman) would be lifelong heirlooms to pass to future generations. An investment. 

Something to carry with me my whole life, which would only gain value as the years went by.

I nodded, said I understood, and finally pointed to six that I said I thought were most interesting to me. Could I learn more about these? (At this point I still only wanted to buy the one I saw two minutes in.) 

We spoke longer about them and price was finally introduced again. 

I nodded and told him straight-up that the prices he quoted I couldn’t pay; I’m a writer and no matter how much an investment, beautiful rugs won’t pay rent. 

(I could have said mortgage since I own my house, but rent is a better thing to say when speaking to a Turkish rug salesman; I also left both gold rings I own on the ship and wore no jewelry, and just jeans and a t-shirt; nothing fancy at all to the Turkish bazaar).

He asked how much was in my budget and I shook my head. 

“No, no, to speak of it would be insulting. I don’t want to insult you, Besir. I think it’s best I go so you’re not wasting your time.” 

After a bit more needling, I admitted I never expected to pay more than 200 euros today. (That’s a bald-faced lie; I budgeted 300 euros for one beloved Turkish rug.) 

“See? Nowhere near what you quoted; I’m sorry. I love your rugs but they’re just not in my budget. Thank you for showing them to me. Please, have a wonderful day and good luck.”

He nodded and said we could make a price, don’t worry, he’d take care of me. 

He finally knocked the rug I wanted down from 390 to 350. 

I shook my head; still way over my budget. 

About ten minutes after that, I told him let’s consider just this one (the one I wanted). 

He complimented my taste and said I could for maybe 300 euros have one of these other, even larger rugs, but certainly none for 200 and the one I preferred was much better quality and was 350 for me; you see how tightly it’s woven on the bottom, how the fibers are all hand-spun? 

No machines at all were involved and it was a mark of my taste that I liked this one best because it’s very high quality; the highest he had and this is why the price was more, but he could give me for 340. 

I agreed and said I understand, so it’s best I leave and good luck. 

I walked down the stairs.

He took my hand. 

“Suzie, what price would you like for this rug? Tell me.”

“I said already, 200 euros.”

“No, but another price. Something I can afford. You don’t want me to lose money?”

“Of course not, Besir. I think your shop is lovely and I appreciate the time you took with me.” 

I bid him goodbye and I walk out the door.

He calls to me. 

He brings me back in. 

He says okay, 325 euros. 

I say, no, I’m sorry, it’s not possible.

(Halfway through, he asked me if I was a rug dealer. I laughed and I said no, just a writer.)

“Name a price, name a price,” he says.

“I may be able to afford 225 maximum,” I say.

“Suzie,” he says, “I want to give you a good deal but I cannot lose money. This is a high-end carpet, you understand. I have so many more that are larger but less money. Here, I’ll show you more in your price range.” 

I agree to look at more that are ‘in my price range’, i.e. at the 300 euro mark according to him. 

I see about fifteen of them before I sigh and say none interest me, still just the one.

He explains there’s no way he can possibly go below 325 euros and this is the best he can possibly do. He wants to make sure I have a rug I love and he wants to be the one to sell it to me, because he’s so enjoyed our meeting today, so 325 is what he can do. Because he knows I’ll tell my friends and they will see this marvelous rug of best quality and I’ll tell them all where to get it in the USA and Turkey both. 

His father joins him and acts shocked that he is giving me the 325 price for it. 

You see? You see?

I nod and I say I understand, thank you, goodbye and I appreciate the time you spent with me. 

I leave. 

He calls to me and I do not turn back.

I walk halfway down the street.

He runs after me. 

“Okay, for you Suzie. Just for you. 250 euros.”

I hesitate. 

I make a face. 

I shift my weight from foot to foot. 

“Okay,” I sigh, “250 euros. Let’s go ahead with that.”