Swimming with Bazaar Sharks

Note: There are no pictures of the rugs yet, they were boxed and shipped immediately and no one back home has sent me pictures yet for this blog. I have had this post for over a week so I am just going to put it up. Instead you get the Hagia Sophie and a Bellydancer named Marlena.

My misadventure in Hamburg with the hookers has been, apparently, about the most memorable thing I have written on here. I am not ashamed of my temptation but it is kind horrifyingly amusing when you find out that not only did your Mother read it, but your Father, and Grandmother, and everyone else. I am sure that I shall hear of it for many attended family gatherings to come. What still bugged me about that night was not that I was drunk, alone, sensuality heightened by a night of loud music and dance and therefore susceptible to the siren song of beautiful bodies for sale. No. What stuck with me was that I was so thoroughly schooled and beaten when it came to shrewd negotiation. I stumbled into the situation blindly, and naively and it made a mark of me. Prostitution never bothered me as a moral thing (obviously), since it could be argued that dating itself is often a subtle form of it. However the idea of sex with you being someone's shitty job just turns off the motor, which I was reminded of in my experience in a most unforgettable and humiliating way. The whole ordeal did leave unfinished business, not what you're thinking...heh, but the idea of losing so badly in a contest of business. I got hustled and my nature finds it unacceptable and I have since been looking for some redemption.

That redemption came to me in Istanbul in one of the many Bazaars. There are roughly a zillion rug salesmen and stores in Istanbul. I do not pretend to know exactly who has the best stuff but I did research slightly before my trip. Learning ways to tell if the merchandise is authentic, so that I would know if someone was trying to sell me garbage. If you are unwary and not firm you could be bilked of hundreds or thousands, you could be grabbed off of the street. The entire carpet hustle is based on movement, speed, to make you rush along with them. I recognized it immediately when I found myself in a warehouse near the Blue Mosque.

I was walking around to take in the city at night and a man in a suit stopped me and asked me if I was American. If someone on the street asks you if you are American unbidden, it will be about money. Every single time. "That's right. I said. I am the famous zeppelin racer Dennis M. Boehm."

"Zeppelin? Like bleemps?"

"Nevermind all that. What is it you want?"

He wanted to show me his business, he said, and asked if I would come. One rule I have been espousing to everyone I meet on the road is that you should at least stick your head down every rabbit hole that presents itself. So I followed him. We walked a winding path into an unmarked building that put me on my guard. I was worried that I was being taken to some sex dungeon, the man started to look to me like a pimp. We rounded one last corner down some stairs and I was confronted with walls of carpets. There were twenty some odd Turkish men milling about and the man took me into a show room after offering me a Turkish apple tea, which I refused. Which they brought anyway. He started to show me the double knot rugs and doing the tests I had read about to ensure the quality of material, he lit and singed the edge of one of the carpets and the burn wiped away. This test proves that there is no plastic in the wool or silk. I examined the threads very closely and when I stood up a new man had enetered the room. He was wearing a tight shiny button down, three buttons were undone and his hair was immaculate. The man who had led me into the room, the man in the suit who I never got a name from slipped out a back door. Clearly this new man was the salesman. During the tests I realized why they had rolled out so many rugs on the floor for me to examine.

"Which is your favorite?"

I pointed to the red and white one that I eventually bought.

"Where are you from my friend?"

"The States."

"I love America! Would you like more tea?"

"No thanks."

"Have tea! Bring him another cup." One of the young kids jumped to his feet and left the room.

"You like this merchandise?"

"It's very nice. I really don't plan on buying a rug tonight."

"I make good price for you! Because you did not plan to buy!" I think he fills in that sentence with whatever is convenient. I make good price cause I love America. I make good price because you planned to buy a rug and deserve it. Whatever. He said some instructions in Turkish and more rugs were rolled out. "Do you prefer the double knots? They are nice yes. This one you like, I make special price, 2600 dollars. Usually it is as high as 5000."

"Well that is very kind, but no way."

"We have very nice carpets that are under 1000, if you prefer."

"Oh. I'm not worried about money at all." My tea arrived, as I bluffed. "But I saw another place that had a really nice silk double knit, really pretty, and he had a much better price."

"What was he asking?"

"He only wanted twelve hundred. So anyway, thanks for the tea."

"My friend, you know you will not be cheated (sounded like "shitted") here. These are best quality, if he was asking so low he was giving you trash... all respect my friend. I do not want to see you cheated (shitted). I will make prie for you...2400!" At each offer, imagine his hand jamming nearly into my own, a fast and agressive handshake to make it official. Around you rugs are rolled out and up, kids scurrying by with trays for tea and many looming swarthy skinned anymous spectators watching. I felt as though the salesman was a master teacher and they were all waiting for him to con the American mark. The thought made me slightly angry and caused the competitive nature in me to demand satisfaction.

"I thank you for your concern about my being cheated." There seemed to be a courtly way of going about this task. Like diplomatic negotiations, you heap praise and declarations of honesty and friendship upon one another while trying wring them and fuck them out of every last lira, euro, dollar, spit of land, or treaty. "And I believe very much that you have my best interests at heart. Where was the rug made."

"In Turkey! We have many contacts in villages, this is Kurdish make. I am Kurdish." He sounded proud.

"Excellent. That sounds very authentic, which is what I want. My question is, how much does it cost to manufacture this excellent merchandise? It seems to me that the weavers are not paid as handsomely as 5000 per rug, which is what this one is clearly worth." I indicated my rug. "It seems like the profit margin is very large, and you could afford less of a markup."

He laughed, and laughed. He took my hand. "You are a very wise American man. What would make you happy?"

"I think we should start over, from 1500, and then really negotiate. Otherwise I wish you happiness."

"I do it for 1500!" The hand again. "You have credit card?"

"I have a debit card. I am not paying 1500 for this rug."

"My friend. I will add gift for you, a modest kilim." Kilim is a rug style that is very smooth and has slits in the fabric. In ancient times they were used for the nomadic tents, to allow for air circulation.

"Excellent, lets pick a Kilim." Eventually I chose a green one, with the idea of sending it to my Mother. As soon as I had indicated my intertest in selecting one the room burst into movement again, small table cover kilims were presented to me. I felt like I was doing well. I was having a lot of fun.

"More tea?" I asked. The man spoke in Turkish and a boy slipped quickly out of the room. I really did enjoy that apple tea they make there.

"1500 yes, for the kilim and this..." He indicated my rug.

"No no. I told you I am not paying 1500. I thought the kilim was simply a gift because we are such friends." He squinted. "Clearly I misunderstood." I patted his shoulder. "Thank you for the hospitality." I turned to leave and then I was grabbed. When they smell a sale they will not let you leave, you have to be downright rude to escape. Shoulder off of their hands, ignore their smiling faces, fill your bearing with resolve. It's not unlike breaking up, or telling someone who is manipulative "enough".

"My friend my friend." He laughed. "I like you very much. 1200!" He shouted it as if it were a dramatic happening, and I made my only mistake. This time I shook his hand, total blunder. By the time I had realized what I had done there was somehow already a credit card machine in the room and he was seated at a luxurious looking couch in the room ready for the transaction. I chastised myself via inner monologue.

"Hang on." I said. "What about shipping."

"Shipping is 120 dollars. Your credit card please?"

"No no." I shook my head. "You pay for shipping."

"My friend, please do not dishonor me by backing from this deal. You shook my hand in faith." He was correct of course, but fuck him, I thought. I remembered walking back to my hostel at the Reeperbahn, my belt undone, feeling the humiliation of a wretch and resenting how such a fun night had become such ann unpleasant lesson in the sharp teethed business of separating tourists from their money.

"I shook your hand, yes, but please do not take offense or think for a second I had meant to be discourteous to you. 1200 is a fair price, but I had no considered shipping." I sat next to him. "I understand if we cannot do business, I will leave here thinking well of this place." He eyed me. "What are these?" I indicated the hanging small looking round rugs that hung from the walls, they were paper thin.

"Cushions. Do you like them?"

"I do."

"My friend, I will give you two cushions and shipping for 1200." I looked at him, holding eye contact and pursing my mouth." We shared the sense we were close to a deal. It was the final sprint.

"600" I said.

"I cannot."

"I know. But I will shake your hand and give you my card for..." I trailed off and he laughed.

"You are a very difficult customer." I think he meant it as a compliment. "1000."

"1000." I nodded. "Deal." I shook his hand and dug through my wallet.

Of course this debit card had a maximum withdraw per day and it was Friday and I suddenly realized I might not have a 1000 US dollars at my disposal until Monday. In fact I was $125 short and had to return the next morning to pay the balance. The rug men all smiled, I think perhaps they considered it a good show and me a worthy adversary. I know that I left a little woozy from spending so much, but also energized and pleased and warmly towards all of them. It had taken three hours, several cups of tea, and a beer at the end where we toasted eachother and our health.

When I left I considered I may have gone lower, perhaps 800. But ultimately I felt good, more than two and half times less than the initial offer, with shipping, with a gift for my Mother and cushions to boot. I wanted to find a man on the Reeperbahn and offer to negotiate his encounter with the whores for him. The extra two hundred was worth the feeling of redemption. I would hang that carpet on my wall like a pelt, just as soon as I got home, and I knew it would be on the walls of my relatives for two hundred years. The carpet was magic, not that it could fly, but that it gave enough of a hint of the future that you felt you could nearly see.

The one where I fly over 10k miles to win a bet

On Sunday night, I found that the Turkish government had banned all international video streams. Its no doubt an attempt to curb the proliferation of porn. In this case however it was barring me from watching the mighty Cincinnati Bengals kick the hell out of the Baltimore Ravens which would have been made even sweeter by the presence of a native of Baltimore staying at the Bahaus Guest House, nestled a block from the massive Blue Mosque to the north and the Black Sea to the south. Where I slept, you would be awakened by the prayer call from the minarets at 530 am, you would also hear the occasional screech of a seagull.

Because there would be no football game that night, I walked down to the sea with two Aussies, two canadians, and two Irish gals. We sat on the giant rocks at the foot of the shore and watched the old men fish with their long poles with neon green tips. The Fishermen eyed us and said little to eachother in soft voices. Our vantage showed us the low lights of the Asian side of the city, connected by one high bridge of a multitude of ferry boats that run through the night. The shipping traffic was quiet for the evening and ready to ramp up in a few hours and we swapped stories for a few hours until we walked back. I had earlier in the night told some people I was considering a quick trip to New York to kidknap a friend who was supposed to met me in Amsterdam previously, and by the time I reached the common room on the top floor of the hostel he was drunk and smoking a waterpipe with apple flavored sheesha.

"This guy says he might go to New York tomorrow and then Athens. Or just Athens." He pointed at me. He hadn't believed I had the means and will to do such a trip. "Just going to get a mate."

People stared.

"That's right." I nodded. "Might as well give me a travel show."

He laughed. The hostels of Europe are full of Australians, and Canadians with giant Mapleleafs on their bags so no one mistakes them for American, they are nearly all extremely good natured.

"Why not just call the friend?" Someone else asked.

"Cause. Peer pressure."

"That's more a romantic thing. I mean, if you were doing it for a girl it'd be romantic...but just a mate?" Piped in an English girl, from near Nottingham (I recognize subaccents now. I am that awesome).

"That would be romantic." I agreed. "But honestly, if I feel like it I can fly to Maine for lobster or Chicago for a hotdog."

"You'd fly to Chicago just to eat a hotdog?!" He sounded dubious.

"Sure why not? It'd take about the same time as the train ride to Athens from here."

"Wicked. So why don't you?"

"I don't like hotdogs THAT much."

"I knew it, mate." He laughed and I felt my eyebrow cock.

"You wanna bet I will?"

"Bet what?"

"You going to Athens next?"

"Yah."

"Bet a gyro. They cost a euro." I pronounce these words the same way.

Six hours later I was on a van to Ataturk airport in Istanbul. I got a better view of the sprawl of that amazing city. The real part, I suppose, where they did not have nightly kebap carts where for four lira you see the man take your marinating skewer and place it on the grill and chop vegetables. This is where the buildings show wear, layers of old paint and cracked stone and laundry hangs desperately onto rusty balconies a few feet from the satelite dishes. Istanbul is the 5th largest city in the world, which I did not know. More than any other city I know it has the terrain to reveal itself to you. You can walk or drive and find suddenly a surprising panorama of some new sprawl of the city. I really loved it there and made a note to myself to return soon, and explore Ephesus, Gallipoli, Troy, and Kappedocia.

Twelve hours later I was standing in the terminal of John F. Kennedy airport back home. I texted and called nearly everyone on my phone, just to say hello and be a pleasant surprise.
Four hours after that I was in O'Hare airport in Chicago. The chargrilled tube of processed cow hearts with peppers, dill pickle spear, mustard, onions, and cheese tasted like victory laced with heartburn. I took the picture of the dog with the day's paper and my salute.

I stayed an extra night in Wisconsin because a friend of mine from the undergrad working in a bookstore days was interviewing for a job in a small town there.

On Wednesday morning I caught a flight from O'Hare to Kennedy, to Athens which is where I am writing this right now. There is no sign of my vanquished foe, but two people I had met in Romania walked in the door and greeted me warmly. The thing about the road, and the traveler culture is that these meetings are not uncommon. You find people again weeks later and are happy to see them. The sun is out here, and it is warm. From the roof you can see the Acropolis, and the very very attractive Canadian girl who is working reception is playing from her list alt rock from the mid 1990's as if she is beckoning me and knew I was going to be here.

Nothing is out of my range. Not these days.

The most horror on Halloween did not come from the Vampires

Brasov Romania was one of the few places here allowed to keep its soul during the worker's revolution. It is surrounded by the Silver mountains with some of the best skiing in Europe, and the very best hiking. In the fall there are clusters of cloud like oranges, and yellows, with flecks of red and even purple that frame the Hollywood style BRASOV sign that sits high above the city where the peaks get snowy. The center retains its Gothic roots, wide cobblestone streets, church spires that reach into the sky with menacing points and weaponlike barbs. The locals are hearty people who wear simple clothing and often have blue eyes, they cross themselves thrice each time they pass a church walking or in an auto. It is a scrap of what this nation has been and precious because so much was needlessly destroyed. Such as it was in Bucharest which was raped repeatedly by the previous Dictators in favor of blocks of unadorned housing, which now is filled with rubbish and a plague of stray dogs who follow you about, with grimy fur, scars from battle, and the wary eyes of the feral. Romania is a place of invasion, and the people are non confrontational but passively independant and cynical.

This is Transylvania. A place of wolves and supersitious peasants that fear Vampires. It also has fingers of modernity, flashing lights, and Kentucky Fried Chicken and young people who want to add you as Facebook friends who also consider Vlad Tepes to be a national hero. Vlad of course being the historical basis for Count Dracula. Vlad the Impaler, the Prince and three times King of Wallachia and the bane of Sultan Mehmed and his Turkish armies and would be Moorish crusanders with their eyes on Rome after the fall of Constantinople. Romanians speak with pride of the defensive war they fought against a reboudtable and bottomless enemy, considering it a service to all of Europe. Prince Vlad was obviously very valorous and ruthless, and even young people speak wistfully of how his simple system of justice (you were impaled for any offense. Any offense.) made life simple and peaceful. One of the stories is that Vlad would place a cup made of gold in the city square for each year he was King and no one ever dared to steal it, though it was not guarded.

Brasov was not the seat of Dracula's power, but he doubtless crossed through here often. Nearby Bran castle is likewise not any place he ever lived, though may have been a prisoner there briefly. The castle was Bram Stoker's inspiration for the castle where Jonathan Harker encountered perfect evil. Bram Stoker's Dracula had the seductive combination of wild and refined, a savage predator dressed in a Gentleman's trappings and a honeyed tongue. An unnatural addition to the very top of the food chain armed with the confidence and conceit of old money. Unlike today's vampires who guess they want your blood, but are more interested in your girlfriend and whatever sexual fetish. Eternal beautiful teenagers with feelings who act more like eternal humans with tortured uncertainty and insecurities. Not Vlad and not his literary alter ego. Brasov and Bran seem to reluctantly embrace this legacy if only for tourist dollars. However their ambivalance is obvious, Dracula is a demonization of a hero, people coming to celebrate a legend that went sideways and turned a considered courageous defender into a monster who sucks blood, changes form, and cannot hardly be stopped. It is a matter of perspective. I did not see anyone dressed as a vampire, and I suppose expected for there to be barrels of free plastic fangs.

Halloween simply is not as big a deal to Europeans, and I suppose in the Romanian mountains Vampires are not thing to make light of. There were parties however, and a good time was easy to find. The biggest partiers were the guests, after a walk through the city, seeing a few parties where the respective bar staffs painted things on their face in mascara and considered it a costume, I returned to the Hostel where people were making a night of it. One thing about Brasov and Romania in general is the fantastic affordability of things which are half the price of most places in Western Europe. An entire large pizza is 3 euro (15 Lei) if you get all the toppings, and two liters of beer are 2 Euro. We were well appointed with strong drink and the residents of the full hostel had all found their way to the basement common room, where chips and mulled wine were provided. I flitted around the room and met and conversed with nearly everyone, Fer from Mexico City who used to be a financier and now was a good humored and foul mouthed relgion Teacher who very much appreciated the female from. In my room I had befriended two cousins from Vancouver called Casey and Brooke, and three more friends from the Charlottetown, the oldest Canadian was 21. There were several American students from Georgia who were studying in Italy, a group of English ladies in their mid twenties who took a long weekend and were enormous fans of Edward Cullen from the Twilight series, a sweating and wisecracking Aussie named Dave who danced and danced and amused himself and the others endlessly with his antics. The Hostel was largely not cliquish, but for two American girls and their gaggle of five admirers constantly jockeying for position and awkwardly materializing immediately if someone outside the circle engaged one of "their" girls in any conversation whatsoever. There are always always douchebags.

It was a fun, typical party. I found it very surprising when the fight broke out.

Brooke looks a lot like Miley Cyrus more on the good side, and she is out of the country for the first time with her older and more travel savvy cousin. She was also obliterated. What happened next is a matter of great speculation. Whether her intent was theft, or being drunk, or being a dumb kid, Brooke picked up a cell phone that wasn't hers and put it in her pocket. She also had been wandering the hostel and put on a coat that belonged to someone else from a room that was not hers. The phone belonged to one of the clique girls who called when Brooke was standing near her and it rang from her pocket. Which is when all of hell broke loose. I was upstairs and I could hear people screaming, I ignored it. An American girl named Jess, the friend of the person who's phone had been taken, had gone ballistic. Earlier Jess had told me her dream job was to be an editor, not copy editing, but correcting grammar... if that tells you anything.

I didn't realize what was going on until the fight moved upstairs as one of the English girls was escorting a shaking and hysterical Brooke upstairs, which raised Jess' ire on that whole group. Anyone showing Brooke any mercy was immediately an enemy, who seemed completely unaware that her militancy and self righteousnes was actually making her come off worse than the person who was caught red handed with someone else's phone in her pocket of a coat that also was not hers. When the fight moved upstairs I was filled in on the argument. The receptionist had not acted decisively so Jess had called the police (heh) and was keening about how Brooke would be in Romanian jail. Brooke alternated between pleading that she didn't mean to, and apologies, to screaching rage filled insults that were answered in kind. Bitch. Ho. Fuck you. Bitch. Don't take my shit you bitch.

Ultimately the owner of the hostel appeared and Brooke would be out. Which meant her cousin who had been in bed for about two hours and was now wearily backing her travelmate only to be shouted down by the poison filled American girl who was only backed at this point by her knobbish groupies including a wussy looking Kiwi guy who insisted she was a reasonable person because he had known her two days. There was no engaging Jess in any dialogue, you were with her or an idiot. Brooke didn't help by shouting things at her and otherwise giving her a steady stream of things to respond to. It nearly came to blows about four times over the whole 2 hour event. It ended in my room, where Brooke was packing and Jess was insisting she see all of her stuff to make sure she hadn't taken anything else, but mostly it was to humiliate a sobbing 18 year old. It was bullying and there was no stopping her short of physically moving her, the hostel owner stood by passively and shrugged when I told him get these two apart. The best I could get out of him was the assurance that the two girls wouldn't be thrown onto the freezing street at 3am, they would be put up for the night at staff housing and referred to another nearby hostel the next day. Jess was a vicious person, and very much the stereotype of the ugly American.
When it was all over this nauseating girl was on the phone looking for validation and to gloat. I was gratified to see her tear up when an annoyed friend called her out for phoning at such a crazy hour and not leaping immediately to her point of view. And later that night when I was finally going to bed she was standing outside of my door talking to the man who's jacket had been taken. It was the same spiel, how she wouldn't let people get away things like that, and that's the problem with the world is people let folks get away with it, and blah blah and completely unaware that enjoyment of the domination of the weaker is much worse than simple petty theft and much more emblematic of problems in the world...especially from an American perspective. I stuck my head out the door.

"Hey." She looked at me. "It's four in the fucking morning." Her face crinkled, and she laughably tried to stare me down with a dirty look. "If you want to gloat on your victory over a drunk 18 year old, do it downstairs...we've heard you talk enough." I shut the door and she responded with something inane. Needing the last word. I saw her form linger behind the curtain over the window on our door for a moment and leave. The story she will tell will be of her defense of a friend and what is morally right but to those who saw it, she had belied her base instinct of savoring too much an opportunity to dominate someone else. Jess was the worst person I have met so far on this trip, I am sad she is from where I am from.

There were no good guys in our spontaneous and free Halloween dramahorror. Initially I found it kind of entertaining until it got out of hand, and now I am brooding on it two days later. I should have been more forceful in stopping it, likely I was the only person there who could have. Jess' groupies couldn't physically intimidate me, and though I probably couldn't have shut her up I could have done more to shield the girl she was bullying, whether that girl was guilty or not.