Carpets and Kilims

Being invited by Turkish shop owners to enter into their carpet stores is an all too regular occurrence when maneuvering through the narrow cobblestone streets of Istanbul. When we had first arrived in Turkey the majority of us students were unaccustomed to the almost too friendly and forward manner of the Turkish owners and would shy away from making any sort of contact with them unless completely necessary. But after walking these streets of Sultanahmet and calling this place our own home for the past twelve days, the skittering of stray cats across the sidewalks, the smell of grilled corn, hazelnuts, and doner wafting through the air to trigger the growling of our stomachs, and even now the forward gestures and insistent invitations from shop owners to tarry a while to consider their wares all seem like a part of everyday life. Today, however, we are crossing the threshold and entering into one of the places that instinct has pleaded for us to avoid at all costs—a Turkish carpet shop.

Dr. Mallery had scheduled for our class to attend a lecture on carpet weaving at one of the local shops down one block from their apartment. We flocked into the store in Dr. Mallery’s steps like a herd of baby ducklings waddling after their mother into an unknown realm. Like little children at Toys R’ Us-- everything that met our gazes and we were able to reach, we touched. As we walked down the wooden spiral steps to another part of the store, I reached my hand out to run my fingers across one rug that looked particularly beautiful. The sensation that slid up my fingertips and through my limbs immediately triggered a memory in my mind from years ago when my grandmother had taken me to silk farm in China and I had run my fingers through strands of pure, unwoven white silk.

Once we reached the bottom of the stairwell, the owner led us into a large room where three rugs were arranged neatly into a semicircle on the wooden floor. The owner motioned for us to enter and take a seat around the room on the ornate rugs that were laid out on the floor. Lining every square inch of the walls, whether hanging, stacked, or rolled, where hundreds of the most colorful and uniquely patterned rugs I had ever laid my eyes upon. It was if we had all died simultaneously and entered into a Turkish merchants version of heaven. Moments after taking our seats and situating our legs in either a cross-legged or kneeling fashion (in order to avoid accidentally causing offense by pointing our bare feet towards our gracious host), a younger Turkish man began to quietly circle the room, taking orders for Apple and Chai tea. As the owner patiently waited for the orders to be taken, he paced the room and delved right into introductions as soon as his young assistant bustled out of the room to fill our orders. Although his Turkish accent was thick and heavier than the ones that we have become accustomed to being addressed with, his command of the English language was rather proficient, to say the least. But whatever he may have lacked in eloquence, he most assuredly made up for in gusto. His knowledge and command of the subject of carpets extends as far back as the first invention of the single and double knotting methods of carpet weaving and continues on, growing further in abundance with each and every day that he wakes in the morning.

He spoke with such animation that I found myself staring, captivated by the motions of his hands and arms that moved in such rapid and expressive ways as if using charades to help us to better understand the words and phrases that may have been lost in the thick folds of his strong Turkish accent. The light clinking of the delicate crystal teacups on their matching saucers interrupted my fascination with his impassioned lecture on Turkish carpets. And then came the aroma—that sweet, yet distinct scent that can only be found during the autumn and winter holidays in America—apple cider. After the tea had been distributed, the lecture on carpet weaving was now accompanied by the sound of the miniature spoons clinking against the sides of the teacups, almost as if he had secured his own personal crystal bell choir to play as the soundtrack to his performance. The musical number continued on and was added to when a loom was deposited into the front of the room and a middle-aged Turkish woman began to pluck at the silk strings, weaving not only the silk strands into the fabric of the carpet, but also harmonies to complement the crystal clinks and complete the musical score. The woman’s fingers moved deftly through the rows of taught silk strands, plucking each strand as if she were David serenading King Saul into a state of relaxation. In the midst of the musical score, our host continued to explain how each rug and carpet was much more than just a pattern that was invented out of pure creativity for arts sake. In fact, each piece, he informed us, told a story about its maker. If a death occurred in the family a darker edge to the carpet could be visibly seen. When a young girl fell in love, felt the frustrations and pressures of the world weighing on her shoulders, or for some reason was overcome with sadness, it can be read in her carpet. In a sense, each carpet is the diary of the given creator.

Three hours, a round of Turkish tea, and 15 carpets later, we finally bid our hearty host “farewell” and stood gingerly to our feet, taking care since the kneeling for three hours had slowed our circulation and made us uneasy on our footing. Then ensued the shaking of the hands, the exchange of words and “teşekkür ederim,” and then of course the standard invitation to come back again. With our last waves over the shoulder to our newfound friend who was standing jovially at the steps of his shop waving and grinning from ear to ear, we began to stroll leisurely down the street discussing amongst ourselves about when we all finally achieve our goals of becoming physicians, lawyers, and world reknown mathematicians, perhaps we will one day return and be able to buy for ourselves one of the silk masterpieces that had awed us with its craftsmanship and beauty.