We approach the Grand Bazaar (Kapah Carsi) through the courtyard of the Nuruosmaniye Mosque, in the midst of the Bazaar District. As we walk under the arches, we see men selling spangled fezes and evil eye ornaments on one side, and men seated at the edge of the mosque, washing their arms and feet for prayer on the other side. Since it's Friday, the Muslim holy day, there are more people than usual going in and out of the mosque. Just outside the entrance to the Bazaar is a stand selling pashmina shawls, and topping the immense stacks is a pair of cats. It takes some convincing on my part before the salesman realizes that I'm genuinely not going to buy anything, that I really am stopping just to pet the cats. "If you don't want pashmina, maybe you want cat, yes?" he suggests. "Cat is free, no money for cat! Please take!" (I will find myself to be the recipient of this generous offer many times throughout the week. But alas, the threat of US customs officials and the constraints of my studio apartment prevent me from returning with any free cats.)
Moving into the Bazaar, I'm surprised by how modern it looks. I don't know what I expected; rows of dilapidated tents, perhaps? But in fact, it's an enormous building with gorgeous arches, tiled ceilings, and winding corridors lined with little shop fronts. The complicated space is divided into segments by the different wares, with gold, leather, carpets and textiles, silverware, and other items all clustered together in their own sections. This may seem detrimental to sales - more immediate competition - but it's advantageous to the buyer. You can compare prices and quality, and it makes bargaining far easier. If they don't take your lower offer, the threat of you making your purchase elsewhere is much more imminent when that purchase can be made two feet away, from another eavesdropping salesman already offering you that lower price. In fact, I prove to be at least mildly adept at bargaining. An exchange over a small ceramic owl might go something like this:
Julia: How much?
Salesman: Fifteen (New Turkish Lira).
Julia makes a face as though to quote such a price is utterly blasphemous, and eyes the item in her hand critically, as though suddenly doubtful of its value, and thus its appeal to her.
Julia: Will you take 8?
Salesman: [Looking shocked] 8? That is impossible. No less than 13.
Julia: [Firmly] 10.
Salesman: I tell you, 13. No lower.
At this point Julia sighs and shakes her head, as though she is immensely disappointed in his poor business skills, and sets the item down.
Julia: [Turning to walk away] No thank you, then.
Salesman: [Now chuckling and waving her back] Ok, ok, I give it to you for 10. But only because I like you!
Or some such thing. In the end, bargaining doesn't shave that many dollars off the total amount of money I spend on the trip, but it makes me feel momentarily powerful and business-savvy, so I insist upon attempting it, much to my mother's embarrassment.
After much meandering through the ever-complicated maze of hallways, we hear the midday call to prayer, and the stores begin to close. Men seated in front of their shop finish off their tulip glasses of tea and moves their spreads inside before rushing off to the various mosques in the area. Many of them are actually running. Upon exiting, we find ourselves facing into the back courtyard of the same mosque, where men are gathering (women prayer elsewhere, the two sexes aren't allowed to pray together), kneeling on their prayer rugs. A service is beginning, as we can hear over the loudspeakers of the mosque (they all have loudspeakers to send out the call to prayer). It is surreal to see fifty or so men praying in a courtyard in the midst of largely developed and cosmopolitan city. After staring and gaping for a minute, we begin our trek to the Spice Bazaar in Eminonu, near the ferry buildings.
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