A couple of years ago, my daughter and I took a spring break cruise of the Greek Isles with a group of parents and children from the United Nations School. It was 8 days and nights of visiting strolling around Athens, followed by sailing to ancient ruins on several islands in chilly weather on choppy seas. One of our ports of call was the Turkish town of Kusadasi to see what’s left of the ancient city of Ephesus. The ruins came to life through the vivid storytelling of our cute and perky local guide. But the tale I will tell is about what happened after the ruins, when I got a chance to see myself in a Turkish rug.
Upon leaving Ephesus, our group was led to a Turkish Rug store where they really put on the dog for us, big time. The enthusiastic English-speaking host offered us Turkish teas and coffees and made us comfortable in an octagonal room filled to the rafters with rugs. He showed us how the silk is un-spun from cocoons, how the strands are made into threads, and the threads into carpets. We learned about the different kinds of rugs, from silk to wool to cotton. Room-sized rugs were unfurled on the floor in a grand flourish. Round rugs were flung like pizzas on top of them. Then runners were stretched across those in patterns of rich color and plush depth. Finally we were invited to walk on them, caress them, buy them.
Now, I’m not a huge fan of Turkish rugs although I do appreciate the artistry. In villages dotting the landscape, Turkish women are practically going blind sewing those rugs. But I never had a burning desire to possess one. However, I do like to shop. I love turning things over to see the stitching, feeling my feet sink into various depths of pile, comparing the distinctive patterns from different regions of the country. But it was not my intention to buy.
As soon as the presentation was over, a legion of salesmen appeared from behind rug covered doorways, like spectral forms from the night of the living dead. They zoomed in on the adults in the group as soon as one of us so much as touched a carpet. That was my mistake.
In no time I was herded out of the room and upstairs to an empty gallery, this one also filled with carpets. In my head I could hear the voice of the narrator of those nature shows, describing the pursuit of the gazelle by the lions, doggedly chased and adroitly separated from the herd, then surrounded by the pride, pounced on dragged down by massive claws. The salesman noticed the rugs I’d gravitated toward, and brought out several more in similar colors and sizes. Then he started to mention prices and this is where I saw myself in a Turkish rug.
He named a price, then offered a slight reduction. I hesitated. He brought over the manager who lowered that price even more. I hemmed and hawed. He tried the two for a special price deal. I balked outright. And then I walked away, down the stairs and toward the door. Just mere steps from freedom the manager offered another price, greatly reduced from the first (“The economy is bad, this is a special offer, shhh – don’t even say it out loud”). I took it. I watched it happen, and even though I really didn’t want it, I bought it anyway.
That night I had a fierce conversation with myself. I wrote a list of all the reasons I spend money. The list included to feel safe, to comfort myself, to feel and appear superior to others, to win the affection or approval of others (even strangers), to get things I need and enjoy, to reward myself, to express my love to others, to care for my family, to help others in need, to experience the feeling of prosperity. They are not all flattering reasons, but they were real, complex and very human.
The rug arrived several weeks later. It is truly a lovely handmade piece of Turkish art, adding richness to my living room. And it is also a mirror, reminding me of what I learned about myself and the price I paid for that knowledge.
