On Tuesday Angela and I find ourselves near the Grand Bazaar, which is great news because it's on our list of must-see places and somehow we've managed to effortlessly run into it. We've already visited the Spice Bazaar (also known, for some reason, as the Egyptian Bazaar) so we've become, dare I say, accustomed to the shoulder-to-shoulder crowds of Turks that frequent these outdoor markets. There seem to be a set category of items at these markets: pashminas, jewelry with semi-precious stones, Turkish sweets, nuts and spices, lamps, and somewhere in the mix you'll also find hand-made soaps. That pretty much sums it up. Unless your strolling through an underpass to cross one of the busy intersections, in which case you’ll find cheap electronics, toys, dolls, socks, shoes and sometimes bikes - an interesting combination of merchandise.
One of the first shops we linger at carries pashminas of all makes and colors. Impeccably folded, they're stacked in silky, cashmere rainbow towers in front of the shop. Inside, a space of about two-by-three meters, the walls are covered in more of the same, neatly organized on wooden shelves. Not unlike any other shop in the Bazaar. A young Turkish man steps out of the tiny shop to greet us. Like all Turkish salesmen, his first question is “Where are you from?” I tell him we're from Prague, but his face shows no sign of recognition.
He mentions without hesitation that the pashmina I'm examining is 80% silk and 20% cashmere. He then takes notice of the scarf I'm wearing and immediately notes it's made in China. I don’t know if it's made in China. I've never bothered to check the tag. But he's so convincing I believe him. He then enthusiastically runs back inside the tiny shop to get a lighter and returns asking if he can light my scarf on fire. I give him a dubious look. Instead, he decides to light one of his pashminas first, perhaps to ease my apparent tension. He lights the fringe and quickly puts it out, demonstrating how the fibers burn clean. He then comes at me again, but this time I let him. He does the same with the fringe on my scarf and points to how the fibers gum up once they're burned. This, he says, is because they contain synthetic material, such as polyester. I believe him despite my skeptical nature, but only because I know this myself to be true.
He is happy for an opportunity to speak English and invites us inside his tiny shop, which barely contains the three of us, plus the thousand or so pashminas, for tea. He doesn't actually bring the tea but gestures to an elderly man a few shops down who appears moments later with a tray of tea (days later I hear stories of Turkish men drugging the tea of female tourists, raping and robbing them, and I think back to this seemingly innocent moment in the pashmina shop).
Aman tells us not to trust the labels on the pashminas in the Bazaar as they are often false (funny how most of the Turks we meet warn us about the Turks). The scarves in his shop are from Turkey but also from India, and some from China, which of course are the ones that catch my eye (what can I say, I’ve been raised on Chinese wares). The shop doesn’t actually belong to Aman, but to his grandfather, who also owns several other pashmina shops at the Bazaar. Business must be booming.
Aman is very friendly and talks freely with us about, well, just about his whole life story. First off, he has three names; Aman is just one of them. He’s also known as Volkan, which means “volcano”, and by the Italian name, Jean-Luc. Wait, that’s a French name. I must have gotten it mixed up. Well, all I can say is it's an Italian name that sounds something like Jean-Luc but isn't Jean-Luc. His mother is Italian. His “main” name, Aman, is a mutated name; his parents were expecting a girl and had the name Amanda picked out. Instead of choosing an entirely new name, they simply dropped the “da” and Aman was born. In fact, his full name is Amanullah, which means “Gift from God” in Muslim. Or so he says. And I haven't the means to prove otherwise.
His father has three wives and lives in Dubai. Aman expresses his disapproval. His mother is in Italy. I think.
Despite his boyish looks he reveals he's 35. He's married. But “not today” he says. The story comes out that he married a Russian woman who was evidently hoping to gain a European passport and his family's money. She left for Russia and hasn't come “home” since. Aman's been sending her money. He doesn't seem particularly saddened by this, and if he was at some point that moment seems to have passed. He's refreshingly optimistic, something you don't often encounter in Prague.
He visits a mosque every Friday, the Islamic holy day. Some Muslims go five times every day. There is a call to prayer that is sang out from the minarets (these days through high-powered speakers) of every mosque in Istanbul fives times a day. It's beautiful. We ask him about the foot-bathing we witnessed outside the New Mosque days earlier. He says Muslims must clean their face, hands and feet, arms up to the elbow and legs up to the knee, at a minimum, before they enter a mosque for prayer.
Aman is not a devout Muslim, and yet he is more Muslim than most, by which I simply mean to say that he appears to live an honest life, whereas many religious people talk right but walk left, all the while claiming to be devout believers. Sure, it's easy to walk into a mosque (or a church if you like), recite some words of prayer, follow certain rites and rituals and be done with it. But to truly live and practice the teachings of God, Jesus, Allah, Buddha or what have you takes commitment, discipline, sacrifice (I’m not talking cows and goats here, but sacrifice of one's own self-interests for the sake of helping another), and most of all I'd say patience. After all, sometimes this path appears fruitless and one is tempted to abandon it for something more “exciting”, some form of instant gratification. But determination keeps your feet moving forward at all costs, and patience keeps your heart from sinking into despair.
Aman plans on studying for six months in New York where he has an uncle. His English is already impressive, not to mention his business acumen. On top of that he's well-spoken and distinctly charming (without being sleezy). I have the sense that he will succeed in all his endeavors, not because he's cunning or intelligent, but because he appears to have a wisdom beyond his years, marked by an ability to take life as it comes. A man like that can't not succeed, because his success is not measured by getting what he wants, but by finding joy in what he has and what is given him.
We get lost in conversation when Aman suddenly apologizes for monopolizing our time, insisting that surely we have places to go and things to see. He's not wrong, but sitting there with him in his grandfather's shop drinking tea was truly the highlight of the day. After all, life is about people, not about things. Another pearl of wisdom from Aman. He invites us to return, if we have time, for another visit.
Before we leave, I tell Aman I wish to buy a pashmina from his shop. He looks hurt and disappointed, and pleads that he didn't invite us into his shop to sell us pashminas. I assure him that I trust his intentions, but that I had it in mind to buy a pashmina (a late birthday gift for my sister) and that I wish to buy one from him. I spend another twenty minutes in and outside of the shop carefully examining each one, all different colors, patterns, cashmere-to-silk ratios, countries of origin and so on. Each one is uniquely beautiful. In the end I decide on the one that first caught my eye when we encountered the shop. That's usually the case in such matters – I try using the brain although the heart is the one that knows. And the heart is always right. That’s as true when picking out a pashmina as it is of everything else in life.
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