Riding Home on a Magic Carpet
It was a blissed-out week in early October - still regarded as late summer on the Aegean coast. The season has already ended for some in this tiny Turkish fishing village, but I love it. I'm a creature of habit, and I come the same time every year for a wind-down after the September year-end at work (why September? I'll never know), and before the Christmas rush. My favourite apartment, overlooking the beach, booked months in advance - it gives you something to look forward to. This year I'm on my own - but that's not so bad. It's a safe and friendly place, and the locals really look after their returning guests. You get the chat-up lines too and the odd few drinks arriving out of nowhere - there's no harm in any of it.
The weather this time of year is still hot as you like during the day, cool and comfortable in the evenings. The tourists have mostly gone home; the streets are quiet and the bars are winding up for the season. Nobody is pressing their apple tea on you, throwing leather jackets over your shoulders and promising, "for you, pretty lady, special price"... … except at the carpet factory...
For one day each week - just the one - I venture further than the beach. This year, it was a trip to the local carpet factory. Now, when I say 'carpet factory', don't imagine for one minute that this is some aircraft hangar rattling with machinery, people clocking on at the door. No, this one was no more than a dozen local women, working by hand on old wooden looms, outside under the shade of a simple straw roof, and 'supervised' by a small contingent of hookah smoking men sitting on a couple of old benches under an olive tree. The women worked intently, focused on their weave. Their fingers old and hard, yet so dexterous. It was amazing to watch them painstakingly built their magnificent carpets, thread by thread. You get mesmerised by it, standing there in the late summer sunshine, listening to the click-clack, click-clack of the looms.
Then, of course, comes the sell. You're gently relaxed, perhaps a little off-guard by then. Everybody is so hospitable, and you can't at this stage refuse the ubiquitous apple tea. You move inside and realise the show is about to start, and you have no chance of escape until it's done - well, it would be rude, wouldn't it? (It's a bit like Disneyland, where you can't get out except by passing through the souvenir shop...).
So you give in to it. Layer after layer of magnificent carpets get swirled, twirled, unfurled and shaken out in front of you with a flourish. It's drama, and it's clever - they're made to look like they're floating to the ground, like magic. From small fireside rugs to massive room-sized spreads, from classic patterns and centuries-old colours to contemporary shades and designs - there really was something for everyone.
Indeed. Being a shopaholic, there was something for me too. No modest fireside rug either - I saw the very carpet I needed to turn my boring bedroom into an exotic sanctuary. A full 16 feet by 12 of intricate stitching, rich burgundy, deep blues and shot though with threads of copper and gold. Magnificent. The young Turk must have seen my eyes light up - he knew he was going to reel me in.
Of course you have to haggle, whether you want to or not - they expect it and they're even disappointed if you don't join in the fun. So I gave it my best shot. When I heard his price, I pretty much knew what I'd end up paying, but it took a full half-hour and another couple of apple teas before we got there. Now it's paid for and I'm assured it will be rolled and dispatched the very next day - far too big for me to carry home, it had to get shipped. I completed the paperwork, paid the shipping fee (darn, I'd forgotten about that!), and headed back to the beach to catch the last rays of the setting sun. Days later and following the inevitably tedious homebound journey, I'm back in my boring bedroom, waiting for it to be transformed by my new 'magic carpet'.
I was told it would arrive in a few days, and sure enough, it did. Sort of. Actually, it didn't arrive at my door, it arrived at the airline's facility at the airport. I get a call at work - it's official. Have I got a customs broker? "A what?", I say. Apparently there's more paperwork to fill in before I can get my carpet. Not only that, there's more money to pay - duty. That's another thing I forgot to allow for in the heat of the afternoon sun. I have no idea what to do next.
I can't get to the airport for several days and even if I could, I get the feeling it would tie me up for hours. The airline official is clearly used to this - he stops just short of patronising me before offering me the names of a couple of customs clearance specialists.
So I call the name at the top of the list. Amazingly, one call is all it took, and suddenly my life got a lot simpler. Friendly and professional, all they needed were the shipping details and the reference number the airline official had given me, and they were on the case. And the very next day, I had my 'magic carpet' - the first step on the way to my exotic boudoir.
Now, does anyone know a good interior designer?
5th Nov 2007
