The Oriental Carpet Buyer

I found this on travel writer Dave Fox’s site:

After nearly three months of travel, alone, on a ridiculously tight budget, I was sick of being politically correct. I had been ripped off – twice in two hours. And not knowing what else to do, I blamed the Turks. I blamed the entire country because in a city of 10 million, two people had cheated me out of about eight US dollars. I hated myself for my bigotry. I hated everyone else because they were there to hate. My flu was bad and my nerves were frazzled. I had a nasty case of traveler’s burnout. I looked forward to leaving in the morning[…]

Then he has a rather interesting experience at a carpet shop.

It was a small shop – about 10 by 15 feet, dimly lit with lights around the ceiling. Carpets hung from every wall. Some were brand new, others decades old. The room had almost no furniture. Just one small table a foot and a half high that supported a large boombox and a shoe box full of tapes. Def Leppard was blaring.

Ali ran back in and fidgeted with the stereo. He sat down. Jumped up. Walked around the room. Looked out the door. Sat down again.

A small boy appeared with tea and I took my glass.

“You want a smoke?” Ali’s cousin offered, holding out a pack of Marlboros. He was a lot calmer than Ali.

“No thanks,” I said. When offered, I smoked in Turkey. It was the social thing to do, but my throat was too sore for nicotine.

“You don’t smoke?” Ali asked.

“Not very often.”

My refusal was taken as a polite no rather than a real no.

“But really, you can smoke now,” Ali prompted. His cousin nodded, arm still extended with the cigarettes.

I had been sick for two weeks with a dry, hacking cough. “No thanks,” I said again.

“It’s okay,” his cousin persisted. “Really. You can have one.”

“Thanks, but I’m sick right now.”

“You are sick?” Ali asked.

“Yes. Sore throat.” I rubbed my neck below my chin.

“Oh,” Ali said. “I’m very sorry.” Then he asked me to repeat the word, “throat,” three more times to register it in his vocabulary.

Ali scrounged the shop for show-and-tell items, and I began to relax. His photo album was full of cars and friends. Proudly, he showed me an English paperback – a short play by Shakespeare. “So I can learn better English,” he said.

I couldn’t help laughing. “I’m sorry,” I said. “But you’re never going to learn English if you read that.”

“I know. I know. It’s just a gift. How’s my accent?”

“It’s great,” I lied. (read the full article)