Always time for tea

The minute I crossed the road and locked eyes with him I knew I should have turned left. Or right. Or anywhere else.

“Good morning, it’s a beautiful day,” he called out.

“Yes, it is,” I smiled back and walked on. I don't normally ignore people who are nice to me but today was different- I was in a hurry so I didn't stop.

“Where are you going? I have a carpet shop which you must see,” he said. Was he actually running to keep up with me or just skipping? I couldn’t tell.

“The Grand Bazaar.” I need to get away from this guy, I thought. Honestly speaking, that would be easier if he didn’t have such beautiful eyes.

This time the man was in front of me. “The Grand Bazaar? But why?” he asked, eyes wide open and arms raised in feigned shock. 

I had to stop and laugh. “Because it’s just there?”

“But I am here for you, you don’t have to go there. Can I offer you some tea?”

Ah, Istanbul.  The city of East and West, honey-drenched baklava and carpet traders with impossibly long eyelashes.

Exchanges such as this one happened every single day that I was there. In fact, it happens to every foreign tourist who visits Istanbul, more so if you’re female and travelling alone.

Turkish shopkeepers don’t always sell something you like and not all of them remain pleasant when you walk away, but there is one thing which almost all of them will do - offer you tea.

Full-bodied, strong and always black, çay (pronounced ‘chai’) is drunk not in English-style teacups but in small, clear glasses. Sugar is added, but never milk.

Turkish coffee, which is also strong, is more famous than Turkish tea but in actual fact, çay is more popular among the Turks. 

Drinking tea is such a central part of Turkish culture that as a visitor to the country, despite the copious amounts you drink, you may end up never having to pay for a single cup- you will be offered tea almost every day by complete strangers. Even when you’re a guest at someone’s home, your host is likely to offer you tea first of all.

Just a day earlier, the owner of a carpet factory I visited began by rattling off about single knots, double knots and flat weaves. After 15 minutes of going into the details of silk, wool and cotton carpets, he stopped.

“Now that that’s done, let me be Turkish and offer you some tea,” he said, rubbing his palms together.

At the Arasta Bazaar in Sultanahmet, the owner of a leather goods shop accosted me and invited me to look at his jackets. They were beautiful, but a leather jacket is too bulky to bring back and I wouldn’t have much use for it at home, so I apologised and started to walk out.

“Please. You must at least allow me to make you some apple tea,” I heard him say. It was 6 ˚Celcius outside and his shop was nice and warm, so it didn’t take much for me to change my mind.

But let me get back to that day when the carpet seller stopped me on the way to the Grand Bazaar.

I was due to take an overnight bus that evening but as it was already 3 o’clock, I didn’t want to get sidetracked. After all, I'd already planned to spend time at the Grand Bazaar and still had to get to the bus station after that, so I decided not to visit his shop.

A few days later, I found myself at a transport terminal at a town called Aydın, waiting for my minibus to Selçuk. It was 7 o'clock in the morning. I had just gone through a back-breaking, 13-hour bus ride and was eager to leave but unfortunately for me, my bus driver wasn't. 

I watched him through the glass walls of the waiting room, smoking and chatting with a group of men, not looking as though he was in any hurry at all. As far as I could see, he was just taking his time.

After 15 minutes, I saw him stubbing out his second cigarette.  Finally. I could really do with a shower right now, I thought.

I waited for him to get up, but he didn’t. He continued talking to his friends, laughing loudly, his ample stomach quivering as he did so. I got annoyed. Something was wrong.

Then he looked up and saw me glaring at him through the glass. He grinned and raised his hand.

There in his fingers was what I had feared all along- a small, tulip-shaped glass filled with a clear, reddish-brown liquid- çay.  

He smiled again and shrugged somewhat apologetically.

"I'm simply being Turkish", he seemed to say.