Le Grande Bazaar (or something like that)

When they decided to call it “the Grand Bazaar,” they weren’t kidding. Actually, same goes for when they decided to call it “the Covered Bazaar,” (guidebooks use the term interchangeably), but frankly “covered” has a decidedly less impressive ring to it. Seriously, which one is going to get your attention?

A: “Hey, let’s go to the Covered Bazaar!”
or
B: “Hey, let’s got to the Grand Bazaar!”

Yeah, it’s going to be “B” every time for me, too. Unless it’s really hosing down rain.

I have no idea how extensive the Bazaar really is, mostly because I haven’t thoroughly inspected my guidebook that closely, and for all I know, I missed an entire section. But I can say this: it’s big. Big on the macro scale. And positively labyrinthine, to the extent that the paranoid little voices in your head start whispering furiously about OSHA and firetraps. Or maybe that’s just me.

Incidentally, another set of voices start thinking about how Lara Croft should be able to have a pretty wicked fight/chase scene here. There’s stalls hawking everything from massive nargile contraptions and precious jewels (or so the signs would have it) to daggers and antique pistols (inoperative, one suspects). Come to think of it, this one might be unique to me, too. Huh.

Anyway, the strangest thing is that if you didn’t know the Grand Bazaar was there, you just might miss it. I got off the tram at the correct stop, and stood on the sidewalk, trying to stare in multiple directions at once. Surely one would expect…well, grandeur, or at least signage, for something called the Grand Bazaar.

I looked for a hotel, but didn’t see one (when lost, find a hotel. The concierge are usually more than happy to help. Sometimes they’ll even give you a map). I tried my second most-preferred method, Follow the Obvious Tourists, but was unable to definitively pinpoint anyone as an out-of-towner. I loitered near a juice stand for a few minutes, feeling pretty stupid and wondering what would happen if I asked the guy manning the kebab station “Bazaar nerede?” when I saw a discreet stone arch, nearly camouflaged between the T-shirt stands, money-changing stations, and Prada knockoffs that form around tourist draws the way that atolls form on reefs. I took a peek.

Oh. So this was where all the grandeur was.

The walls of a seemingly endless hallway were lined with jewelry stalls and recessed stores. Salesmen in suits stood in the doorways. I took a deep breath and stepped in.

Here’s the thing about shopping a bazaar: it’s like running a gauntlet. You will not make it through unaccosted. Chuck Norris could put on his best “Don’t Mess With Me” face, adhere it with Gorilla Glue, and play the Walker: Texas Ranger theme for good measure and he would not make it ten yards through the bazaar without smiling offers of conversation and apple tea from salesmen looking to butter a potential customer up. That’s the other thing about a bazaar: all the salespeople want to be your friends. They want to know where you’re from. They want to give you tea. They want to show you this rug, this necklace set, this statue. They’ve never shown anyone else; it’s only for you, mademoiselle, only for you.

Although they probably wouldn’t call Chuck Norris “mademoiselle.” You don’t get to be a merchant in the Grand Bazaar without a decent sense of self-preservation.

Needless to say, it’s exhausting.

Having no set agenda nor sense of direction, I wandered aimlessly for a few hours, dodging boys with tea trays and particularly enthusiastic merchants: “You! Pretty girl, where are you from? Finest silver! You! Madmoiselle? Why do you not speak to me?” I walked in circles more than once, doubling back when a hallway dead-ended or emptied into a surly-looking side street. In many cases, the stalls and shops continued beyond the roof of the bazaar, lining the streets for blocks beyond. Some streets contained only costume shops; some, only leatherworkers. Inside the bazaar, some merchants recognized me as I passed for a third or fourth time. A few waved. One boy, who must have been about my age, grinned and said, “Hello again, wandering lady!”

If only I’d needed an elaborately mosaiced lampshade such as he was hawking, I would have bought one from him right there.

Ultimately, I bought a hair clip and a pair of earrings, but only from merchants who didn’t seem to care; they sat in their stalls reading a newspaper and looked surprised and gratified when I pointed to an item and said “Kaç para?” (How much?). The man I bought the earrings from was kind enough to explain how to get from his stall back to the tram, as well. By that point, I’d been in the bazaar for several hours and was ready to head home – but had no idea at all how to get back to the side I’d entered from.

I admittedly took no pictures while there – didn’t even bring my camera. Nothing says “Pickpocket me! Pickpocket me!” like speaking pidgin Turkish and brandishing a fairly nice camera. Which isn’t to say that I won’t take pictures in there eventually; I’ll just wait until I can get someone with a nicer camera to go with me. This works under the same principle as the hobbit and the dragon parable: you don’t have to outrun the dragon, just the hobbit next to you.

…Hey! HannahSam! Want to come to Turkiye?

In the meantime, the Internet has kindly coughed up these images. They don’t do the Grand Bazaar justice – don’t even come close, actually – but they do give you some idea of the scale.




Yeah. It’s pretty cool.