The clerk was pushy- but in the Grand Bazaar (61 covered streets and over 3,000 shops) everyone pushes. What else distinguishes one shop from another, one glistening pyramid of Turkish Delight from rows and rows and halls and halls of similar if not identical delights?
The earrings that drew me to his shop were simple, long, teardrops hand wrought. He ushered me into the miniature stall and pulled out piece after interesting (if not my style) piece of jewelery. A frog ring complete with webbed feet gripping your finger, an octopus pin. Then he smiled and nudged the opaque glass door that separated us from the bustle just outside; nonthreatening, although I took notice. A simple scream or even a loud noise and I'd be heard. I didn't leave but I took notice.
He opened a person-sized safe and looked at me with a sly smile. "Do you like..."
I couldn't hear him and I indicated my incomprehension.
"'Old things? Antiques?" he queried.
I nodded yes and so he pulled out a small ring box. Constantinople - two karats.
"Here, try it on."
I protested to no avail and with no real reason not to, I slipped it on. I'm not a diamond woman but the ring looked remarkably good on my hand. Then there was a bracelet. The clerk had a light touch around my wrist. Then a necklace to complete the look. He smiled broadly and enthusiastically.
He positioned himself behind me and slipped the necklace around my neck, fiddling with the clasp. He seemed to lean awkwardly into me, his groin pressed- rather - resting lightly against my butt.
His lean registered as strange, an invasion of personal space, it registered as off as much for the context of where I was as the strangeness of it. The whole thing reminded me of a Metro rider in Cairo, who, even after the crowd had thinned from the car, continued to rest his hand lightly against mine on the bar above our heads. When I moved my hand to give him more space, he simply moved his hand over so that it was again touching mine.
I wouldn't have noticed the graze of his hand in most other places. Definitely not in rural South Africa where gender rules (when I lived there 15 years ago), though entrenched, did not assert themselves in matters of personal space. Somehow that light touch felt illicit in the Metro car and so I moved to the other side of the car, daring his inappropriateness to be more blatant if he followed me to my new spot.
In the small room in the Grand Bazaar with the diamond necklace I posed for my photos. It was easier than arguing the point that I didn't want photos, he wasn't listening and I couldn't, without looking like a thief, make an easy exit. Finished, I hurriedly tried to remove the jewelery myself. But, unable to work the clasp for fear of breaking what in reality was probably fancy cut glass, the store clerk returned to his spot behind me lightly resting "himself" against me. I, in turn, tucked my butt in as far as I could (an unusual contortion). He leaned to meet me -further still. Now we were both in awkward postures.
Turns out I wasn't being paranoid, he was being sleazy- subtly sleazy. Nonthreatening but not appropriate.
He offered me another necklace, gold this time, with rubies, handmade by him. I demurred -forcefully. Smiled tightly and walked out.
Similar incidents would show themselves in the slightest of ways in Turkey. Nothing as blatant as the khumbi driver who ran his hands down the entire contour of my body or the police officer who copped a feel in South Africa. It was, instead, just enough to keep me constantly wondering where the line of appropriateness was and when kindness was masking something else.
On the tram in Istanbul I dug my elbow into the soft flesh of a man who seemed to lean his pelvis into me even as I shifted position to give him room on the crowded car. I directed my pointy elbow into his chest, leaning with extra force until he finally maneuvered himself in a different direction.
But the old shopkeeper in Fethiye whose eyes sparkled when I walked in, I was less certain of. A tourist area, I assumed his excitement was the novelty of my brownness. So I sat and drank tea - a common invitation in Turkey. He spoke continually in Turkish and I answered incomprehensibly in English and it was fine - awkward but fine. When I rose to leave I extended my hand and he shook it with enthusiasm and then leaned in for the double cheek kiss. He patted my back, each pat slipping lower and lower until it was resting at the small of my back just shy of my ass. Again I maneuvered my body in some unnatural way and then ducked out of the store.
I didn't feel unsafe in Turkey. I didn't look constantly over my shoulder or sit in my hotel room fearful of what lay outside. But, I was aware of my single female status as I made my way through calls of, "don't you want to be my hot chocolate?" and "Michelle Obama". I never stopped smiling but I did bring my pointy elbows with me everywhere I went and I wasn't afraid to use them.
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