Istanbul, Turkey at sunset. Photo/Stacy McCloud.
Shopping in THE Black Market
Originally published in The Greeley Tribune, May 13, 2023.
It’s not always the hunt that’s notable—
Sometimes it’s getting there that births the memories.
A quick 3-day layover on the way to a Kyrgyzstan Asian ibex hunt landed my parents, husband, and myself in Istanbul, Turkey. It’s a city full of mystery, rich in history, religion, wonder, tradition, tantalizing foods, architectural wonders, and beautiful people.
I have so many surreal memories from the 72 short hours spent in this incredibly magical city that inhabits two great continents. There’s so much to see—Sultanahmet Square, the cruise down the breathtakingly beautiful Bosphorus Strait, The Royal Hammam, the rich history of the Hagia Sophia, the forever unexpected call to prayer, the goat cheeses, and so many other ethereal layers of this historical city.
My most unbelievable memory was left out of Frommer’s Travel Guides: The Black Market.
In traveling, I’ve realized that anything, literally ANYTHING, can be bought. A true black market is a place where authentic items that just “fell off” the back of trucks can be found.
Constantinople was once a hub where anything one wanted could be acquired; it is still the same place where nearly any treasure can be bought.
This hidden market is not a scene from a movie, I was not an observer in the story I tell. In this story, I was one of the leads.
A reluctant, unexpected lead. A lead that felt less like John Wick and more like the mama mouse in The Secret of NIMH.
Stacy McCloud in Hagia Sophia. Photo/Stacy McCloud.
Up—or down—we went.
My truth was swirling. This moment was surreal.
Everything happened so fast that I couldn’t claim a true grasp on reality.
Entering the market, every breath I took mattered, and the fear of my subconscious shiftiness of my eyes could have given my awkward nervousness away at any moment. All of this in a city where women cover their faces, my female role wore a naked face.
My Western face was noted by every Muslim I passed throughout the amazing city. I blended in nearly as good as a male peacock during turkey hunting season. No cover offered forgiveness for my shamelessly unnaturally white complexion.
I focused on the ground, one Frye boot in front of the other. I followed my Frye’s through the alley to the building that apparently was in the process of being demolished by a crew that had somehow, in the middle of a Tuesday, abandoned all their posts, including that of a giant crane with a wrecking ball attached.
With all activity ceased for the day, not even a sway in the wrecking ball. No construction crew, no smell of beaten and broken concrete smashed into little discarded pebbles to be hauled away without effort.
There was no destroyed concrete at all. No trace of workers, no discarded cigarette butts, no empty beer bottles, or Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step program scribbled on the outside of the building like one might find in Colorado.
This scene was staged like a Hollywood set. However, this was an unchanging set, made only to look like a construction site—all equipment was permanent, and no orange vest-wearing hard hat worker had ever set foot on the location.
This was amazing. This destroyed building was not destroyed at all, and it was hidden in plain sight. The effort and money spent to hide this secret market was but an appetizer for the meal I would devour inside.
Through an entrance that at first glance looked as if it would collapse on a person crouching through it as they sneezed, we went. Toward the back of a hallway, through the catacomb maze we weaved until we came across a muscle bound “construction worker” who recognized and addressed our guide by name.
This guard smelled freshly of a recent Drakkar Noir shower. Without effort or words, he moved a bookcase that blocked the entrance of an elevator he was guarding. We all stepped into the elevator, and the sentinel pushed a button before exiting without a word.
Up—or down—we went. Either way my truth was swirling. This moment was surreal. Everything was happening so fast that I couldn’t claim a true grasp on reality.
I felt the elevator moving, and I assumed we were heading up as I did not feel the fires of hell burning the toes in my boots and warning of the moral decline of my soul.
Alas, up we climbed! My soul was saved!
I cannot tell stories of precisely what I took home or didn’t. But, honestly, it was the shopping experience of a lifetime, whether I made a purchase or not.
Vendors bent at our every whim while I sat back and sipped champagne and inspected the tightly sewn seam of every canvas and leather pouch I asked to see.
It is difficult to tell my tales of this experience without questioning if it was a dream. Sometimes I must find the souvenirs I purchased to remind me of the reality of the market.
I am certain that were I to stumble across this construction site again, I would fail to find the entrance to this unapologetic market. And if I were lucky enough to find it, I’m positive without my guide, Hakaan, I would not gain entrance.
The lone construction worker would little more than note my white, western, uncovered, female face. He would not smile, nod, or speak to me.
I imagine the only way I would know for sure I was at the location would be the smell of the Drakkar the faux-construction worker was bathed in.
A city older and richer in history than Constantinople is nearly impossible to find, and without a guide like my Turkish friend, so much would go unseen and unnoticed. Often the mystery, romance, and experience get lost in the translation and the manic shuffle to see as much as possible.
Not every destination requires a travel guide. Without one in Istanbul, I’d have not seen the entire city in 72 short hours, nor would I have seen what was hidden in plain sight.
