Buying Silver

My latest obsession is buying silver beads to make earrings and other beautiful things. I usually buy them at the Tavuk Pazaar, near the Grand Bazaar. Tavuk means “chicken.” There aren’t any chickens in the bazaar anymore, but there are lots of silver and bead shops. Recently, I was disoriented (well, I’m often disoriented. I got myself lost and found yesterday for about 20 minutes between here and there. At least I was in an interesting place.) while looking for the bazaar. A random man sitting on a stool in the middle of the sidewalk asked if I wanted to go to the Grand Bazaar. I asked for directions to the Tavuk Pazaar. Another random man in a bright red sweatshirt asked me why I wanted to go there. When I told him, he said he had a silver atelier in the area. If I went with him, he would then take me where I wanted to go.
I assessed the situation quickly. I decided that if he tried anything, a good public “Shame on you!” would suffice to get rid of him. He took me across the tram tracks, down a side street, into an ugly building, up the ugly building stairs and buzzed us into the workshop. A group of men were working on various parts of silver rings, “Turkish Bulgari.” After a tea, a chat about teaching English and a gander through their catalogue of relatively ugly merchandise (the rings were nice), Aslan guided me to the Chicken Bazaar.
After I had purchased a handful of silver beads, I managed to communicate that I wanted some silver wire. Aslan steered me down a smaller side street to his friend’s workshop. We walked into a dirty corridor and entered a small room where four men were working diligently. One was carving the final details into molded silver crosses. Another was shining something. Yet another was using a huge punch press to make Turkish flag symbols, the crescent moon and star, out of a narrow sheet of silver. Each moon and star fell neatly into a box.
Aslan spoke to his friend who measured a few meters of wire. It was too thick, so we ventured to another side street to an even dirtier little room. His friend put the rolled wire onto a metal thing and fired it up with a blow torch. Then he attached it to a machine that spun and stretched the wire. After I deemed it perfect, I paid the man a whole YTL and we made our way to the street.
About this time, Aslan started to take my arm and repeat my name. Time for my exit. My usual line for anyone trying to sell me something or for whenever I really want to leave is “My friends are waiting for me in Taksim.” Sometimes, I have to repeat this line several times before I can disentangle myself. Aslan headed me toward the tram and on his merry way back to work.