You want oriental rugs?

If you're interested in Oriental rugs, Istanbul is one of the places to go. There literally are thousands of them here. There are streets full of stores full of oriental rugs, and they all seem to employ people that our son Michael came to call “Pullers.”

“They're supposed to pull people into the store, so they're 'Pullers,'” he announced. They can be very persuasive.

They will greet you on the street, shake your hand, ask where you're from, offer you tea, and on and on. It's nice in the fact that they don't get too upset with you when you don't come in, but I have to admit it: some of the rugs they display are absolutely spectacular.

One gent stopped us coming out of the Spice Market.

“Where you from?” he inquired.

“Washington DC,” we said. Okay, we lied a little, but how many of them would know of Orlean, Virginia?

“I love America!” he said. “I love Washington! I love your wife and son! Come! See my carpets. Money means nothing! Friendship is everything!”

We went and looked. We had seen better, but his was such a winning personality, we just had to stay a bit.

“This rug,” he motioned to a small Oriental. “This rug I sell for $800 in America. Here, you can have it for $290.”

It was a rug that looked very much like a rug that could have been made by Native Americans in the Southwest, maybe lending some credence to the idea that our “natives” actually came from Asia in the first place. We really weren't looking for rugs as we have three cats with claws, and they managed to tear up two other Oriental rugs we had at home already, so I didn't want to offer them fresh opportunities to get their exercise. We demurred and headed out. He gave us his card and continued shouting as we left.

“I love your wife and son! (Hey, what about me?) I love America! Money is nothing! Friendship is everything!”

We got up early last Friday to take our son to the airport to catch his flight home to America and then, back to school. The connections in Paris were a lot easier this time. Coming in, he had a 45 minute window of opportunity between landing on one plane and catching the next one to Istanbul. Going back, he had hours to spend in Charles deGaulle International before catching the flight back to Washington Dulles. A reader by nature, he had a 1,000 page book – “Infinite Jest” – to keep him occupied, and some jingle in his jeans if he felt the need to frequent the duty free shop. (Those places, by the way, are hardly as inexpensive as one might imagine. I doubt that I have ever been in one where I couldn't buy the items offered more cheaply in stores at home. Now if you are from a place that doesn't offer what you want – say, liquor, then I understand why you might go in. Otherwise, there's not much reason to go in.)

We zoomed through the early morning rain, the van driver completely ignoring the slick pavement, the curves in the road and the fact that we had plenty of time before the flight. We made it, of course, and the check-in was a breeze. Then came that awful time when he had to go through security – there were three levels of security at the Istanbul airport – and we couldn't go with him. It doesn't make it any easier if you stand there, trying to think of something to say that will prevent the coming separation, so the best tactic, we think, is to simply ... let him go. Michael put his carry on bag onto the belt to be scanned a second time, turned and gave a jaunty wave to his parents, and soon was out of sight behind the screen.

We had seven hours to kill before we were to be back at the airport for our return flight to Dubai, and we hitched up with a couple of friends and went to the Hora, a church with fantastic Christian mosaics that date back to 1300. we had an artist with us, and he pointed out just how fine they were, and how much effort went into putting them up and keeping them up. There was a lot of gold leaf on the tiny chips of stone, and the domes were probably 30 feet high, so putting them up – and keeping them up for 700 years – was quite a feat. Well worth seeing.

One of my favorite things to do here is to sit in the breakfast room at the top of the hotel and watch the harbor traffic. There are all kinds of ships, old trawlers, modern tankers, tiny fishing boats, ferries and tourist boats. I haven't seen any pleasure craft, but in a city this big, there has to be a posh yacht club somewhere with impressive sailboats and power boats that are probably used ... about once a month, if they're anything like American boaters.

We had a last lunch – it was, surprise! Kebabs! – at a place overlooking that harbor traffic on the Bosporus and then we caught the tram for the last time to get back to the hotel. It was a tad crowded, so my wife sat down with her female friend while we two guys stood up. No big problem. As we approached the first stop, the guy next to my wife got up – he was getting off, anyway – and offered his seat to me. I declined, but then he said something that made the Americans roar in laughter.

“You should sit down,” he said to me, “because you are,” he was stumbling for the right word, “old.”

I argued back that I wasn't old, but only that living in the Middle East had made me seem old, but he laughed and left. I sat down.

So we left Istanbul, carpetless, and arrived in Dubai where it's about 90 degrees and where the air conditioning runs almost all the time now. It's the middle of March and it's 90. What will the middle of July be like?