I stood at the entrance to the souk. After initially feeling uncertain about it, excitement took over. Now my body wanted to absorb every smell and sound around me. There were lights everywhere breaking up the darkness of the night. I wandered the long aisles. I was lost among the yellow and blue birds hanging in cages on cement walls. Their chirping competed with the cluck clucks of the nearby chickens. Turning down an aisle, I was faced with rows of cheap suitcases stacked high and piles of cheap commercial t-shirts. I hurried away. As I weaved my way through the market, I wasn’t looking for anything. Yet I felt a pull to keep walking.
I wandered cautiously, my eyes and ears aware of everything. I saw an old man in his white thobe and sandals, the group of women walking with their heads down, and the kids darting in and out of the crowd, shouting to their friends. I hadn’t ever experienced a market in this way before: alone. In Istanbul, my friend guided me through the crowded bazaar. He knew which stalls to stop at and which ones to go past. He helped me pick out tea and Turkish coffee. In Dubai, my guide translated Arabic letters into words for me, filling in gaps that my brain alone couldn’t do.
That’s when I spotted it: a jewelry tray. Nothing fancy, but its colors caught my eye. Flowers set against a gold background. Its pink petals sprouting from its green leaves. I ran my hand across it, expecting to feel the petals underneath. Instead, my fingers ran smoothly across it. It was marked seventy-five riyals. My mental math failed me, so I said to the shop owner: thirty-six. He silently shook his head and turned toward some other shopper. Not concerned with the American who stood staring at the tray, uncertain about her bargaining skills. The noises of the souk were drowned out by the voice in my head encouraging me to stand firm. After a lifetime of people pleasing and saying yes to everyone—I hadn’t learned how to say no. I wanted the tray. I stood there a moment longer and shouted to him, sixty. He nodded. I’m sure I still overpaid.
I could feel the jewelry tray bumping up against my leg, the plastic bag rustling with each swing of my arm. I replayed my uncomfortable attempt at bargaining. I wondered if I shared the story with my guide the next day, what he would think of my attempt. Was it a successful negotiation? As I walked back toward the entrance, I smelled the garlic and then heard the oil sizzling. My mouth watered.
When I stepped out of the aisles, the courtyard was buzzing. Argentina had just made the finals of the World Cup. At first, there were just a few fans wearing their blue-and-white Messi jerseys.
They were chanting, “Olé olé olé olé, Argentina es un sentimiento, No puedo parar.”
Their voices loud, carrying in the open courtyard. Then another fan showed up. He carried a large speaker slung over his shoulder, background music timing the chants. Soon twenty more fans had showed up, carrying flags, as tall as they were. Then more, Messi shirts slung on their backs. Kids lined the sidewalks, cheering them on. Locals, tourists, fans all watched.
I walked closer to the crowd, its energy propelling me closer to the celebration. Before I knew it, the crowd was twenty deep, and I was standing near the center of it. Flags waving high, music and chanting filled the air. I stood listening with my eyes wide open; my body was pushed forward with the crowd. I could smell the warm, musky cologne of the man in front of me. Soon, I could feel my lips mouthing the words, clapping my hands to the beat. From bags to flags, just like that. I didn’t know the chants, and I didn’t have a flag, but I still cheered, standing shoulder to shoulder with strangers.
After a few strangers lifted me out of the crowd, I walked out of the souk. Spent but light, I hailed a taxi. Sitting quietly in the backseat, I relived my night. The aisles. The birds. The negotiation. The courtyard. Back at my hotel, the room was quiet. I laid out my purchases and took a bite of the apple the room attendant had left me.
That night, I carried home two souvenirs: the jewelry tray in my bag and the memory of the courtyard still ringing in my ears. One small and personal. The other loud and collective. I’m still not sure which one was meant to last.
