The Soners and the Sultan’s Palace

Audrey and Alisa are deciding which rug is best.

Istanbul, Turkey, March 2025

Audrey and I were trying to find a place to eat. We were supposed to meet Alisa near the Sultan’s Palace, but food came first. Somewhere in the maze of stone and sunlight, a young man stepped out of a shop and asked if we needed help. His name was Soner.

He didn’t sell us anything. Just pointed toward a restaurant he liked. Said the food was good. Mentioned, almost offhand, that his family ran a rug shop nearby. Told us to stop by if we felt like it. No pressure. We thanked him and moved on.

We found Alisa. Lunch came and went. Afterward, we headed toward the palace. Soner was still there. Same gentle presence. He gave us directions, walked with us part of the way. Still never brought up the shop.

At the gates, we shook hands and said goodbye.

Later, after wandering through courtyards and tiled halls and the echo of empire, we remembered Soner and decided to find the rug shop.

When we arrived, he wasn’t there.

“Big Soner or Little Soner?” someone asked.

I said I didn’t know. I’d only met one, and couldn’t say if he was the bigger or the smaller. We laughed.

A few minutes later, both Soners arrived. They led us inside, sat us on low couches, poured pomegranate tea. Time slowed. No sales pitch, just questions. Curiosity. Warmth. One of them told me, if I really wanted to learn about Turkish culture, I should come to his home. Sit on cushions, eat with my hands. Break bread, not just buy something.

We had set a price limit before we went in. We travel light. One bag each. A rug doesn’t fit in that philosophy.

“We ship,” Soner said.

And they did.

A few days after we got home, the silk rug arrived — folded, wrapped, and impossibly soft.

It sits quietly in our house now, far from Istanbul, but every time I see it, I think of two men named Soner, pomegranate tea, and the power of being treated like a guest instead of a customer.