Free When You Look Like Your Passport Photo, It's Time To Go Home by Erma Bombeck

one-shot opportunity, and if one day I can run across a bottle opener with a picture of Mount Vesuvius on it in the stove drawer, and it sparks a memory, it's worth it.
    In Istanbul, there is a giant spice market lined with tubs of spices all bearing their identification—in Turkish. I bought two pounds of a mound of green stuff, thinking it was mint. It was henna.
    Shopping is basically a game of wits. Especially in Turkey, where every male citizen over the age of twelve is a carpet salesman. They are like a film of dust that settles over the country. In fact, there are so many of them that when tourists see them coming, their only defense is to hold a crucifix in front of them like they are being confronted by Barnabas Collins and yell, “Back! Back!” That is why they have some of the most creative approaches I have ever seen.
    The “911 to the rescue ” approach
    As you are standing on a street corner surrounded by six carpet salesmen, a man will wave them all away in Turkish and turn to you and say in perfect English, “Aren't they pests? I'm from America too. What state are you from?” It doesn't matter what state you give. He has been there.
    He will tell you he and his wife came to Turkey a couple of years ago to live and will offer to buy you a cup of coffee in friendship. The coffee will be served in a (get outta here) carpet shop a few blocks from where you are standing. He will tell you he is buying carpets for a large firm in New York. If there's anything you like he can get you a good price. They ship.
    The “trust me, I'm not selling carpets” approach
    You are snapping a picture in the park when a young man says, “That is a great camera. How much you pay for it?” You shrug and give him some figure and he opens up his billfold and says, “I'd like to buy it.” You smile (big mistake) and say, “No, thank you.” He follows you around for the next two days talking about it until you finally say, “I really don't want to sell my camera. Goodbye.” Then he says, “Would you like to look at my carpets? They're better and cheaper than anyone else's.” They take American Express.
    The “blind date” approach
    This is a popular one. The salesman will walk close to you and say, “Parlez vous Francais?” You shake your head. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” You answer no. After he hits every country in Rand McNally, he makes a stab at English. Once you have a language in common, he will stick to you like pantyhose in Phoenix in July ... telling you how great his carpets are. He offers to lie on the customs declaration.
    The “thirst for knowledge” approach
    By the side of the road will be a large Bedouin tent. At the gate you will be met by a young man who speaks English and is anxious to explain the customs of the nomad tribes and the way they lived. It is no coincidence that the floor is solid with wall-to-wall Turkish carpets. From there, he will proceed to where the artisans are dyeing wool using natural fibers. Next to them are women in front of looms who are tying knots faster than he can say “Come, look at the finished product in our showroom.”
    I bought a carpet. He said I had exquisite taste.
    At one time I amassed so much junk that when I went through customs the officer asked, “How long have you been gone?”
    “Three weeks,” I said.
    “It's impossible to buy all this stuff in three weeks. Did you see any of the country?”
    “What country?” I asked.
    He waved me on.
    There are few certainties when you travel. One of them is that the moment you arrive in a foreign country, the American dollar will fall like a stone.
    We have never traveled anywhere where the American dollar was strong . . . with the exception of Mexico. Maybe it was firm when we left New York, but by the time we got to our destination, $20 wouldn't buy us a newspaper.
    We have paid $10 for a soft drink in Sweden and $12 for a hamburger in Russia. For two bowls of soup and two soft drinks in Japan, we forked