On an intellectual level I knew it wouldn’t always be that clear and simple. I knew I would have to figure out how to make a living in a foreign country. I knew I would need to learn a new language. I knew I would need to make new friends and find my way in a new city.
What I hadn’t anticipated was how many other things would compete for my attention. I hadn’t planned on walking over debris from large car bombs, threatening the lives of small children, and reeling from culture shock. I was definitely going to have to dig deep into my reservoir of strength to stay focused and make this Turkey thing work.
At the top of my list of things to do was figuring out how to make a living in my new country. In my first months in Istanbul I really wanted to find a way to make a business work with those chiseled copper vases. I loved the fact those vases came from such a filthy, noisy, gritty environment, yet emerged so shiny and beautiful. I loved holding them in my hands and studying their every mark and curve.
But making a business out of them would be difficult. You can’t airfreight something so bulky and heavy and expect to make any money. You need to ship it on the ocean instead, and when you ship something on the ocean, in order to keep costs low you need to fill a large steel shipping container that measures about 20 feet long x 8 feet wide x 8 feet high.
While filling a shipping container keeps the freight costs down, it also means you have to tie up $20,000 or more for months while you wait for the product to get made, shipped, delivered to the customer, and paid for.
I had done something similar to that when I was back in Seattle, shortly before I moved to Turkey. I had some specially-designed springs made in China from galvanized steel wire. I imported the springs into the US for some farmers who wanted to use them to hold open the branches of young trees to let in more sunlight. That transaction was worth $45,000, and at one point every single dime of my own money was tied up in the deal. I ended up pocketing a nice sum of money from the sale, but if anything had gone wrong, I would have lost everything I had.
Over the years I had handled thousands of transactions much larger than that one, but I was always using somebody else’s money. The container of galvanized steel wire was the first time I was using my own savings. I found tying up so much of my own money immensely stressful and I wasn’t in the mood to do it again. Besides, I had a new girlfriend and I had just moved to a new country. My plate was full. The last thing I needed was the additional stress of large transactions that at best would take months to cash out and at worst could bankrupt me.
No, those copper vases would not work for me. I needed something else to sell, so to see what I could find I went back to the Kapali Carsi, the Covered Bazaar, the massive market I had been returning from the day that bomb had gone off on Istiklal.
Knowing that heavy, bulky items were out, I bypassed the sections of the Kapali Carsi that are dominated by things copper and ceramic. I also bypassed the sections given over to leather jackets, knock-off Louis Vuitton purses, and cheap tube socks. I had passed through the jewelry section many times, but when I walked through it again, I started to see jewelry in a new light: big value in a small space. Perfect for shipping.
The next day I went back to the Bazaar with an empty backpack and a fistful of cash. I wanted to spread the risk as much as possible, so I stayed away from expensive stones like diamonds and rubies and I filled my backpack instead with silver, glass, turquoise, and amber.
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[This is an excerpt from the chapter “Selling jewelry” in A Tight Wide-open Space.]