The old man sat inside the entrance of St. John Baptist church in Sirince. He had a wooden tray in front of him. On it were glass vials of different sizes. When I entered he stretched out his hand for mine and put a drop of liquid on my wrist. The scent was exotic. It accompanied me as I walked around the airy interior of the Greek Orthodox church, admiring its simplicity. Before I left I chose a small green vial from him. His leathery face had little expression, but took my five liras (about $3) with a nod. He was busy accommodating other customers, Turkish women tourists, who were able to demand various samples on their wrists.
Sirince is a former Greek village situated near the Aegean coast. A beautiful hideaway in the mountains, it is famous for its local wines, soap making and crafts. The perfume I bought from the old man stayed with me for a long time when I put it on in the morning. Its mysterious mixture always brought me back to Turkey, to the winding cobblestone streets, to the old man. When I went back Sirince the next year I made it a point to look for him.
He wasn’t in the church. But when I walked down to the market place I found him talking to one of my Turkish friends. His wooden tray was folded into a carrying case. A soft bag slung across his shoulder. Upon seeing me the old man took a vial out of the bag and stretched out his hand.
My friend laughed, “He wants to sell you perfume. It’s not Gucci, you know.”
“He has the best perfume in the world.” I replied. “Please ask him to pick out a scent for me.”
The old man handed me a vial.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is rose.”
photo by Dore Steinberg.
