I'll wax lyrical about the joys of having brought an old building back to life, laugh about the never-ending struggle to master Turkish, explain about the pleasure to be had when I glimpse some minor detail of local life that had previously managed to evade me. I'll rave about my neighbors, about the friends who work in tourism and about the expat community that provides such a well of support. But the truth is that you can never really pin down what exactly it is about a place that makes you love it so particularly, and this is especially true of Göreme, where it is the little unexpected occurrences that bring so much of the reward.I was reminded of this last week when I was sitting in a friend's carpet shop mulling over what had been happening in our lives recently. Then through the door walked a Turkmen carpet wholesaler who visits her regularly and knows her purchasing preferences. This is the side of the carpet trade that goes unseen by most visitors, the point at which the tables are turned and suddenly it is the much-maligned carpet dealer who is in the position of buyer, haggling frantically in the hope of securing a good price onto which they can add their own profit margin.
Over the years, I don't know how many times I have sat mute and expressionless as friends in Cappadocia have waded their way through piles of rugs, weeding out not just the no-hopers (hot pink and brilliant orange, anyone?) but also the pieces they know they won't be able to sell (overly large carpets, for example, that will not fit into most modern homes). It is a ruthless business, and I'm often amazed at the speed with which decisions are made. While I'm still admiring the beauty spread out on the floor in front of me, my friends are already indicating which carpets should be taken away again with a casual flick of the wrist.
Even as a non-expert, I can sometimes detect when a batch of new arrivals is not up to scratch, but last week was one of those occasions when I could hardly believe what was being rolled out in front of me -- a cache of glorious hand-woven carpet bags that would probably have been used for storing pots and pans in the days before fitted kitchens. One especially lovely piece was decorated with cowry shells, but another with pretty pearl buttons on it turned out to have disappointingly lurid tassels down one side. It was soon winging its way back to the van, along with a stupendous pair of Turkmen carpets that only someone in possession of a Bosporus yalı (mansion) would have space for.
The dealers stayed for no more than half an hour, but in that time, I was privileged to be able to enjoy a private view of some of the accoutrements of a nomadic lifestyle that has now all but vanished.
Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia. 
