I love markets. They're alive. They're chaotic. They're where the real soul of a city lives.
My first visit to Chandni Chowk in Delhi, India, was utter madness. I had never seen so many people crammed into small lanes and alleys. Men pushed wooden wheelbarrows piled high with boxes, weaving through crowds with the determination of commuters on a mission. The chaos was overwhelming, but amid it all, I saw something beautiful for the first time: real pearls. Strands of them glistening in tiny shop windows, waiting for someone who knew their value.
Then came the moment I'll never forget. A man made a sudden run towards my girlfriend, his hand reaching out. We both saw him. Nothing could stop him—he was a man on a mission. He grabbed whatever he was after (her attention?) and disappeared back into the sea of people as quickly as he'd appeared. Did it actually happen? To this day, I'm not entirely sure. The market was that surreal. Amid the chaos, I discovered the famous book stalls of Chandni Chowk—stacks of books piled everywhere, in every possible corner. The stall owner somehow knew exactly where every single title was buried. A walking, talking library catalogue in a prayer cap.
From Delhi, I made my way to Jaipur, Rajasthan—the city of amazing bright turbans. Everything here was vibrant: bags studded with tiny mirrors, gemstones sparkling in every direction, clothes in colours I didn't know existed. It's a market that assaults your senses in the best possible way. And yes, this was the first place I ever saw vultures by the side of the road. Big, scruffy birds looking utterly out of place next to all that beauty.
Leaving India behind, I found myself in Istanbul, Turkey, the gateway to Asia. The Grand Bazaar is enormous. I mean, really enormous. I managed to get thoroughly lost amongst the carpets and lamps, wandering through tunnel after tunnel of Turkish delight and copper trays. It was only the sound of the azan—the call to prayer—that guided me out. I followed it like a sailor follows a lighthouse. What a market. I'm determined to return one day and test the haggling methods I've perfected on my travels, especially those I learned in Morocco.
Speaking of Morocco, Fez was next. You've guessed it: I got lost again. But this time, it was deliberate. I ditched my guide and disappeared into the souk on my own terms. What an amazing place! Once again, so much to buy: handwoven mats, soft leather bags, and my personal weakness—beautiful embroidered shirts. Lamps, brass trays, mirrors covered in intricate patterns. I wandered until I had absolutely no idea where I was, and honestly, it was worth every dirham to pay someone to lead me back to the entrance. Marrakech I also love, even though the game is different. The main square at night, with its dancers, storytellers, and food stalls, is pure magic. But getting a good price there? That's another level entirely. I love a challenge.
Back home now in London, I still seek out markets. Camden Market is a favourite, though you have to dig a bit to find the real treasures. Every time I go, I buy a 70s t-shirt—CBGB's, Jack Daniel's, or something with The Ramones (of course, with Tommy). It's become a tradition. I still go to Brick Lane on a Sunday, but since the council stopped the roadside sellers, it's lost some of its old magic. I remember one visit when I was selling some bits—a t shirts of Jesus, Shiva, Lakshmi (the goddess of wealth). Nobody seemed interested in my religious offerings. Instead, everyone kept asking about my personal crocodile skin man bag, I bought a a state of Kerala shop, which wasn't even for sale. Go figure.
Markets have a way of surprising you. You go looking for one thing and come away with a story you never expected. One day, when I get my AI glasses, you'll be able to join me on these adventures. Until then, I'll keep wandering, keep haggling, and keep getting lost.
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