With friends like these, who needs creditors?

Here in Istanbul I have discovered the cure for low self-esteem.

It is called the Grand Bazaar, or Turkey’s centuries-old shopping mall on steroids.

The Bazaar is a mammoth covered maze that contains 4,000-plus shops, not one of them a Nordstrom.

But as amazing as that is, here is what makes the Grand Bazaar so special: You can’t walk two feet without a merchant wanting to be your very best friend.

I have never felt so popular in my life.

Or in danger of going broke.

Charlie Schmidt and I took a “taksi” to the Grand Bazaar on Friday afternoon. We might as well have been carrying a neon sign that said “Fresh Meat.”

The cabbie dropped us off. We stepped outside and …

“Friends. Friends.”

We turned to see an old man in a black suit.

“Are you Americans?” he asked.

I hesitated. As far as much of world is concerned, Americans are as welcome as an outbreak of bedbugs.

Yet the aged gentleman seemed positively overjoyed by our nationality.

“America,” he exclaimed with the fervor of a father who had just found his long lost sons. “A great country.”

We tried to go on our way. But the old man would have none of it. He insisted on personally escorting us to a nearby shop where more strangers in dark suits wanted to befriend us.

“Have some Turkish delight,” said Friend No. 2, extending an open box.

We chewed. Friendship never tasted so sweet.

I’m a little dizzy on what happened next. I only know that I found myself buying a scarf.

I didn’t want to buy a scarf. But my new friend said it was “very special price because I like you.”

I left the store and was immediately accosted by Friend No. 3. He thought I should buy a leather coat or, at the very least, a rug.

“I don’t have any floors,” I told him, hoping he would take the hint.

“You can hang it on a wall,” he countered.

How do you argue with that logic?

Now my idea of a real friend is Schmidt.

As I have told you in my past two columns, the Spokane performance artist was hired to do his comedy dancing nose routine on an Istanbul TV variety show.

Given an extra ticket, he generously invited me to tag along.

Try and get a deal like that in the Grand Bazaar.

Speaking of his show, the taping ended at 3 a.m. Friday. (Turkey is 10 hours ahead of Spokane time.)

“Night of the Miracles” will be aired in two weeks. The only catch is that you will have to fly to Turkey to watch it.

Or install a satellite dish the size of the Hollywood Bowl.

Schmidt opened the show with the nasal ballet he has performed on “The Tonight Show” and all across the globe.

I know I’ve explained this before.

But I can envision some poor reader out there who is late to the party and seeing that for the first time.

“He does WHAT?”

So I’ll say it again. Schmidt’s act is a sight gag.

He presses a window-sized sheet of glass against his nose and wriggles it to the beat while miming a popular song like the Tom Jones hit “It’s Not Unusual.” (Check it out at www.charlieschmidt.com.)

Schmidt was followed by a number of vaudeville-style acts.

A one-handed archer drilled an arrow through balloons mounted dangerously close to a volunteer.

A latter-day Houdini shed handcuffs and manacles while spinning around in the soapy insides of an industrial washing machine.

That was a good one.

And an Englishman who calls himself Mr. Methane or Methane Man …

Sorry. It’s too vulgar to even try to explain. But if ever anyone deserved to be put in a Turkish prison it’s this rude fool.

But as crazy as the show was, it didn’t come close to the theater of chaotic capitalism we found at the Grand Bazaar.

There’s just so much stuff. It can make you rummy.

Schmidt bought one turban only to find a better one a few shops later.

Not wanting to horn in on his turban territory, I bought a different style Middle Eastern hat from a shopkeeper named Abdullah.

He, too, became such a close friend that he convinced me that I would be quite insane not to also buy a small rug.

Soon we will board an outbound jet. We will say so long to this seductive city of mosques and merchandising.

I’ll be sad to leave.

But I know all our new friends at the Grand Bazaar will be even sadder.

I can see them now, tears running down their cheeks as they wave a wistful farewell to our American wallets.