Bosphorus motifs

Overture

When I cautiously started sharing my plans to celebrate my 30th birthday in Istanbul, the first thing people said was always, “Wow! That’s awesome!”
Then came the inevitable follow-up: “Who are you going with?”
And when they heard I was going solo, their faces morphed into an entertaining mix of confusion and mild pity.
Some even voiced it: “How can you spend such a big date alone?”

To an outside observer, it might’ve looked like elegant madness.
Or not-so-elegant.
Or not madness at all — just plain sad.

But to me, the whole trip had a special, even symbolic meaning. I wanted to usher in my fourth decade doing what I genuinely, wholeheartedly love: traveling.

The route was planned, the tickets booked, the hostel paid for, and the dollars exchanged.
On the way, I was so deep in my thoughts that I only snapped out of it when the pilot announced:
“Ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing for landing at Istanbul Airport.”

Truth be told, Atatürk Airport wasn’t new to me — I’d passed through it on work trips before.
At least twice my colleagues and I had wandered its halls, lost, looking for the domestic terminal.

This time, though, it was simpler: I just needed to pick how to get into the city.

 

Airport Hustle

Dodging the hyper-aggressive sales pitches of local touts and their piercing shrieks of “My friend! Taxi, my friend! Good price!”, I strolled through the terminal and decided to exchange some money.

The exchange rate for the lira was on my side and remembering my colleague’s wisdom that “you gotta love yourself,” I opted for a bit of comfort — a private transfer straight to the hostel.

From a distance, I scanned the touts to avoid triggering their “sell mode.” Up close it was impossible: once one of them spotted a potential target, they all transformed into a flock of seagulls from Finding Nemo, squawking “Mine!” in chorus.

The noise was deafening. They were practically shaking the airport roof with their chorus of “Come here! You need a taxi!”

But one guy stood out — he played the disinterested card like a master.
As I approached, he sidled up to me like a dark-eyed mercury eel, flashed a dazzlingly roguish grin, and said in remarkably decent English:

“My dear! Don’t go outside — big mistake! Taxi drivers out there? Scammers — the worst! They’ll rob you blind, twist your brain, leave you in your underwear. Come, I’ll show you our prices. Special deal, just for you, like for family. Best price you’ll find! May I drop dead on this spot if I lie!”

And then he made several prompt paces — proving he wasn’t lying.

Now, bargaining in Turkey is high art.
After a dramatic back-and-forth, hand-wringing, and desperate bluffing on both sides, we struck a deal:

For €60, I’d get an entire minibus — driver included — at my disposal. He’d take me wherever I wanted. For all three days in Istanbul. And on the last day, he’d pick me up wherever I said and take me back to the airport.

During negotiations, I found out he spoke surprisingly good Italian. That alone shocked me — I’ve met few Turks who speak conversational English, let alone a second foreign language.

We shook on it, and I climbed into the leather-scented front seat of a Mercedes, ready to meet my temporary home.

Jazz Modern on the Pedestrian Street

As we drove, I tried to quiz the driver about Istanbul, but it quickly became clear that his English wasn’t just “bad” — it was tragic.

So, I dropped the linguistic interrogation and asked him to crank up some Turkish music. Then I sat back and watched the tankers and cruise liners lazily float down the Bosphorus.

As we got closer to the hostel, we plunged into a maze of narrow alleyways.
For the first time during the trip, I felt uneasy.

Everything around screamed “shady neighborhood” — shattered windows, razor wire atop fences, half-burned buildings. One, then another, and another.
Yet, according to the GPS, we were almost there.

If some street thugs from my youth had asked me, “You scared, bro?”
I’d have replied, dead serious: “Yeah.”

After a few more turns, the view became slightly less apocalyptic. But not enough to make me reach for my wallet from its hidden pocket.

The hostel had clearly seen better days.
Signs boasting 9.3 and 9.4 ratings on Booking.com were proudly displayed everywhere.
Shame those ratings dated back to 2015 and 2016.

Whatever had happened since, the last three years had not been kind to this place.

I checked in quickly, pulled out a map, and headed off to explore the nightscape of Istanbul.
My first destination: the famous pedestrian street, Istiklal.
Spoiler alert: it had way more in store than I expected.

Pedestrian streets come in all flavours.

Some have people calmly strolling and discussing lofty ideas.
Others are pure chaos — crowds rushing from shop to shop or speeding from point A to point B.

And then there’s Istiklal.

The people here are like rain in St. Petersburg — always falling, in all directions, with no escape except in the alleys.

From Taksim Square down to the Galata Tower, it felt like humanity was attempting to walk in every direction at once.
And honestly, who could blame them?

Both sides of the street are crammed with shops, cafes, currency exchanges, spice stands, dessert booths, and God only knows what else.
Nothing new for a street like this, but what really added flavour were the vendors and promo guys.

In Rome — one of my favorit cities — the waiters and touts near tourist hot spots might seem pushy with their gentle “Come in and relax, take a break from the noise.”

In Istanbul, a man with fire (or madness) in his eyes will leap in front of you, throw his arms to the heavens and exclaim:
“Ah, my dear! Don’t even think of walking past! Look — your table is already waiting! Sit, eat — you’ll come back, and bring your whole family! No family? After our [unpronounceable Turkish dish], you’ll start a family just to bring them here!”

Add to that the intoxicating aromas of sweets and spices swirling through the air.
Chestnuts and sesame bagels (called çörek) winked at me from rolling carts.

You can eat them plain or sliced and filled with cream cheese or cherry jam — both versions are dangerously good.

Every now and then, a strange rhythm cut through the din — like a snare drum’s staccato.

That was the dondurma guys — the Turkish ice cream vendors.
Armed with meter-long steel sticks (square-shaped for maximum effect), they stirred their vats with flair.

Bored? They’d tap out a beat on the metal rims, spinning the stick with quick, rattling *ra-ta-ta-ta-ta!*s followed by a few well-placed whaps for emphasis.

But the real fun came during service — a full-blown performance.
If you’ve never seen it, just look up “Turkish ice cream vendor” on YouTube.

They spin cones, stack them, trick you with empty ones, snatch them away last second, and eventually, after exhausting your patience, finally hand over your frosty prize.

I was ready.
But one poor guy from Perfidious Albion was not — he failed to catch his scoop even after the 8th try.
And in the grand finale, the vendor booped him on the forehead with the ice cream before finally handing it over, cackling like a cartoon villain.

Despite the madness, I must admit: Italian gelato now has a worthy rival.

The pistachio insanity I tried was obscenely creamy, sticky, and probably made from half of Turkey’s pistachio crop.

So, if you see the word dondurma, prepare to suffer for your culinary bliss.

Cat Blues

If I had to describe my attitude toward cats in one phrase, it’d be:
“I love them to bits. Literal bits.”

I adore cuddling the little furballs, tugging on their whiskers, stroking their plush bellies, scratching their necks while they purr like tiny engine blocks.
Even a not-so-mild allergy to fur doesn’t stop me from showering these charismatic scoundrels with affection every now and then.

Alas, my love is not always reciprocated.
Out of all the breeds I’ve met, Sphynxes and Siamese cats have made it abundantly clear:
"You? Not worthy. Hands off."

Siamese cats, the moment I approach, drop lower than a street-tuned lowrider — pressing themselves flat against the ground and doing their best to slip beyond the visible horizon.
If my predator hands do manage to catch one, they freeze solid, eyes gone owl-wide, staring blankly into the void, doing an Oscar-worthy impression of a taxidermy exhibit.

The story with Sphynxes is a whole different beast.
They must sense my quiet prejudice — my firm belief that a proper cat should be soft, fluffy, and cuddle-compatible.
And it infuriates them.

The second they spot me, their ears fold, the hissing starts, their wrinkly bodies quake like Satan’s hot water bottle, and they emit noises so infernal my instinctive reaction resembles that priest from Scary Movie who, upon seeing the possessed girl, mutters “F this!” and bolts for the door.

But aside from these fringe breeds, me and the feline nation get along like soulmates.
Ask me anytime, “Where are your cats?” and I’ll proudly thump my chest and answer in a deep baritone:
“Right here.”

Istanbul has a lot of cats.
No exaggeration — the city is positively crawling with them.
They beg for food at cafés, nap lazily on doorsteps, and squint down at you from stone fences like furry little emperors.

One day, I wandered into a park and saw the most curious sight:
Scattered on the grass were stray dogs, curled up asleep like sleepy clouds.
Near each one sat a cat, watching its assigned canine with laser focus.

Apparently, that’s just how things work there.
I instantly imagined some feline spy thriller:
“Base, this is Agent Claw-7. The target remains asleep. All quiet on the western front.”

Later, in an open courtyard, I had to literally stop and count.
Yep — nineteen cats.
Nineteen! All gainfully employed: some were napping, some were eating, one absurdly fat ginger cat was grooming himself with saintly devotion.

And then there were two black cats, arching their backs and howling in some deep, guttural dialect — seemingly seconds away from kicking off Darwin’s favorite pastime.

Nearly every café or shop has its “assigned” cat.
Our hostel was no exception — home to a cat with a sleek purple collar and a level of brazenness that could be mistaken for performance art.

One evening, I was sitting in the shared kitchen, eating yet another variation of kebab and marking up my map.
Suddenly, something soft brushed against my ankles — then, without ceremony, a plump cat leapt onto the counter.

She tossed a casual “meow” over her shoulder, then immediately lunged at my kebab like a furry missile.

I tried to bribe her with flatbread scraps, a slice of bell pepper, even cucumbers.
Each item was sniffed with aristocratic suspicion, then swatted off the table like an offense to her palate.

Her eyes said it all:
“Enough stalling, clown. I’m here for the chicken.”

And so, we dined together.

But the next morning?
She sat by the window, turned away from me, staring out like nothing ever happened.
As if our kebab-bonded intimacy had meant nothing.

This kind of cold, consumerist attitude is typical of many furry degenerates.

One evening, I turned off the chaos of Istiklal and found myself in a neighborhood made entirely of cafés and restaurants.
While picking a table, I noticed a cat of monumental girth sprawled across one.

Two Turkish guys were chatting beside him, having politely moved all their dishes and glasses out of His Majesty’s way.

Every so often, His Fluffiness would lazily tap one of them on the arm, and the guy would immediately tear off a bit of meat and offer it up, as if to a minor deity.

I can now say with confidence:
In the feline world, there are Sultans.

Waltz in the Palace

I had criminally little time on my hands, and an embarrassingly long list of places I wanted to visit. My Turkish colleagues persistently recommended a place called Dolmabahçe Sarayı. A sort of hybrid between the Hermitage and the Russian Museum, it was built in the 19th century for the sultan and his many wives. Officially, it’s a Baroque palace. In reality—it’s a crystal-and-gold fever dream.

I went there just to kill some time and left thoroughly impressed, with a completely redefined understanding of the phrase “over-the-top luxury.” Contributing to this revelation were chandeliers made of crystal and weighing several tons. And gold—tons of it—used in the decor like it was going out of style.

As I wandered through endless apartments—first wife, second wife, favorite wife, mother’s quarters, important meeting rooms, corridors that existed just because—I couldn’t stop marveling at the sheer opulence. Imagine walking through the Hermitage, or the Belvedere, or, say, the Louvre. Everything is majestic, grand, reeking of history. Antique furniture, massive candelabras, fine art covering the walls. Then you spot a tiny sign: “Second Conversation Room for the Sultan’s Wives.” Right.

For the first time in my life, I was genuinely upset about the heavy security. Every time I so much as reached for my phone, the palace ceilings echoed with a thunderous “NO PHOTO!”

Tucked away in a distant wing of the palace was a small art gallery. Modest in scale, but full of surprises. Wandering through its rooms, I admired oil paintings of Turkey and Egypt's finest views. In one of the halls, a few people sat quietly sketching their favorite pieces. Just as I was about to leave, I caught sight—out of the corner of my eye—of a very distinctive technique for painting water. I stepped closer and yes—Ivan Konstantinovich, I didn’t expect to see you here!

Three modest works by the brilliant seascape painter Aivazovsky hung quietly in a corner.

But in the next room—one that looked more like a ballroom—a much bigger surprise awaited: the entire room was filled with nothing but Aivazovsky’s paintings. I walked up to each one just to be sure. Over 20 canvases with views of Constantinople and the Bosphorus.

After that discovery, I had to find a museum staff member and ask about the collection. A kind woman, who spoke surprisingly decent English, eagerly explained that Aivazovsky had loved visiting Istanbul and was even welcomed at the court of Sultan Abdulaziz. In fact, two sultans in a row were fans of his work, and after three visits to the “city of contrasts,” the painter left behind around 30 works.

After that kind of cultural whiplash, I needed a snack. A sign in the palace garden pointed me to the nearby Garem Café. Despite the name, everything inside was more than decent, and no one tried to challenge my virtue. I studied the display and asked for a typical Turkish dessert. The vendor sank into deep contemplation and finally handed me a little jar of what looked like whipped cream with strawberries.

I eyed him suspiciously and asked again: “Are you sure this is a traditional Turkish dessert?”
The culinary con man hesitated for a moment and glanced at his co-worker. What followed was a wordless—but oh-so-expressive—eyebrow tango worthy of an Emmy.

Eyebrows set №1: “He’s asking if this is a Turkish dessert.”
Eyebrows set №2: “And what did you tell him?”
Eyebrows set №1: “Told him it is.”
Eyebrows set №2: “Is it actually Turkish?”
Eyebrows set №1: “No idea, bro.”
Eyebrows set №2: “Okay… Do we want to make the sale?”
Eyebrows set №1: “Yes!”
Eyebrows set №2: “Then it’s Turkish.”

And with that, the vendor handed me the dessert, enthusiastically assuring me that nothing could be more authentically Turkish. Honestly, I wanted to applaud and shout “Bravo! Encore!” But I just smiled politely and sat down.

After the first spoonful, I stopped caring not only about the authenticity of the dessert but about anything else in the universe. What was in that jar was pure, uncut ambrosia. Lightly dusted with crumbled shortbread, the mystery cream—maybe whipped cream, maybe yogurt—melted on the tongue and sent ripples of bliss through my entire being. The strawberries, cut into bold chunks, were the most strawberry-ish strawberries I’ve ever tasted. That rich, tangy flavor perfectly offset the cream’s gentle sweetness.

I remember the first spoonful. After that—blackout. Then, suddenly, there was an empty jar on the table.

If I’m not mistaken, there’s a word for that level of culinary ecstasy - foodgasm.
Well, this was it.

Beatboxing at the Bird Yard

Stepping out of the café in a most blissful state, I decided to take one last stroll through the palace park grounds. Lazily walking along, humming some catchy tune, I came upon a small courtyard where they kept birds.

Almost all the cages were open wide, and guinea fowl, roosters, Muscovy ducks, and pheasants leisurely wandered around, pecking at the ground here and there. But in one particular cage, all hell was clearly breaking loose.

As I approached, I became witness to the most furious and chaotic brawl since the final battle in The Lord of the Rings.
One Muscovy duck, feathers puffed in rage and shrieking like a banshee, was rampaging across the cage, pecking madly at anything that moved. Pheasants, fellow Muscovy ducks—no one escaped her wrath. And this wasn’t just some cranky pecking. No, this unhinged duck was dishing out full-on boxing combos with her wings—throwing hooks left and right like a seasoned prizefighter.

At some point, a male pheasant who had been napping peacefully on a perch near the ceiling must’ve decided he’d seen enough.
He hopped down and confronted the duck—bird-style. I didn’t catch exactly what was said in Avian, but judging by his body language, he definitely called her out.

Now, if you ask me, the pheasant should’ve had the upper claw here. They were roughly the same size, but his long tail feathers made him seem even larger. Add in those sharp claws, that pointed beak—it all seemed way more menacing than the duck’s webbed feet and nibble-beak.

Well… it’s a good thing I hadn’t put money on him.

Apparently, the pheasant made a very inappropriate remark about the duck’s mother.

The Muscovy duck lowered her head to her chest and hissed like a royal cobra. Then, sidestepping over to the pheasant with lightning speed, she let loose a devastating right-wing hook that spun the pheasant around a full 180 degrees.

Wasting no time, the duck jumped onto the pheasant’s back, grabbed the poor guy by the scruff of the neck with her beak, and continued to pummel him mercilessly with her wings. For a moment there, I honestly couldn’t tell if this was a fight or foreplay.
Locked in their two-tiered embrace, the birds made several victory laps around the cage, feathers and dust flying in every direction.
The pheasant shrieked in horror, clearly regretting ever leaving his perch. The duck hissed through a beak stuffed full of pheasant feathers.

All the other birds were frozen in wide-eyed shock.

Eventually, the battered pheasant managed to shake off his unhinged attacker. Not wasting a second, he shot straight up to the ceiling and huddled there, squawking out his sorrows like a broken poet.

Meanwhile, the triumphant duck ran one more victory lap around the cage, spitting out leftover feathers from her defeated foe.
Still brimming with adrenaline, she smacked a few nearby ducks and pheasants for good measure. Seeing the pheasant plumes still sticking out of her beak, none of them dared to fight back.

With no new challengers stepping forward for the Muscovy Middleweight Belt, peace was restored in the cage.
For now.

Silken Flamenco

Still reeling from the avian bloodbath I’d just witnessed, I decided to go on a casual, aimless stroll through the city. I vaguely picked a “northward” direction and wandered off, watching the steady rhythm of everyday life among the citizens of Istanbul, petting every cat I came across like it was part of a sacred ritual.

After a while, I noticed the surroundings had changed. The quaint old historic buildings had disappeared. Instead, the streets were now lined with business suits, high-end fashion boutiques, and slick glass-and-concrete towers. As I looked around, an idea popped into my head: I should look for a SARAR store—the brand that was born in Turkey back in the 1930s and eventually blossomed into a massive clothing and textile empire.

Given its popularity, I didn’t have to search long—after some 15–20 minutes of leisurely meandering, I spotted the unmistakable black-and-white sign. A giant glass door swung open before me, operated by a doorman in white gloves, which either screamed “exclusivity” or was at least meant to create that illusion.

As is tradition in upscale shops, there were clearly more sales associates than customers. This made the former visibly bored, so my entrance was greeted with an eager flurry of attention. From the glint in their eyes, I could tell they were ready to sell me the entire store and a generous stretch of sidewalk outside, if I let them. The only thing holding them back was the language barrier.

What I needed were silk neck scarves. I had no idea how to say “neck” or “scarf” in Turkish. The associates’ English was limited to “Hello” and “Welcome.” So, I called upon the oldest and most reliable of travel tools: interpretive dance.

I remembered that such scarves are an essential part of Turkish Airlines’ flight attendant uniforms. So, using the phrases “flight attendant” and “Turkish Airlines,” I began tying an imaginary, elaborate knot around my throat with the finesse of a flamenco dancer. My passionate hand-choreography visibly stirred the Turkish staff. They huddled for a moment, then one of them—who seemed to have understood more than the others—stepped forward, beamed a shiny-toothed smile, barked something cheerfully in Turkish, and gestured for me to follow him deeper into the store.

We passed endless racks and shelves of clothing before arriving at an elevator. On a stand by the wall, I spotted them—the scarves!
With a joyful cry, I started pointing at them enthusiastically, but my guide just smiled and gently nudged me into the elevator. Apparently, that wasn’t the scarf section.

The second floor turned out to be the men’s department. Same bored consultants, same tailored silence. We approached a display case filled with neckties. My guide gestured proudly toward them and launched into a triumphant Turkish tirade.

It hurt to disappoint him, but I did my best to explain—through increasingly creative pantomime—that it was still scarves I was after.
On the way back down in the elevator, he noticed my Hard Rock Café guitar-shaped pin on my jacket. Flashing a universal thumbs-up, he gave it his stamp of approval. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small Turkish flag pin I had bought earlier at Dolmabahçe.

Nuclear. Reaction.

Suddenly, every idle associate in the building was summoned. They shook my hand, clapped me on the back, pointed excitedly at the pin, and gave me even more thumbs-ups. At this point, to not wear the flag would have been a crime against Turkish hospitality. So, to resounding applause, I proudly pinned it next to the guitar.

Now fully accepted as an honorary member of the SARAR tribe, we resumed the scarf hunt as a team. I entertained them with my Turkish number-counting (from 0 to 10, shakily), threw in some random words I half-remembered, and finally mumbled, with a shy smile,
“Biraz Türkçe konuşuyorum…”
("I speak a little Turkish…")

The consultants burst out laughing at my pronunciation and looked at me with such genuine warmth that, had the store been any less high-end, I swear we would’ve cracked open some drinks right there to toast Russo-Turkish friendship.

A cheerful procession led me to the register. When I saw the price, I genuinely thought they’d forgotten to include a few items. I stared at my smiling guide and asked,
“Toplam?”
(“Is that everything?”)

He beamed even wider, pointed at the blood-red flag pin with the silver crescent now gleaming on my chest, and with a sly wink, said:
“İndirim.”
("Discount.")

With bows, jokes, and playful goodbyes, the whole staff escorted me to the exit, still waving from behind the windows as I stepped out.

And I?
I stood there, slightly dazed by the Turkish art of commerce, trying to remember where on earth I was planning to go next.

Argentine Tango in Spices

Before even setting foot in Istanbul, it was clear: if I came back without sweets and spices, I might as well not come back at all. But how does one find the best spot for such treasure? Easy - cling to a local. I still had Kadir’s number, the guy I’d fiercely negotiated with at the airport over a car. After a quick summary of my mission, he told me he'd pick me up in an hour and take me to “The best store for sweets and spices in all of Istanbul! May I be struck down where I stand if I'm lying!”

Just over an hour later, I stood on the threshold of a small shop, breathing in the delirious sweet-spicy blend of aromas. Kadir told me the shop was run by his brother. Whether he meant blood brother or the “brother-from-another-mother” type, I never really figured out. Though he did greet this guy way more warmly than anyone else in the shop.

Then chaos erupted.

Kadir's "brother" led me straight to the Turkish delight section, speaking non-stop.
“This one is a tourist favorite. What are you staring at? Eat it!”
A hefty piece of delight landed in my hand.
Tasted like nothing special. Just your average otherworldly pleasure.
Before I could finish chewing, three more pieces were shoved at me - “You must try these too.”

Munching shamelessly, I asked for smaller pieces, or I’d explode and redecorate the walls.

Next came a section I mentally labeled “Anything and Everything in Chocolate.”
Pistachios in chocolate. Hazelnuts in chocolate. Peanuts in chocolate. Cashews, Brazil nuts, walnuts, macadamias… all cloaked in chocolate.
Some kind of biscuits, halva, and something sticky and unidentifiable.
Also in chocolate. Obviously.

I tasted everything. And as I began to feel that unmistakable sugar rush - a euphoric buzz from overdosing on fast carbs - I begged for something to drink. We made a tea break.
Well, more like the tasting continued in the tea section.

After rinsing my palate and adding a few more bundles to my ever-growing mountain of purchases, we moved on to halva and baklava.
By now, I wasn’t even surprised when he yelled, “Why are you just looking? Eat!”
I tried everything presented to me.

Just as I was biting into a honey-soaked baklava stuffed with pistachio cream, Kadir showed up.
With a mysteriously sourced stick of dry sausage, he quite graphically demonstrated how good baklava is for one’s virility.
I assured him I prefer sleeping on my stomach—and with the effects he was miming, that would become impossible.

We chuckled through the innuendo and moved on to the spice section.
I secretly hoped we’d take a breath and calmly pick out some flavors, but Kadir’s “brother” had a different vision.

Grabbing a small scoop, he enthusiastically jabbed at various spice pyramids, holding them up to my face while yelling, “Eat! Try it!”

Like some spice cartel boss, I’d lick my pinky, dip it into a colorful heap, taste it, and offer my verdict.
Can’t say I’m an expert in this field. I know salt. Pepper. The other pepper. Bay leaves. Maybe a bit of khmeli-suneli (ask Google or your Georgian friend what that is) when I cook.

But local spices here? Explosions on the tongue.
Some burned, some embraced like a velvet glove, some started loud and spicy and faded into a smooth aftertaste that reminded me faintly of mustard.

I asked them to pick out a set for fish, meat, and, well, just everything.
Then I dragged myself over to Kadir, collapsed onto the divan beside him, and sipped tea while watching my purchases get vacuum-packed and crammed into a massive canvas bag.

Just for kicks, I decided to weigh it before heading out.
14.8 kilograms.
Holy hell, how was I going to drag that across half the city?

I did.
Quite cheerfully, in fact.

But while packing my suitcase, I stumbled across a bag of mint tea I didn’t even remember buying.
Thing is—it’s a very light green color.
In vacuum packaging, though, it looks… quite white. You get where this is going, right?

I was about to fly with a kilo of mysterious white powder in my suitcase.
Only later did I notice the shop’s sticker on the package.

By that time, I’d already jotted down some Turkish phrases on a slip of paper:
“I don’t want to go to prison.”
and
“This isn’t mine, officer—it was planted.”

The Quadrille of Our Lives

When you look at a map of Istanbul, you can’t help but notice the large green blotch near the Topkapi Palace and the Hagia Sophia. That’s Gülhane Park. Its name, borrowed from Persian, translates to “House of Roses,” and in season, it boasts flower beds so stunning they could shame a Renaissance painting. The first statue of Atatürk stands there too. And some of the trees were planted way back in the 1800s. Obviously, I had to go.

After darting like a wild boar down Istiklal Street, sneaking a glance at the Galata Tower, and strolling over the Galata Bridge, I found myself in the park about ten minutes later. The sun was blazing, not a cloud in the sky, and I decided it was the perfect time to indulge in one of my favorite activities—melting into the environment and soaking in the beauty of the moment with every fiber of my being.

In this state—where my ego is tamed, personal thoughts, ambitions, and anxieties pushed to the very edges of my awareness—I can perceive the world most vividly, picking up on the quirks and stories that would otherwise pass me by unnoticed.

Here’s a playground. A dad, grunting like a bear, is pushing his daughter on a swing. She squeals with delight, begging him to go higher. Sporting the beginnings of a bald spot and proudly sucking in his ample belly, this family patriarch clearly wouldn’t mind launching his little one into low-earth orbit - if only the swing set could handle it. Beside them, a worried mom stands by, repeating the universal maternal mantra: “Okay, that’s enough! You’re gonna kill her!” But voices of mothers and reason tend to fade into white noise in moments like these.

A little farther on, another family. The dad’s got a six-year-old boy perched on his shoulders. The kid is expertly twirling a plastic scimitar, likely imagining himself as Sultan Mehmed laying siege to Vienna. Emotion overwhelms the young janissary, and he shrieks with joy, thrilled with himself, the sword, and the whole situation. The young father, fully committed to his role as a warhorse, alternates between snorting like a stallion and chanting something vaguely resembling a military march.

Strictly speaking, according to the Turkish Military Code, singing isn’t allowed for battle horses. But in the boundless fantasy world of a six-year-old, such initiative is strongly encouraged. Not far off, the boy’s mother, trying not to burst out laughing, is filming it all. The look in her eyes says it all - Turkish women, too, understand that “the first forty years of a man’s childhood are the hardest.”

In another meadow, kids are playing some wild hybrid of tag and hide-and-seek. It’s all pretty standard: the seeker is blatantly peeking, someone’s hidden on the far end of the park just to be safe, and another kid’s simply standing on the other side of a tree. They’re all vibrating with excitement, some even doing a little pre-game shuffle.

And then – surprise - the sprinklers come on.

With a chorus of shrieks, the kids scatter, trying to dodge the streams. Not an easy task - the sprinklers are powerful and positioned in a crisscross pattern like some mischievous garden security system. Almost no one escapes without a good soaking. Once out of the splash zone, the kids assess the damage, roaring with laughter at the wettest among them.

But the park isn’t just for those on holiday. Some came here to work, sweat dripping down their brows. A huge section of the park looked like a construction site—bare dirt instead of grass. Wooden scaffolding everywhere. People in high-visibility vests scurrying about.

It was there that I saw something for the first time—how living turf, pre-cut into neat squares and rolled up like rugs, gets laid out on barren ground like carpet. After leaving the workers to prep the park for tourist season, I headed toward Sultanahmet, known to tourists far and wide as the Blue Mosque.

Historical Fandango

Finding the mosque is pretty straightforward - you just merge into the endless river of tourists and pilgrims, and it will carry you straight to Sultanahmet Square and the namesake mosque. I’ll be honest: from the outside, the Blue Mosque impressed me far more than from the inside. Approaching it, gazing at its minarets and rounded domes, it felt like I was looking at a building straight out of Star Wars.

Inside, however, it’s all rather restrained: tiled walls and carpeted floors. At the entrance, they politely but firmly ask all women to wrap their heads in a scarf. Just before stepping into the main prayer hall, you’re handed a plastic bag to store your shoes—entry is strictly barefoot only.

I decided to skip Hagia Sophia because the line to get in was simply monstrous. Later, I looked up some photos online and instantly regretted it - the interior looks way more stunning than the Blue Mosque. But at the time, I didn’t know any better and calmly let the tourist tide sweep me toward Topkapi Palace.

If you’re planning to visit, brace yourself for a solid hike: the entire complex, including all its gardens and annexes, spans 700,000 square meters. For centuries, Topkapi served as the residence of 25 successive sultans. Only in 1854 did Sultan Abdulmejid I decide he needed something a bit more contemporary and moved into the shiny new Dolmabahçe Palace.

Out of everything in the complex, two things stuck with me: a crusader’s sword and the terrace overlooking the Bosphorus. Maybe it’s just me, but despite all its grandeur, Topkapi somehow feels a bit paler compared to the more lavish Dolmabahçe. So honestly, I get where the sultan was coming from.

Now, the sword. In one of the palace’s annexes, there’s a museum of ancient weapons and armor. It’s not huge, but it’s packed with fascinating artifacts. When I first spotted that sword behind glass and processed its size, I honestly thought it was part of some siege equipment or a flagpole. But then, a Russian-speaking guide leading an older couple explained that these were real weapons meant for the “Herculeses” of their time—massive, jacked young men like Hafþór Björnsson, the guy who played The Mountain in Game of Thrones.

According to the guide, on the battlefield these beasts would grip such swords with both hands and charge forward like oversized reapers, swinging with zero finesse. They typically fought solo, mainly because no one was insane enough to get within flailing range of a three-meter-long blade being wielded by a human bulldozer.

Duly impressed by medieval combat strategies, I kept wandering and eventually reached the northern edge of the palace grounds. From several terraces—one of which had already been seized by enterprising restaurateurs—there was a spectacular view of the Bosphorus. In the distance, flirting through the haze, I could just make out the Asian side of Istanbul.

If it weren’t for the cutting wind, it would’ve been the perfect spot to stand awhile, ponder the eternal, and watch as endless liners, tankers, and fishing boats skimmed across the water like massive metallic water striders on a mission.

The Farewell Swing (with a hint of fish and fermented sorrow)

Frozen on the terrace and thawing myself with a shot of cognac, I decided to take one last stroll along the waterfront and finally try balık ekmek—a fish sandwich that’s practically a cultural monument in Istanbul. It’s a simple affair: grilled fish, tomatoes, herbs, and a dash of lemon juice, all nestled between slices of bread.

On the embankment, I spent quite a while squinting at the ferry schedules and pondering whether to attempt a bold escape to the Asian side of the city. I ultimately passed. The last ferry from there was leaving at 8:30 PM, and I’d barely get there by 6:30—best case scenario. Two hours for Kadıköy? An insult. Now, two days… that’d be another story.

And so, it was time for a culinary adventure. Not everyone knows this, but under the Galata Bridge there’s an army of seafood restaurants packed tighter than sardines in a can (pun intended). You can find just about every sea critter imaginable there. Prices are, of course, proudly tourist-level, but the variety is genuinely impressive.

Beyond your standard lobsters, oysters, mussels, scallops, salmon, king and tiger prawns, there were creatures that looked like they came from an undersea horror film. I spotted one fish that looked like a flounder—only super-sized. And unlike a flounder, whose face is charmingly off-kilter, this monster had its facial features perfectly centered, glaring back with an expression that screamed:

O__O

Add to that a full-body coat of jagged spines and a nauseating pink hue. If I’d caught something like that myself, I’d have shrieked like a banshee and tossed it back into the sea—rod, net, and bait included.

While I was marveling at the abyssal fauna, I caught wind of an enthusiastic shout. Curious, I wandered over and saw a glorious sight: behind a low counter doubling as grill, cash register, and possibly a life anchor, stood a rotund, red-faced chef preparing the very balık ekmek I’d come for.

I noticed something: a solid belly and ruddy complexion seem to be reliable signs of a good cook. Periodically, the man would start drumming on his belly like it was a military drum, punctuating the rhythm with the word "buyrung!"—which sounded suspiciously close to the Russian “берём!” (“Come and get it!”).

It went like this: he’d take someone’s order, flip and debone a fish with surgical efficiency, toss a few lines to his coworker, then slap out a tempo on his work-worn apron while chanting:
"Buyrung! BUYRUNG!! BUYYYYRRRUUUUUNG!!!"

There was something hypnotic in the crescendo of his voice. I found myself in a trance, buying a sandwich and a bottle of mysterious dark red liquid for washing it down.

The balık ekmek? Decent. A bit dry.
The mystery drink? Fermented black carrot juice.

Now, I’ve had some questionable liquids in my life—but this one? Picture old-school pickle brine. Let it ferment. Toss in enough chili to violate the Geneva Convention. Bottle it. Market it as a national treasure. It was vile. Drink it at your own peril. You’ve been warned.

To wash away the black memories of the black carrot, I made a detour on my way to the hostel. Back to the familiar restaurant alley near Istiklal. Ordered a beer. Got chatting with an Englishman. And the rest of the evening flew by in the language of David Bowie and Winston Churchill.

Sitting on the plane, watching the “City of Contrasts” drift downward and away beneath me, I knew, with absolute clarity, that I’d be back. Too many loose ends left hanging—I never relaxed in a hammam, never fully explored the bohemian Kadıköy district, never tried köfte or kordan kebab. Too much left untasted, unwalked, undone.

And so, my dear Istanbul, I say to you, in proper Italian fashion:
Alla prossima!