Istanbul Day 11

I took a cab across the Golden Horn to the Hotel Terrapia in Beyoğlu. At reception, I met Abdullah—a thick-set concierge with a sun-warmed face and a cheery smile. He reminded me of Sallah from Raiders of the Lost Ark. Since my room wasn’t ready, he stored my luggage and returned moments later with a steaming cup of mint tea. I sipped it in the lounge, debating where to go for breakfast before my trek to Taksim Square.

At Cafe Privato, which was in the shadow of the Galata Tower, a Turkish breakfast, with tea, came to USD 30. It was another multi, mini-plate extravaganza—cheeses, spreads, pastes, honey, nuts, olives, eggs, pastries, and breads. The cold meze felt more like a polite offering than a hearty embrace.

I couldn’t help but think longingly of Harlem Tavern, where $20 gets you eggs benedict and a Bloody Mary that actually warms your soul.

I wandered toward Taksim Square via Istiklal Avenue, Istanbul’s pulsing artery of chaos and commerce full of high-end boutiques, barking ice cream vendors performing sleight of hand, and sizzling dürüm stands perfuming the air with charcoal mixed spice and a nostalgic bright red tram that announced its presence with an obnoxious clang clang.

As I entered Taksim Square, I took a few photos of the street vendors. One of them seemed troubled so I asked if he was okay.

He shook his head and said:

"It's very difficult to make a living in Istanbul. Life is hard. You have to work all the time. And the people—they talk too much."

I wasn’t entirely sure what he meant by that last part, but I nodded and said I was sorry to hear how tough it was. I offered to send him the photos I’d taken—maybe it would lift his spirits. We tried to exchange numbers, but my signal was down. He said he’d find me on Instagram, but after another failed attempt, he grew frustrated and told me to forget it. A delivery man arrived with more bread, and Murat turned back to work. I offered to help, but he snapped again, clearly overwhelmed.

I bought some bread and gave him a generous tip, then walked away as he brooded beneath the weight of his day.

I perched on a stone bench in the middle of Taksim Square, gnawing thoughtfully on Murat’s warm, sesame-speckled simit reflecting on our encounter. His slouched posture and downcast eyes seemed to carry the full weight of the city’s economic fatigue. Maybe my presence, my curiosity, my camera, had exacerbated that feeling. Maybe my question, my attempt at a connection, had highlighted the gap between our worlds. And perhaps the promise of a photo he'd never receive, thanks to my poor signal, only deepened his sense of disconnect. To him, I might’ve seemed like just another Westerner—eager for a portrait, blind to the burden behind it.

And am I not just another Westerner eager for a portrait?

With that depressing thought, there was only one thing for it.

Lunch!

I looked up nearby options and found a kebab spot just south of the square, down yet another impossibly steep cobblestone street. I was awed by the Turkish elders who navigated the downhill angle like seasoned sherpas. With my dodgy ankles, I’ll never feel at ease on those slopes.

The cafe was a modest open air nook set below the sidewalk. I stepped down into the storefront to find the place empty apart from a cute smiling couple drinking tea and sharing a cigarette—everyone smokes in Istanbul! There was a decent display of skewered meat and I pointed out one laden with fat hunks of lamb shish.

The man stubbed out his cigarette, washed his hands, and gestured for me to sit. His wife brought me tea. As I settled in, the sky darkened and a chill swept through the air, turning the open-air idea into a bad one.

When my plate arrived—bulgur wheat, lamb shish, and salad—I was shivering. The lamb had been chopped into small pieces instead of the chunks I’d pointed to. I asked the man what happened.

“I chop for you!” he said with a big smile.

The meat was lukewarm. The bread, cold. I asked for it to be toasted and it returned just in time to warm the now-cold lamb. The bulgur was cold. The salad was a frigid mistake in this weather. I was instantly miserable.

It’s incredible how bad food can ruin my day. I just saw a poor little Dachshund on Instagram who was given a single cube of meat after watching his toys receive ample portions. The poor mutt slapped his bowl in frustration and sulked back to his cage in a strop..

That’s me after every food failure…

I slunk back along the avenue to my hotel and checked into what turned out to be one of the tiniest and laughable rooms I’ve ever stayed in. The bed had exactly one foot of floor space on either side before two doors—one to the entrance, the other to the bathroom. I hopped into bed and napped for an hour.

In the afternoon I boarded the ferry to Kadıköy from Karaköy. All these -köys were confusing, but Kadıköy was the one across the Bosphorus, on the eastern side of Istanbul. I settled in a quiet spot as we glided off gazing at the shrinking landscape until the tea wallah appeared:

“Chai! Chai! Chai!” He yelled, offering steaming tea from a tray around the boat.

The ferry ride was a perfect 20-minute voyage. The water shimmered below, occasionally catching the reflections of the ever changing landscape, while gulls screeched and mocked us from above. I leaned against the bow for the journey, joined by a lone girl who FaceTimed the entire journey.

As we neared Kadıköy, an imposing building appeared on the left. It looked like a military palace, but turned out to be Haydarpaşa Railway Station, once the gateway to the city. Built in 1872, it marked the start of the Ottoman Empire’s first railway line to İzmit. Its neoclassical façade glowed in the fading light. Sadly, it’s now closed—undergoing endless, uncertain restoration. A shame for such a grand building to lose its purpose.

Once ashore, I wandered the waterfront, snapping photos of cobblers, who offered uncertain nods of approval. I joined the sunset crowd along the water, watching people sit in quiet communion, but after ten minutes I was restless. I refused to pull out my phone for ideas and instead looked over my shoulder to a nearby park and followed my nose.

Soon, I was in a packed street overflowing with teenagers vying for the most ridiculous desserts—towering cones and waffle bowls piled high with strawberries, cherries, mangoes, bananas. They posed, filmed, devoured—like watching Instagram—live!

To escape, I thought of Otis Redding—imagining myself on a breezy rooftop bar, gazing at the sunset, watching the ships roll in… then watch 'em roll away again. So I set off to find that bar. But the moment I turned onto the street, I walked straight into a wall of cigarette smoke thick. I’d found my noir —if every detective chain-smoked, argued about football, and wore a leather jacket. My eyes watered every time I inhaled and my dreams of serenity vanished in a Marlboro fog.

I decided to forgo the rooftop and slipped around the corner to a quieter street. I had my first beer in Turkey only to become frustrated while browsing restaurants until I decided that I wanted one last dürüm. The place I found was recommended as one of the best kebab wraps and it cost 130 Turkish Lira (US$3.50), which is exactly the amount of cash I had in my pocket.

It was simply sensational—hot meat, seasoned with cumin, sumac and mint, wrapped in pillow soft bread—spicy and perfect! I ate on a busy corner, watching the world of another generation—detached from the flirting, playing, smooching, arguing and cuddling as the Instagram kids skipped by.

On my way back to the ferry, I stumbled into a makeshift carnival of voices and guitars along the waterfront. A mainly male crowd had gathered to sing with the buskers—old ballads and pop tunes, arms around shoulders under the lilac sky. It was the most joyful thing I’d seen all day.

I watched from the outside. Again. Istanbul had never quite let me in.

I felt like I’d barely scratched the surface. The East-meets-West mystique I’d heard so much about? I hadn’t found it. I needed someone from here to show me inside. Most of the time, I’d felt like a day-tripper. A cultural voyeur. The food, oddly enough, hadn’t wowed me—and I love Turkish food. I’ve had far better meals in Haringey, North London. I didn’t stumble across bazaars full of oddities. No holy men offering blessings or curses. The only truly moving moment was the Sufi ceremony.

I hadn’t made an itinerary for Istanbul—I’d hoped the locals in the Airbnb would guide me. And there were moments: getting lost on the bus, the kindness of a stranger, Murat in the square. But mostly, it felt bittersweet.

On the ferry back, I sat outside and watched Kadıköy slip away. Ships passed each other in the night—it’s a cliché, but a beautiful one here, with the skyline of minarets and domes glowing behind them.

What I missed was an understanding of Istanbul’s soul—its everyday rhythms, its tensions between old and new, youth and tradition. I came looking for that. I didn’t find it.

Final Day in Istanbul

Another Day in Istanbul