Istanbul (Turkiye)
31 March - 01 April 2026
Some cities announce themselves. Others quietly get under
your skin. Istanbul, I think, has been doing the latter for quite some time.
Istanbul is one of those cities I have somehow managed to
underappreciate. Not intentionally, of course, but almost inexplicably. I've
found myself drifting into it, sometimes quite accidentally, only to be
reminded of just how extraordinary it is. There is a presence here, a
magnetism, an almost irresistible pull that seems to demand your attention. And
yet, somehow, I've managed to overlook it.
I've been here before. I've felt this before. Much like
Amsterdam, Istanbul has somehow found itself shuffled down the mental deck of
cities I've visited, without me ever really understanding why. Perhaps some
places simply require more than a passing visit to reveal themselves. Perhaps
you need to arrive at the right moment, with the right perspective, or simply
be willing to stop and look.
On this occasion, recent events in the Middle East had made
the route north of Iran, via Turkish Airlines, the most sensible and, in our
circumstances, life-preserving way of getting from Australia to Serbia. And so,
very late on Tuesday evening, 31 March, Aiden and I said our goodbyes to Inga
and made our way through security and customs, disappearing into the vastness
of the international departures terminal.
I've been on the other side of that departure. Waving
goodbye to Aiden and Inga as they headed away for a couple of weeks in Riga.
Those goodbyes are awful. I don't think I fully appreciated, either as a parent
or a husband, just how much even a relatively short absence can weigh on you.
So I could only imagine what it must have felt like for Inga to watch her very
recently turned seven-year-old boy head out into the big, wide world without
her.
Thankfully, Aiden is a terrific traveller. Long-haul flights
seem to hold very few mysteries for him. A combination of inflight
entertainment, intermittent sleep and the occasional wander around the cabin
meant that the eighteen-hour journey to Istanbul passed surprisingly easily for
us both.
We arrived at Sabiha Gökçen International Airport (SAW),
on the Asian side of Istanbul. For the first time, Aiden and I were about to
drive from one continent to another, crossing from Asia into Europe, on our way
to the old city and our accommodation for the evening.
And this is where my somewhat embarrassing absent-mindedness
about Istanbul really began to reveal itself.
First, Sabiha Gökçen is approximately 55 kilometres from the
historic city centre, a journey that can take around ninety minutes depending
on traffic. Somehow, I'd managed to overlook just how enormous this metropolis
actually is. Second, Istanbul is home to a population approaching 16 million
people. That's some serious currency. A city spanning two continents, covering
an extraordinary geographical footprint and occupying a position in the world
that few places can rival.
Its historical, geographical and cultural significance is
undeniable. And yet, somehow, I'd never really given it the full beam of my
attention.
Our transfer from SAW was considerably more luxurious than
either Aiden or I had anticipated. As we made our way towards the 15 July
Martyrs Bridge, spanning the Bosphorus and connecting Asia with Europe, the
rain began to envelop the city. Traffic was thick across the bridge, an endless
procession of vehicles moving through the wet evening air.
Aiden had stretched himself comfortably across the leather
seats of this rather exquisite-looking van, seemingly oblivious to the
spectacle unfolding outside. I, meanwhile, found myself staring out into the
darkness, taking in the lights, the water, the enormous scale of the city and
the extraordinary privilege of being in that particular moment.
There was something quite cinematic about it all. The rain,
the traffic, the bridge, the water and the knowledge that we were moving
between continents. It was one of those moments when you almost instinctively
recognise that you're experiencing something rather special, even if you
haven't quite worked out why.
Our destination was the HAN 1772 Hotel, tucked away
in the Fatih district, within the historic heart of Istanbul.
And what a wonderful introduction to the city this turned
out to be.
Fatih is an extraordinary part of Istanbul. An area where
the city's history seems to sit almost visibly on its shoulders. Narrow
streets, layers of architecture, the movement of people, the calls to prayer
rising above the rooftops and cascading down into the valleys of the streets.
The smell of coffee, spices and freshly prepared food drifting from shopfronts.
Minarets punctuating the skyline, while ferries move across the Bosphorus,
connecting the city's many neighbourhoods and its two continental identities.
It's a place that seems to operate on several different
timelines simultaneously. Ancient and modern, chaotic and graceful, familiar
and entirely foreign.
Walking into HAN 1772 only added to the experience. The
building was magnificent. A beautiful historic Ottoman han, a
traditional merchant's inn dating back to 1772, thoughtfully restored and
repurposed as a boutique hotel. Its central courtyard opened upwards into a
wonderfully dramatic space, almost like an intimate auditorium, with exposed
stone and brickwork, architectural arches, ornate ironwork and contemporary
touches woven into the building's original character.
The restaurant and bar occupied this central space, while
the rooms were accessed via the upper levels. It was the sort of building that
makes you stop for a moment and look around. Not because it was particularly
extravagant, but because it had a story. A sense of permanence. A connection to
a time and a civilisation that existed long before either of us arrived.
It was a wonderful place to spend the night.
Feeling the inevitable effects of eighteen hours in the air,
Aiden and I managed little more than a nearby dinner on the evening of our
arrival. The cold and the onset of flight-induced exhaustion eventually won
out, and we retreated to the hotel for what would hopefully be a well-earned
night's sleep before our onward journey to Belgrade.
But Istanbul wasn't quite finished with us.
We woke at some entirely unreasonable hour, around 4am, both
still very much operating on Melbourne time. With little else to do before our
2pm flight, and a rather fortunate opportunity to experience the city during
its quieter hours, I decided to take Aiden for a walk down towards the
Bosphorus.
There was something appealing about seeing Istanbul before
it properly woke up. No crowds, no real tourist activity, just the city and its
harbour in the darkness of the early morning.
I wanted Aiden to experience the geography of the place. To
stand beside the water, look across the harbour and perhaps begin to appreciate
that this wasn't simply another city we'd passed through. This was Istanbul. A
place where continents meet, where empires have risen and fallen, where trade
routes, cultures, religions and civilisations have intersected for centuries.
Whether he fully appreciated any of that at seven years of
age is another question entirely. I'm fairly certain he didn't. But perhaps
that's not really the point.
There are experiences we give our children that they won't
necessarily understand at the time. Moments that might seem unremarkable to
them, but which somehow find their way into the deeper recesses of their
memory. A walk beside an unfamiliar harbour. The sound of a foreign language.
The smell of a city waking up. The sight of enormous ships moving through a
stretch of water that connects two continents.
Perhaps one day he'll remember it. Perhaps he won't. But I
like to think that somewhere, even if only subconsciously, something of
Istanbul will remain with him.
For me, the city was beginning to reveal something rather
different.
There is an intrigue to Istanbul that I find difficult to
articulate. It's hidden in the people, the buildings, the streets and the
spaces between them. There is a sense of history here that you don't need to
understand to appreciate. In fact, I suspect much of its appeal comes from
recognising that you'll never fully comprehend it.
There is also a curious nostalgia. A longing for something
I've never actually experienced. A familiarity with a time, a culture and a
civilisation that I've never lived through, yet somehow feel connected to. It's
difficult to explain, but it's palpable. The history seems to ooze from the
very fabric of the place, from the stonework and the architecture, from the
merchants and their shops, from the mosques and minarets, and from the rhythm
of everyday life.
And yet, Istanbul isn't a city trapped in its past. Far from
it. It is energetic, ambitious, commercially alive and unmistakably modern.
There is an extraordinary contrast between the weight of its history and the
momentum of its present. It is a city that seems entirely comfortable carrying
both.
As the morning progressed, Aiden and I wandered through the
streets of Fatih, watching the city gradually come to life. Shopkeepers lifting
their shutters, restaurant owners preparing for the day, the first patrons
finding their way into coffee shops. The occasional tourist, much like us,
wandering aimlessly and staring in wonder at the extraordinary assortment of
Turkish delights, pastries, spices and other culinary temptations on display.
There is a wonderful theatre to it all.
The streets become a stage, the buildings a backdrop, and
the people the characters in an endless production that has been running for
centuries. You don't need a ticket, a guide or even an understanding of the
language. You simply walk, observe and allow the city to unfold around you.
And perhaps that's what struck me most.
Istanbul is pure cinema.
Not in the polished, manufactured sense of a city designed
to impress, but in the way that real cinema captures atmosphere, emotion,
movement and a sense of place. Every street seems to hold a story. Every
building has a past. Every turn reveals another scene. There is a richness and
depth to the experience that is difficult to replicate elsewhere.
As our morning stroll gradually became a practical exercise
in working out how to get ourselves to the airport, I found myself wondering
whether we would ever intentionally return to spend some proper time here.
I certainly hope so.
Because Istanbul is not a city to be passed through. It is a
city to be inhabited, explored and experienced. It deserves more than a brief
stopover between Australia and Serbia. More than a night in a beautiful hotel
and a few hours wandering its streets. It deserves the time and attention that
I've somehow failed to give it on previous occasions.
Eventually, we left HAN 1772 and made our way towards the
tram, catching fleeting glimpses of Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque as we
moved out of the old city. Two extraordinary landmarks, standing almost
casually within the urban landscape, as though their presence were simply
another part of the everyday scenery.
A stop for another time, perhaps. And hopefully a much
longer one.
We continued towards Istanbul Airport, and as the city gradually disappeared behind us, those familiar strings of happy anticipation began to tighten. Belgrade was now only a short flight away, and the next chapter of our journey was waiting.
But I found myself looking back at Istanbul with a slightly
different appreciation.
It's funny how some places can sit in your consciousness for
years without ever really registering their significance. You visit, you move
on, you remember fragments, but somehow never quite connect with the magnitude
of what you've experienced.
Then, on an entirely unplanned occasion, something changes.
Perhaps it's the circumstances of the journey. Perhaps it's
the company you're keeping. Perhaps it's simply being in the right place at the
right time, with the opportunity to look at something familiar through an
entirely different lens.
Whatever it was, Istanbul had finally captured my attention.
A city of extraordinary scale, history, beauty and
contradiction. A place that belongs to two continents but seems entirely its
own. Ancient yet contemporary, chaotic yet mesmerising, familiar yet
wonderfully unknowable.
Istanbul, thank you.
You've been hiding in plain sight for far too long. I've
clearly underestimated you, and I suspect I've only just scratched the surface.
Somewhere between the rain on the Bosphorus, the quiet of
the harbour at four in the morning, the streets of Fatih and the magnificent
old walls of HAN 1772, I think we've started something.
You and I have a future story to write together.
Until next time, Istanbul. Please call us back soon.
