The late afternoon sun flickers off the waves as we cruise down the Bosphorus Strait, the boat gently bobbing up and down on the water. I sit on a plush booth seat near the stern, occasionally glancing up at the bright red Turkish flag hanging above me, its crescent moon whipping in the wind. With each rise and fall of the boat, I take care to protect the delicate, tulip-shaped teacup in my hands from spilling. It’s a strong black tea, rich and aromatic, and I breathe it in as I stir in a bit of sugar.

As the hull cuts through the water, I glance to my left and watch as the domes and the minarets of mosques gently pass by, like an old Hollywood film reel. To my right, the glittering Dolmabahçe Palace towers over the banks of the Bosphorus, its ornate rococo gates jetting into the dimming sunset. 

It’s not lost on me—the beauty and frailty of this moment, the magnificent collision of two worlds, of east meeting west, tradition meeting modernity, Europe meeting Asia. These past four days have sent me on a search to place it, like trying to find the smallest of dots on a map where there are glimmers of familiarity amidst fresh newness. Istanbul is unlike any other city I’ve ever experienced, and by the end of my journey, I stopped trying to categorize it or box it in, and accept the fact that it contains multitudes—it is a complicated creature, full of contradictions, which only adds to its richness, its vibrancy, its life.

***

At the south end of the Galata Bridge, we make our way into the tunnel-like passages of the spice bazaar, Misir Carsisi. Under its curved ceiling stretches stall after stall of every color imaginable to the eye. Mountains of earthy, terracotta-tinged sumac, golden turmeric, and deep olive za’atar balance in delicate peaks amongst the bustle of shoppers. The endless variety of color is only matched by an equally unending array of texture—the intricately woven threads of Turkish rugs, the glittering smoothness of cerulean and turquoise mosaic lamps, and the cracked, dry leaves of rosebud, apple, and cardamom teas. 

“Teşekkür ederim,” I smile and say as I accept the cup of hibiscus tea from a shopkeeper, a gray-haired man whose kind eyes brighten as he graciously accepts my attempt at Turkish. He never stops moving, darting around the shop, scooping roasted pistachios into a bag with one swift action before moving to the other side to point out the varieties of Turkish delight, ruby red gems studded with pomegranate. At one point he disappears through a trap door in the floor before popping back up to eye level with more containers of teas, nuts, and spices. This was my observation in the bazaar as a whole—never slowing, never stopping, an immeasurable carousel of the senses which captivated one glance after the next.

***

The bazaar became a microcosm of the city, an “inexhaustible variety of life,” from the dizzying seagulls circling minarets over Sultanahmet to the sloping hills of Beyoglu, Istanbul stretches out like a banquet table prepared for a feast. It came as no surprise that our meals offered the same measure of grandeur. Conversation and laughter were shared over meze, silver dishes of strained yogurt with herbs, hummus, hot pepper paste, rice-stuffed dolma, olives, calamari, and cheeses. For our main course, ali nazik—a spiced lamb dish served on a bed of smoked eggplant purée. Sticky honey baklava dusted in pistachio finished our meals with crunchy sweetness.

Istanbul’s offerings of tastes, textures, and smells were equally harmonized with its sounds—the melodious chanting of the adhan, the call to prayer that bellows down streets, filling every corner and alley, reaching over the minarets with precision in its resounding notes. As men kneel on prayer rugs, the dizzying array of life continues to pass by in conversations of Turkish, Greek, Arabic, and languages unknown to me. 

***

These sensory experiences are swallowed one after the other like gulps of water and are only palatable through breaths in between, moments of pause to inhale before digesting the next. Such it was when I slipped off my shoes in front of the grand doors of the Suleymaniye Mosque, slipping them into a handled bag, pulling my linen scarf over my head, and taking a breath before entering the 16th-century grandeur of its gilded central dome.

And such it was on my last night in Istanbul, winding through the narrow streets around Istiklal, stopping every few seconds to notice—the trays of pomegranate and orange, the scent of sesame simik and grilled corn, the cat pawing at the shop window, stories unraveling in a magnificent display of life under the night sky.