When in Istanbul, try to catch a whirling dervish performance. Carpets sold at the Grand Bazaar. — Photos: ABBI KANTHASAMY
I was just passing through. A stopover, a layover, a moment in transit while on my way to Italy for work. But Turkiye’s Istanbul doesn’t allow you to simply pass through. It grabs you by the collar, pulls you into its arms, and whispers a thousand stories into your ear.
I only had a few days there, but Istanbul doesn’t need long to sink its teeth into you. This is a city that seduces, overwhelms, and lingers in the marrow of your bones long after you’ve gone.
The city hums like a great living beast, breathing through its markets, whispering through the marble corridors of its mosques, and roaring with the voices of its people.
It is not a place you visit – it’s a place you inhale. The scent of grilled meat and briny air settles deep into your soul. You taste it in every sip of tea, in every morsel of warm, butter-dripped simit. You hear it in the muezzin’s call that rolls across the Bosphorus like a song carried by the wind.
I carried two Leica cameras with me – one that saw the world in vivid colour, the other, my Monochrome, stripping it down to its rawest form, capturing light and shadow in a way that felt almost spiritual.
A trader at the Grand Bazaar.
Istanbul doesn’t need filters. It is already perfect in both contrast and chaos. Perhaps that’s why Ara Güler, one of Turkiye’s most legendary photographers, spent his life documenting it. His images told the city’s story as it truly was – gritty yet poetic, steeped in history yet alive with movement.
He shot the everyday man: fishermen, porters, market vendors, old men drinking tea on wooden stools, their wrinkles telling stories of entire lifetimes. His Istanbul was not just one of grand palaces and minarets but of backstreets, of hands kneading dough, of carts piled high with figs and pomegranates.
I wanted to see that Istanbul – the one he saw through his Leica.
Carpets and rugs sold at the Grand Bazaar.
You don’t go looking for Istanbul, it finds you. It finds you in the winding alleys of Eminonu, where old men sit at low wooden tables sipping tea from tulip-shaped glasses, playing backgammon with the kind of easy rhythm that comes from doing the same thing for 50 years.
It finds you in the smoke curling from the chestnut vendor’s cart, in the gleaming stacks of baklava dripping with honey, in the fisherman leaning against the Galata Bridge railing, his line cast into the dark, infinite water.
Then there’s the Grand Bazaar, a place that doesn’t just feel old – it is old. You step through its arched entrance, and suddenly, time folds in on itself. The modern world disappears, and you are transported to another era. An era of silk-robed traders, of camel caravans arriving from Persia and Arabia, of Venetian merchants bargaining over bolts of shimmering fabric.
Make sure you check out the markets when in Istanbul.
The vaulted ceilings arch like the ribs of a great beast, sheltering a labyrinth of over 4,000 shops. The smell of leather, saffron, and antique wood hangs thick in the air. Brass lamps glimmer in golden pools of light. Spices sit in pyramids so perfect they look sculpted.
You can hear the faint hammering of a jeweller at work, the clinking of silverware being stacked, the murmur of haggling that has echoed through these halls for centuries. It is a living relic, untouched by time, still beating with the pulse of the Ottoman Empire.
Markets here aren’t just about buying and selling. They are theatre. They are stories unfolding in real-time.
In Karakoy, I wandered into a market where vendors shouted over each other, hawking fresh produce, olives in a hundred different shades of green, cheese so pungent it could wake the dead. A butcher, his apron stained, held up a glistening cut of lamb and nodded toward me with a grin.
At a street stall, I watched as a man meticulously prepared midye dolma-stuffed mussels filled with spiced rice. He cracked one open with practised ease and handed it to me.
“Lemon?” he asked. I nodded. A quick squeeze, and I popped it into my mouth. The briny mussel, the warm, fragrant rice, the citrus bite – it was perfect.
Street food in Istanbul, like this kokorec, is amazing.
Further down the street, I found a vendor selling kokorec, or lamb intestines slow-grilled over charcoal, chopped up with tomatoes, herbs, and spices, then stuffed into warm bread. The smell alone was intoxicating. I ordered one, watching as the vendor’s knife moved with surgical precision, slicing the meat into a fragrant, sizzling pile.
One bite, and I understood. This was Istanbul on a plate – bold, unapologetic, steeped in tradition.
Later that evening, I found myself at a rooftop meyhane overlooking the Golden Horn. The table was covered in small plates – meze of all kinds. Smoked eggplant with yogurt, grilled octopus drizzled in olive oil, slivers of white cheese, and a bowl of thick hummus. The waiter brought over a bottle of raki, the anise-flavoured spirit that turns milky white when mixed with water. I poured a glass, took a sip, and let the warmth spread through me.
Below, the city pulsed with life. The call to prayer rang out again, mingling with the laughter from a nearby table, the clinking of glasses, the scent of grilled fish carried up from the docks.
And then there’s the faith. The way it drapes itself over the city like a silk veil, neither imposing nor meek, but ever-present. The Blue Mosque stands with its minarets piercing the sky, its interior a masterpiece of cascading domes, intricate tilework, and the warm glow of chandeliers that once held candles, now electric but still golden with the light of prayer.
I stepped inside, barefoot, feeling the hush of devotion settle around me. A man knelt, forehead pressed to the soft carpet, lips moving in silent recitation. It is a beautiful thing, to believe, to surrender.
There are those moments that break you, too. An old woman sitting on the steps of a mosque, her hands folded in her lap, eyes filled with stories she will never tell. A shoe-shiner polishing a stranger’s loafers with the same care a sculptor gives to marble. A waiter in a tea house who places a glass in front of me with the reverence of an offering, his fingers curled around the small cup as if it were something holy.
Istanbul has seen empires rise and fall. Byzantines, Ottomans, merchants and warriors, poets and conquerors. The streets are layered with history, and yet, Istanbul is still alive. It still moves. It does not stand still.
I had only stopped here in transit, but Istanbul is not a place you simply pass through. It is a city that demands you return.
And I will.
The views expressed here are entirely the writer’s own.
Abbi Kanthasamy blends his expertise as an entrepreneur with his passion for photography and travel. For more of his work, visit www.abbiphotography.com.
