I had fallen out of love for Istanbul the past few years. It had become synonymous with staying at my parents’ disordered house, witnessing the tensions, feeling too guilty to leave them in the already scarce time we had together, and too inconvenienced to bear the traffic to repeat experiences that I’d loved while living there. Listening to unsolicited opinions, feeling judgment, and accommodating schedules.

There was little space to breathe, think, or experience. I was there for one job only: make the parents happy, extract pleasure out of seeing them in our limited time. There was no time or space to enjoy Istanbul. And the city’s socioeconomic fabric was changing, as well. The city I grew up in and loved eroded each passing year.

But this year, for the first time, I came to Istanbul for work. For one entire week, I got to experience it by myself. I got to walk through the cobblestone streets, discover coffee shops, organize my time in the way I liked, and think by myself. And experiencing it like this, I was once again blinded by its wise, soulful, funky, hardened, old-world beauty.

I stayed very close to the area I went to high school: Taksim’s Istiklal Street, a main shopping, nightlife, and cultural district with countless hidden gems scattered across its winding, cobblestoned side streets.

I’d hated Istiklal the last time I visited in early October 2022. It was an overly hot, crowded day, bursting with shopping, smelling, consuming tourists who I felt were trampling on something precious to me that was lost.

This time though, it was cold and November. My preferred weather that stripped the city away from the overwhelming crowds.

I walked this street so many times in gray, rainy weather, fueled by Kafka’s prose or Holderlin’s poetry. I sat contentedly in the cafes dotting the side streets, drinking a cup of tea or coffee, blowing cigarette smoke, deep in thought about the latest novel I was reading, or simply an idea or feeling I’d picked up in a Camus book.

In those streets, I got to experience what it’s like to be young and inexperienced with life that seems so full of possibility.

To have the luxury of cynicism and delight in open questions about the direction you want to go in life.

To have the luxury to think and feel without being bogged down with practical matters.

I walked along Istiklal, seeing that much of what I’d liked remained still if you knew where to look.

I discovered (or re-discovered) the Turkish-German coffeeshop, where I’d had coffee with my dad prior to starting high school. It wasn’t the same place, or the same location, nor the same me. But it was the same concept, something of its old warmth and charm remained.

I discovered the backstreets, cobblestone alleys, the art galleries and coffeeshops and knicknack stores of Cihangir. I walked by shops selling organic delicacies from different regions of Turkey. I peeked at the Bosphorus emerging steely gray in a flash between buildings, underneath a shimmering, equally steely sky tinged with orange and pink.

The seagulls fly through Cihangir in the mornings. They are loud and fat and unafraid.

Early mornings, the first to emerge in the city are the cats. Then come the street cleaners, sweeping away with their brooms. Then you start to see the people. The young, frustrated, burnt out professionals coming out for another day of public transport and exhaustion. Some are more careless and joyful, their spirits yet unconquered or unburdened by serious thought.

You see the old men, silently and stoically walking uphill the cobblestone streets. They’re dressed in jackets yet still look shabby. The pants are gray, the jackets are black that have turned some shade of dark gray and worn countless times before. The black shoes are scuffy with dust.

Some sit in groups, chattering and opining and smoking. Some walk by themselves, face etched by a life that endured many hardships without much thought.

The distinct smell of chestnuts roasting in street carts fills the air. There are bookshops, bustling coffee shops, so many stores and merchandise to be sold. Prices are high, but to those who can afford it, Istanbul offers some of the most amazing views and tastes of the world.

For me, most of the best experiences are suburban and cheap. Watching the sun go up amidst the winding streets. Drinking coffee and watching the Bosphorus. Watching the boats drifting lazily at the Tarabya Marina, where I grew up. Listening to the seagulls. Walking by the Bosphorus without a direction or deadline, with space to think.

Beneath the tourist traps, traffic, and high prices, I felt the city’s old soul vibrant and alive, embracing me once more like an old friend that I’d lost touch with. A small part of it still belonged to me, and a part of me still belonged there.