The morning light is already thick and hazy over the Bosphorus, and the air in my rented flat has that particular Istanbul summer weight to it. My residence permit is still in the system, somewhere between the desk where I submitted it and the card printer that will eventually spit it out. The e-ikamet portal says my application is 'under review', which is bureaucratic for 'we have your passport photo and we will get to it when we get to it'. I check my phone, see the same message, and decide that staring at the screen is not a productive use of a day in the most fascinating city on earth.
I need a plan that doesn't rely on paperwork. I grab my Istanbulkart, the same blue card that's become my ticket to everything here, and head out into the Beşiktaş morning. The streets are already busy with students and commuters, and the scent of simit from a corner cart is impossible to ignore. I buy one for about 20 lira, which is roughly sixty cents, and it's warm, sesame-crusted, and the perfect companion for a slow walk toward the ferry terminal. There is no urgency in my step today; the only appointment I have is with the city itself.
My destination is the Asian side, specifically Kadıköy. I've been there twice already, but the ferry ride is a ritual I don't think I'll ever tire of. The crossing is about twenty minutes, and the breeze on the deck cuts through the August heat in a way that feels like a small luxury. I watch the gulls keep pace with the boat, their cries competing with the low hum of the engine. Mid-crossing, a small pod of dolphins breaks the surface off the starboard bow, just for a second. I've heard this happens, but seeing it still feels like the city is showing off. The ferry costs me a single ride on my card, about 35 lira, a dollar and some change, and I calculate that this is the best value for money in all of Istanbul.
Kadıköy's Çarşısı, the market district, is a controlled chaos of produce stands, spice shops, and fishmongers. The air is a mix of sea salt, fresh basil, and the sweet, malty aroma of Turkish coffee drifting from a side alley. I'm not here to shop for groceries today, though. I'm on a mission for lunch, and my research, by which I mean my own stomach, points toward Çiya Sofrası, a place I have been recommended by three separate people now. It's a restaurant that specializes in regional Anatolian cuisine, and it's the sort of place where the menu is less a list of options and more of a tour of the country's culinary heartland.
I find a seat inside; the heat outside is starting to build, and the interior, with its tiled walls and ceiling fans, offers a welcome reprieve. The waiter brings me a small plate of meze first, a selection of little dishes that I didn't explicitly order but never seem to ask for. There's a smoky eggplant purée, a tangy haydari with herbs, and a spicy ezme that wakes up my taste buds immediately. For the main, I order a lamb dish from the southeast, slow-cooked with peppers and a hint of pomegranate molasses. The plate is rich, complex, and unlike anything I've had at home. The whole meal, including the meze and a glass of ayran, comes to about 700 lira, maybe twenty dollars. It's more than the street food I've been living on, but the quality is a clear step up, and it's still a fraction of what this would cost in New York or London.
After lunch, I'm in need of a slow, digestive walk. I make my way out of the market and toward the Moda neighborhood, following the waterfront promenade that hugs the Sea of Marmara. The path is dotted with people: couples sharing ice cream, older men chain-smoking and playing backgammon at a park table, and kids wobbling on scooters. The heat is peaking now, and the sunlight is creating shimmering mirages on the asphalt. I could easily collapse under a tree, but I have a specific destination in mind: a cafe I noticed last time I was here, tucked away from the main promenade, called The Rabbit Hole Coffee.
It's an apt name. The cafe is a former storage space, and the entrance is a narrow doorway that opens into a cavern-like interior with exposed brick and mismatched vintage furniture. There is a quiet hum of conversation and the thrum of a proper espresso machine. I order an iced latte, a small rebellion against the heat, and the barista, a young woman with a nose ring, gives me a knowing smile as she hands over the cold glass. The coffee is strong and robust, the milk creamy, and it costs about 180 lira, which is around five dollars. I find a seat by the window and just watch the street for a while. This is the part of travel that no itinerary can capture, just being present in a place, letting the rhythm of it wash over you.
Back on the ferry to the European side, the crossing feels different this time. The afternoon is softening, the sharp edges of the light beginning to blur into that golden hour glow. I'm heading toward Karaköy, but my real target is the Galata Tower. I've seen it from a dozen different angles over the past few days, from the ferry, from the hills of Balat, from the windows of my flat, but I haven't been to the top yet. It's a Genoese structure from the 14th century, long and slender, and it stands sentinel over the Golden Horn. I buy my ticket at the base and join the queue that snakes around the stone entrance.
The queue is a mix of tourists like me and local families out for a day trip. I imagine this was once just a watchtower, a place to spot incoming ships, and now it's a monument to the city's layers of history. Once inside, I take the old stone steps up. It's a workout, but the climb is broken by small windows that offer glimpses of the city through the gaps in the ancient masonry. When I finally emerge onto the viewing platform at the top, the entire city opens up below me. The view is a topographical history lesson. To the south, the Golden Horn curves toward the old city, with the Hagia Sophia and the Blue Mosque dominating the skyline of Sultanahmet. To the east, the Bosphorus stretches out like a silver ribbon, dividing the city into its European and Asian halves. And directly below, the red-tiled rooftops of Karaköy and Galata tumble down the hillside toward the water.
The tip of the tower is crowded with people taking photos, but I find a small gap in the railing and just lean against it, letting the breeze cool me down. I can see the ferries crisscrossing the Bosphorus below, leaving white wakes in the blue water. I can hear the distant sound of the call to prayer, starting in one mosque and then picked up by another, a wave of sound rolling across the hills. It's a moment that feels emblematic of the city itself, an ancient form of connection layered over the modern chaos. I stand there for a while, just breathing it in. I check my phone, and there is a new notification from the e-ikamet system. My heart does a little skip. The status has changed from 'under review' to 'processing'.
It's not approval, not yet. But it's movement. It feels like the city is telling me I'm taking the right steps. I descend the tower and land back in the streets of Karaköy, which are already beginning to fill with the evening crowd. The kebab smoke from a street-side grill mixes with the smell of roasting chestnuts. I'm not hungry, not really, but I decide to wait out the sunset. I find a spot at a small cafe terrace on the ground floor of a Bauhaus-style building and order a çay, a small glass of dark tea served with two sugar cubes. It costs about 15 lira, a tiny price for a front-row seat to the evening transition.
I watch the lights in the old city begin to flicker on as dusk settles, painting the sky in shades of orange and purple over the silhouettes of the mosques. A man nearby is selling corn-on-the-cob from a glowing cart, and the smell of butter and charred kernels drifts my way. The sound of the city changes in the evening; the sharp car horns, the bus exhaust, the frantic pace of the day all soften into a different kind of churn, one of social life, of people strolling, of long dinners and shared plates. This is the Istanbul that I was told about, and it's finally starting to feel real to me. Tomorrow I'll chase the residence permit again, but tonight I'm thrilled to be a part of the background hum.
As the last light fades and the minarets become silhouetted against the starry sky, I finish my çay and feel the calm of a day well spent. I'm exhausted, but it's the good exhaustion of walking, of seeing, of being present. The permit is still processing, but I'm learning that in Istanbul, the waiting is the whole point. You don't just live here; you wait for your tea, you wait for your ferry, you wait for the paperwork to move. And in the spaces between the waiting, you drink the tea, you ride the ferry, you climb the tower. The signal is still just a status update on a screen. But the city below me is a constant, brilliant, overwhelming reward. For now, that's enough. It has to be.
Tomorrow is another day of forms and offices, but tonight Istanbul belongs to the night. I'll walk back to my flat along the Bosphorus, just to hear the water for a few more minutes, and let the city show me what it has to say next. İyi geceler, Istanbul.