A two-day journey from Bulgaria to Istanbul became far more than a quick city break. From the Bosphorus and Hagia Sophia to the Basilica Cistern and the streets of Sultanahmet, this was a story about a city suspended between Europe and Asia, history and modernity, movement and stillness.

Travelling to Istanbul | Reise nach Istanbul | Voyage à Istanbul | Podróż do Stambułu | Viaje a Estambul | 前往伊斯坦布尔之旅 | イスタンブールへの旅 | 이스탄불로의 여행

Istanbul had been on my list for a very long time. So, in late September and early October, I found myself in… Bulgaria’s Golden Sands. What interested me most was nearby Nesebar and a short two-day trip to Istanbul. Technically, I could have organised everything independently and flown directly to Turkey, but in practice that is not always the best solution. In places like this, group entry systems often work far more smoothly, queues can be shorter, and the overall logistics become much easier to manage. At the time, I was also unsure how well the various skip-the-line systems in Istanbul actually functioned, so I decided not to experiment this time. Instead, I accepted an invitation from a friend who runs a small boutique travel company and organises trips with a completely different atmosphere from the typical large-scale tour operators.

We flew to Bulgaria from Gdańsk on the final seasonal flight to Burgas. The travel day itself turned out to be rather exhausting. Polish airports are generally quite decent in terms of service quality, but the organisation and management of passenger flow can still be surprisingly chaotic at times. After the standard check-in and security procedures, we ended up stuck for quite a while inside the jet bridge leading to the aircraft, unable either to turn back or move forward. Later, we spent another long stretch of time sitting inside a parked plane before departure. The flight itself lasted around two and a half hours. Baggage collection in Burgas was smooth, and the transfer to Golden Sands took roughly half an hour. Even so, the entire day disappeared into the mechanics of travel, despite the fact that I had already arrived in Gdańsk the day before and spent the night in a hotel directly beside the airport. Around two thousand kilometres, an almost direct flight, and what looked on paper like a very straightforward route — yet we only reached the hotel later in the evening.

The following day, it rained. The hotel pool looked inviting enough, but the chilly morning air was more than enough to discourage any thoughts of swimming. In the afternoon, we drove to nearby Nesebar. At first, there was only a light drizzle, but later the weather improved noticeably. Conditions for walking through the historic old town turned out to be surprisingly pleasant. Thanks to our Bulgarian guide, I was also able to organise and expand what had previously been only a fairly basic understanding of Bulgarian history. As usual, I took an absurd number of photographs — the kind I already knew I would eventually return to in separate posts of their own.

The next day brought even worse weather. The sea had turned grey, the sky felt heavy, and the hotel pool remained more of a decorative feature than a realistic place to relax. Looking back, though, it was probably the perfect moment to recover a little before leaving for Istanbul. The hotel itself functioned according to its own rhythm. Most guests were British, there were plenty of Poles as well, along with Scandinavians, Bulgarians, and the occasional Russian tourist. In the evenings, the atmosphere became extremely loud. The British partied enthusiastically, alcohol flowed constantly, yet after eleven everything quietened down in accordance with the hotel rules. The entire place felt like a temporary microcosm of people gathered from different parts of Europe, existing together for just a few days beside the Black Sea. The one thing that proved genuinely disappointing was the food. The kitchen staff and waiters were from India and seemed to have very little familiarity with Bulgarian cuisine. The meals were perfectly edible, but they lacked any real depth of flavour or distinctive character.

We left for Istanbul at five in the morning. The hour was dreadful, but it allowed us to avoid at least part of the traffic on the approach to the city. According to Google Maps, the journey was supposed to take around five hours. In reality, the coach ride lasted closer to seven. Yet somewhere along that road it became clear that choosing the overland route had been one of the best decisions of the entire trip.

The Bulgarian–Turkish border left me with a rather peculiar impression. For one of the gateways into the European Union, the infrastructure felt surprisingly archaic and not especially welcoming. We had to leave the coach twice – once when exiting Bulgaria and again when entering Turkey. Everything had already been digitised, yet the procedures still required physical passenger checks. For someone who still remembers travelling across Europe before Schengen – and even during the years when Poland was still part of the Eastern Bloc – it was not particularly shocking. Only later, after noticing the sheer number of police controls on both sides of the border, did I fully understand why this section is monitored so closely. The area around the crossing remains one of the main routes for illegal migration and smuggling into the European Union.

The journey to Istanbul itself turned out to be fascinating. The reason was simple: we had to cross the entire city by road. Had we flown directly into the airport, we would have seen only a fragment of it. Instead, the coach carried us through district after district stretching between the Black Sea, the Sea of Marmara, and the Bosphorus. Only then do you truly realise the sheer scale of Istanbul. The city seems almost endless. Buildings spill across hills, valleys, and coastlines, forming a vast urban organism where older neighbourhoods, modern apartment blocks, skyscrapers, and historic mosques exist side by side with barely any visible boundaries between them.

What caught my attention most were the long boulevards running alongside Kennedy Avenue. Parallel to the main road tracing the shores of the Sea of Marmara stretched a vast waterfront park filled with trees, lawns, and countless places to stop and rest. The entire area looked remarkably well maintained and carefully designed. There was a visible irrigation system, walking paths, parking areas, and plenty of space where people could simply sit beside the water. What was especially striking was how much more user-friendly it felt compared with many contemporary European cities, where riversides and seafronts are increasingly separated from everyday urban life and cut off from car access altogether. Here, people could simply drive down, park, and walk to the waterfront.

At the same time, the shoreline itself does not resemble a typical seaside resort. There are no broad urban beaches here. Much of the coast is rocky, steep, or heavily built up, and the city seems to exist beside the sea rather than directly on it. Yet the sea is what gives Istanbul room to breathe. In the densely built neighbourhoods especially, it must bring a sense of relief during the hottest days of summer.

As we approached the historic heart of the city, we arrived at a vast coach parking area beside the Sea of Marmara. There, we encountered a rather unusual procedure which, as it later turned out, is completely standard in Istanbul. Our Bulgarian coach ended its route at that exact point. From there, we were to continue with a Turkish coach, a local driver, and a Turkish guide. As we were later told, this is part of the city’s approach to managing tourist traffic. Foreign coaches very often do not continue deeper into the centre, particularly into the most congested parts of the metropolis.

Only while standing in that enormous parking area, surrounded by buses from countless different countries, did I begin to understand the sheer scale of tourism Istanbul handles every single day. The air already carried the dampness drifting in from the Sea of Marmara, and at the same time there was a growing sense that, despite the many hours spent travelling, the real encounter with the city was only just beginning. From that moment onward, the pace of the journey, the style of driving, and the atmosphere itself changed noticeably. Our Turkish driver moved through the increasingly dense traffic with remarkable ease. The chaos of Istanbul’s streets seemed completely natural to him.

After driving along the entire European side of the city, we crossed the Bosphorus Bridge into the Asian part of Istanbul, where we stopped briefly at a restaurant with a panoramic viewpoint. From the terrace, there was a sweeping view across European Istanbul, although a light haze hanging above the water made photography difficult. It was something I would notice many more times later on, and it gave the city a certain softness that is surprisingly difficult to capture in photographs. It was also the first moment when I truly realised that Istanbul is not a city built around a single skyline or one clear urban axis. It changes constantly – with every hill, every bend in the road, and every stretch of coastline.

Along the way, we made another stop in one of the commercial districts connected with Turkey’s clothing industry. The shop itself was very elegant, located in an exceptionally well-maintained part of the city, but what interested me more than the shopping was the surrounding area. Yet another park, more carefully designed public spaces, and more glimpses of the sea appearing between the buildings. In many places, Istanbul felt far greener than one might expect from photographs of the historic centre alone.

Later, we drove alongside the ancient walls of Constantinople. These monumental fortifications, dating from the fourth and fifth centuries, protected the city from invasions for hundreds of years and remain one of the most extraordinary elements of Istanbul’s landscape even today. What is especially striking is that small vegetable gardens cultivated by local residents still exist directly beside the walls. It is one of those rare places where history has never been completely separated from the everyday life of the city.

We reached Hagia Sophia in the late afternoon, just as the light over Sultanahmet – Istanbul’s historic district, located on the site of ancient Constantinople – was beginning to soften. And that was when something happened that later seemed almost unbelievable. There was practically no queue at the entrance. The following day, when we passed through the same square at around two in the afternoon, the line of people waiting stretched across a large part of the plaza and probably meant several hours of standing. Perhaps it had something to do with the approaching Friday, which holds particular religious significance in the Muslim world.

Hagia Sophia itself left me with deeply mixed emotions. On one hand, it is impossible not to feel the weight of the history carried by a place that for nearly fifteen centuries remained one of the defining symbols of Constantinople, later Istanbul, Byzantium, and the Ottoman Empire. On the other hand, the building’s current role as an active mosque completely changes the way it is experienced today. Visitors are now restricted to the upper gallery, while the lower level remains reserved for worshippers. In practice, this means that you observe the interior from a certain distance, almost like watching it from a theatrical balcony suspended above the immense space of the former basilica.

Attention was drawn to appropriate clothing. Women are expected to keep their hair covered, although in practice the rules are not nearly as strict as many European tourists tend to imagine. A simple scarf or shawl is perfectly sufficient, but equally it can just be the hood of a sweatshirt or jacket. At one point, my hood slipped back while I was taking photographs, and one of the staff members politely reminded me to cover my head again. There was nothing unpleasant or severe about it – more a calm, almost friendly reminder of the rules that applied inside the mosque.

We happened to arrive during a time of prayer, and that turned out to be one of the most interesting parts of the entire visit for me. As a child, I lived for some time in a Muslim country, but I had never before observed prayer inside a mosque from such close proximity. From the gallery above, it was possible to watch both the interior of the building and the ritual unfolding below among the worshippers. And perhaps it was precisely then that I truly understood that Hagia Sophia is no longer simply a monument or a museum, but first and foremost a living religious space into which tourists are merely being allowed entry.

The interior itself, however, left me with rather ambivalent feelings. The monumental scale of the building is undeniably impressive, yet at the same time many parts of it now feel austere, partially empty, and stripped of their former decorative richness. In some ways, this is connected to the traditions of Islam itself, which do not permit figurative religious imagery within the space of a mosque. Many of the earlier mosaics and representations were either covered or removed, and parts of the interior today feel far more ascetic than one might expect from one of the world’s most famous buildings. Paradoxically, though, it is precisely this combination of immense space, semi-darkness, and historical weight that creates Hagia Sophia’s extraordinary atmosphere. At the same time, it is difficult to know how much of the original Byzantine heritage was destroyed during the Fourth Crusade, and how much disappeared later following the conversion of the building into a mosque.

After leaving Hagia Sophia, we crossed the square towards the Blue Mosque. Despite the very short distance between them, the experience of the two buildings felt completely different. Hagia Sophia carries a sense of weight, layered history, and ambiguity, whereas the Blue Mosque immediately feels more harmonious, balanced, and ordered.

The same rules regarding appropriate clothing applied here as well. Women were expected to cover their hair – once again, a simple scarf, shawl, or even a hood was sufficient – although a dedicated station had also been prepared at the entrance where visitors could easily borrow head coverings if needed. Unlike Hagia Sophia, the entire floor here was covered with soft carpets, so shoes had to be removed before entering. Special shelves and storage areas had even been prepared specifically for tourists. After my experiences in Japan, however, I already had my own shoe bag with me.

Inside, the mosque had been divided by a wooden balustrade into two sections. The larger area remained reserved for worshippers, while the smaller section was open to visitors. There was no formal collective prayer taking place at that moment, but some people were praying individually, which gave the entire space a very calm atmosphere. Unlike Hagia Sophia, the interior here felt far more unified – less suspended between its role as a historic monument and its function as a living religious space.

Later, as we sat for a while in the square between the two buildings, I began to feel the unique character of Sultanahmet more and more strongly. This is not simply a collection of monuments. It is a space where nearly two thousand years of the city’s history overlap – from the Constantinople of the Byzantine emperors, through Ottoman Istanbul, to the modern metropolis filled with visitors from all over the world. And in the end, it was precisely this coexistence of different eras, religions, and layers of urban life that became the most fascinating part of the entire experience for me.

Evening was slowly beginning to fall, and the light over Sultanahmet was turning softer and more golden. We wandered for a while among the ancient obelisks standing on the grounds of the former Hippodrome. The Obelisk of Theodosius, the Serpent Column, and the Obelisk of Constantine seemed almost strangely lost amid the crowds of tourists and the modern city surrounding them. And yet, for centuries, this had been the political and ceremonial centre of Constantinople itself.

We were completely exhausted by then. Even so, the day was still not over. Another drive across Istanbul awaited us — this time towards a hotel located in the newer part of the European side of the city. The historic centre, with its monumental mosques, gradually gave way to more ordinary residential districts, dense apartment blocks, countless small shops, and seemingly endless traffic.

Our Turkish driver navigated these streets with remarkable ease. We moved into increasingly narrow roads, passing tightly parked cars, tiny local shops, and more restaurants still full of people sitting outside despite the late hour. For someone unaccustomed to this kind of traffic, the whole thing felt almost chaotic, yet at the same time everything functioned with a strangely fluid rhythm. What especially caught my attention were the textile and clothing shops. Many of the displays featured clothes completely different from what one normally sees in Western Europe. There were intense colours, richly patterned fabrics, embroidery, and far more decorative styles. Some streets felt almost like enormous open-air shopping galleries stretching across entire neighbourhoods.

The hotel itself was located in a district filled with steep streets and tightly packed buildings. When our driver began manoeuvring the large coach between rows of parked cars, some people watched with obvious disbelief. He, however, appeared completely calm. In a way, it was precisely then that I realised moving through Istanbul requires an entirely different sense of space, movement, and traffic than in most European cities.

In the evening, a traditional Turkish dinner was still waiting for us. After such an intense day of sightseeing, it was difficult to absorb much more information, but the atmosphere of the restaurant – and of the city itself – remained unforgettable. The air was filled with the smell of grilled meat, spices, and tea. Conversations blended with the sounds of the street drifting in from outside. There was a constant feeling that Istanbul never truly falls silent.

The night passed surprisingly quickly. The following morning, we went downstairs for breakfast, and it was then that I was reminded once again how much food can become part of the experience of travelling itself. The hotel buffet turned out to be surprisingly good for a place catering mainly to organised tour groups. I actually have quite a broad comparison here, since I also travel frequently for work and stay in many business hotels, where breakfasts are often far more elaborate than in tourist-oriented ones. Here, however, the selection was genuinely impressive and thoughtfully prepared. Alongside the standard European breakfast options, there was a huge variety of local Turkish dishes, side plates, and small snacks. There were different cheeses, olives, fresh vegetables, bread, hot dishes, but also an enormous range of sweets characteristic of Turkish cuisine. Not to mention the excellent coffee – though, after all, we were in Turkey, so anything less would have been disappointing.

What I remember most vividly, however, were the Turkish desserts and the many different varieties of halva. In everyday life, I barely eat sweets at all, so during hotel breakfasts I usually do not even pay much attention to that part of the buffet. Here, though, I simply could not resist. Everything looked incredibly fresh and inviting, and the halva itself had a completely different texture and flavour from the versions most commonly found in Europe. After the intensity of the previous day, that quieter breakfast became one of those small moments of rest that later stay in your memory just as clearly as the monuments and panoramas of the city itself.

After breakfast, we headed towards the Bosphorus. The plan was to take a one-hour cruise along the strait. Even the drive to the pier became another opportunity to observe the city slowly waking up. What especially caught my attention was the way pavements and shop floors were cleaned – people simply poured streams of water over them. Traffic on the streets was growing steadily heavier, and the pavements were gradually filling with people. Between the buildings, fragments of aquamarine water kept appearing, shimmering in the morning light. It was only then that I truly began to understand how deeply Istanbul exists in relationship with the Bosphorus and the Sea of Marmara. Here, water is not merely an addition to the city – it actively shapes the structure and rhythm of urban life itself.

The cruise along the Bosphorus lasted around an hour and a half and turned out to be one of the most memorable parts of the entire stay. Istanbul seen from the water looks completely different from Istanbul experienced at street level. From land, you see individual districts, buildings, and squares, but from the Bosphorus you begin to grasp the immense scale of the metropolis spreading across the hills on both sides of the strait. It is only from there that one truly understands why Istanbul remained one of the world’s most important cities for so many centuries.

The morning was fairly bright, yet a light haze hovered above the water, softening the outlines of the city from time to time. The domes of the mosques and the silhouettes of the minarets occasionally seemed almost to dissolve into the air. It was precisely this combination of moisture, pale light, and blurred distance that created the atmosphere I had previously struggled to capture in photographs from the city’s viewpoints.

The boat sailed relatively close to the shoreline, which made it possible to observe the waterfront architecture in remarkable detail. Particularly striking were the Ottoman palaces built almost directly at the water’s edge. Their façades reflected in the Bosphorus, while behind them further layers of the city rose across the hillsides. In many places, the buildings looked as though they were growing directly out of the steep slopes descending towards the strait. Between the historic structures appeared modern apartment blocks, villas hidden among greenery, and yet more mosques. The entire city seemed to unfold in layers – water, palaces, hills, towers, and dense urban neighbourhoods blending into one enormous landscape.

What fascinated me most was the Asian side of the city. We had already seen it from a distance the previous day, but only from the water could one notice the finer details – modern residences standing directly above the Bosphorus, small private piers, terraces, and gardens descending almost to the shoreline itself. Some of the houses even had small swimming pools hidden among trees and stone walls. At times, the entire scene felt more like a Mediterranean coastline than a vast metropolis of more than fifteen million inhabitants.

Interestingly, we did not see any commercial ships actually moving through the Bosphorus itself. Earlier that morning, however, we had noticed vessels waiting on the Sea of Marmara for permission to enter the strait. Our guide explained that commercial traffic through the Bosphorus operates on a one-way system. During certain hours, ships travel in one direction only, and later the flow reverses for traffic moving the other way. Only then did I fully realise how strategically and logistically complex this narrow stretch of water really is.

It was also fascinating to observe everyday life along the Bosphorus. In the parks and along the promenades, there were joggers, people out for walks, and others drinking morning tea in small cafés. In many places, residents were simply sitting beside the water. Unlike many European seaside cities, Istanbul does not feel entirely shaped around tourism. Even in the most representative waterfront districts, there is still a strong sense that this is, above all, a normally functioning city where everyday life continues alongside everything else.

There was a fairly typical tourist atmosphere on board. Some people were taking photographs almost constantly, while others simply sat on deck watching the views drift by. The only thing one had to be careful about were the prices at the onboard bar, which turned out to be surprisingly high even by European standards. A small glass of juice or a beer cost around ten euros, which felt rather peculiar when compared with local prices elsewhere in the city. It was one of those small reminders that tourist spaces in global cities often function according to completely different economic rules.

After leaving the boat, we walked to the nearby Egyptian Bazaar, also known as the Spice Bazaar. Even from a distance, the area felt far more chaotic than the orderly spaces along the Bosphorus. Traffic was becoming denser, the pavements increasingly crowded, and between the rows of shops and market stalls moved streams of people heading in every possible direction. The bazaar itself occupies a historic building with a distinctive L-shaped layout, but in reality it long ago expanded far beyond its original boundaries. Trade spilled out into the surrounding streets, creating an enormous network of shops, stalls, and tiny points of sale. In many places, it became almost impossible to distinguish the actual bazaar from the surrounding commercial fabric of the city itself.

We had a tasting session planned there, but I rather quickly drifted away from the group so I could photograph the surroundings properly and simply observe the atmosphere on my own. Visually, the place was undeniably impressive. The piles of spices were arranged almost like theatrical decorations – perfectly shaped mounds of reds, greens, yellows, and browns looked more like art installations than ordinary food products. The same was true of the Turkish sweets, dried fruits, and teas displayed in enormous quantities.

At the same time, I found myself feeling rather ambivalent about the bazaar itself. The historic atmosphere was certainly still present, but in many places the entire experience felt heavily oriented towards tourists. Even after negotiation, the prices did not turn out to be especially attractive, and the trading itself sometimes felt more staged than spontaneous. Perhaps subconsciously I had expected something rougher and more authentic – a place filled with dense spice aromas, noise, and the genuine chaos of an old marketplace.

Interestingly, what I missed there most were the smells. Paradoxically, despite the enormous quantities of spices, the aromas were nowhere near as intense as I had expected them to be. What stayed with me far more strongly was the visual side of the bazaar itself. At one point, I watched one of the vendors carefully shifting spices with a small scoop, smoothing their surface so the display would look absolutely perfect. That tiny gesture probably told me more about the modern Spice Bazaar than any guidebook could have done. To a large extent, it has become a place devoted to creating atmosphere and imagery – a space that is almost as much observed as it is genuinely experienced.

After about an hour, we returned once again to the area around Sultanahmet. Our next destination was Topkapi Palace, the former main residence of the Ottoman sultans. Even the approach to the palace complex itself was impressive. Near Hagia Sophia, the tourist crowds were even larger than on the previous day, and the queue to enter the mosque stretched across a significant part of the square. At some moments, it was genuinely difficult to believe that only a day earlier we had walked inside almost without waiting at all.

Topkapi Palace had been on my list of places to see for a very long time, so at first I listened with genuine interest as our guide spoke about the functioning of the Ottoman court, the lives of the sultans, and the organisation of the empire itself. The problem was that for quite a long time we remained standing in one of the courtyards before the actual entrance to the palace complex. The surroundings were certainly well maintained and full of greenery, but after two already very intense days, the fatigue was becoming increasingly noticeable. I could see the walls and gates leading into one of the world’s most famous palaces, I was listening to stories about harems, ceremony, and imperial administration, and yet at the same time I had the strange feeling that the real visit had still not properly begun. For a moment, I was even slightly disappointed and found myself wondering why we were standing there for so long instead of actually entering the palace.

Only later did it become clear that this apparent delay had a very practical reason. Our entry to the next site had been booked for a specific time slot. Topkapi itself was not included in the programme at all, because properly exploring the palace requires several hours on its own.

We walked down the street running alongside Hagia Sophia towards the Basilica Cistern. And it was here that the advantages of local organisation and having a Turkish guide became obvious once again. Queues had already begun forming outside the entrance, yet we were able to walk in almost immediately, exactly at our allocated time slot. At that moment, I realised just how difficult visiting Istanbul’s major landmarks independently can become during the busiest hours of the day. Basilica Cistern has long existed in popular culture mainly because of Inferno, the film adaptation of Dan Brown’s novel. Many people therefore imagine it as a mysterious underground chamber hidden directly beneath Hagia Sophia. In reality, however, the cistern is not located underneath the mosque at all, but beside it, just a few minutes’ walk from Sultanahmet Square. Even so, the film captured the atmosphere of the place remarkably well – damp, dark, and almost unreal. It feels less like part of a modern city and more like entering a submerged fragment of another world hidden beneath Istanbul.

As soon as we descended the stairs, the temperature and the sounds of the city changed completely. The noise of Istanbul almost vanished, replaced by the echo of footsteps, the quiet sound of water, and muffled conversations bouncing between the columns. The interior was far larger than I had expected. Hundreds of marble columns stretched through the semi-darkness seemingly without end, while the lights reflecting in the water created an almost theatrical atmosphere. At one moment the space appeared greenish, a moment later reddish or blue, depending on the shifting illumination. The entire cistern felt suspended somewhere between archaeology, cinema, and a dreamlike underground landscape.

Unlike many of Istanbul’s other monuments, this place was not impressive solely because of its history or the decorative qualities of the interior. What made the strongest impression was the awareness of its original function. Built in the sixth century during the reign of Emperor Justinian, the cistern formed part of the vast system supplying Constantinople with water. Despite lying between two seas, the city had limited access to fresh water for centuries and depended on an enormous network of aqueducts and underground reservoirs. And perhaps it was precisely that awareness which stimulated the imagination most strongly. I was standing underground inside a gigantic structure created fifteen hundred years ago for the sole purpose of sustaining the functioning of an imperial metropolis of millions.

In many ways, it felt like one of the most quintessentially Istanbul-like spaces of the entire trip – a place where infrastructure, history, and the sheer scale of the old city meet in an unusually tangible form. Despite the exhaustion, I took a huge number of photographs there, although it quickly became clear that the conditions were far more difficult than they had initially seemed. The semi-darkness and the reflections of light on the water forced me to switch cameras.

By the time we emerged from the Basilica Cistern, I had reached the point of complete exhaustion with the city. After two days of almost constant movement, photography, listening to stories, and travelling between different parts of Istanbul, I felt as though my mind had simply stopped absorbing any new information. I was physically exhausted as well. At a certain point, even the most extraordinary monuments begin to blur together if you do not allow yourself at least a brief moment to stop and breathe.

Fortunately, the guides gave us some free time. Earlier, I had already noticed several restaurants located on the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. In many parts of Istanbul, these rooftop terraces have now become an almost obligatory element of the tourist landscape. I separated from the group and took the lift to the top of one of the restaurants. I ordered a late lunch and Turkish tea. Naturally, everything came at a price. Places like this are not cheap, and what you are really paying for is the location and the view. Under normal circumstances, I probably would have considered the prices clearly inflated. After sitting there for a few minutes, however, it completely stopped mattering. For the first time during the entire stay, I was no longer moving through Istanbul – I was simply sitting above it and watching the city breathe.

For almost two hours, I sat at that table with Hagia Sophia literally only a few dozen metres away, the Blue Mosque visible in the distance, and the former Hippodrome stretching out below. From the other side of the terrace, there was a view towards the Bosphorus. Domes and minarets dominated the entire skyline, while the late afternoon light slowly began to alter the colours of the city. The crowds moving through the square below felt distant and muted, whereas from above everything seemed to fall into a much calmer rhythm. It was one of those rare moments when Istanbul stopped feeling overwhelming and instead became almost contemplative.

And it was precisely then that I truly began to feel the weight of this place’s history. Not while walking through the monuments, not while listening to guides or taking photographs, but while quietly sitting over tea with a view of ancient Constantinople spread out before me. It was impossible not to think about the fact that, for centuries, this exact place had stood at the meeting point of Byzantium and the Ottoman Empire, Christianity and Islam, Europe and Asia.

I also remember the characteristic sounds drifting across the square and from the surrounding mosques. From time to time, the call of the muezzins spread over the city, echoing between the domes and the narrow streets of Sultanahmet. The afternoon light was becoming softer and softer, and Istanbul – which only a few hours earlier had seemed like an overwhelming megacity – from above appeared almost calm. It was one of those very rare moments in travel when you stop sightseeing and simply begin to exist within a place. Without rushing, without the next item on the itinerary, and without the need to take another photograph every few minutes. And that is precisely why that late lunch and tea overlooking Hagia Sophia remained one of the strongest memories of the entire journey for me.

At around five in the afternoon, we returned to the coach and began the journey back to Bulgaria. Interestingly, we left Istanbul along a slightly different route from the one we had taken the previous day, which meant that for quite some time we were still able to observe new fragments of the city. Even after two very intense days, I had the strong feeling that I had seen only a tiny fraction of this immense metropolis. Istanbul gives the impression of being practically endless – whenever it seems that the urban landscape is finally beginning to fade away, another hill reveals yet more districts, new residential areas, further mosques, and additional lanes of traffic filled with cars.

The evening light was slowly beginning to fade. The further we moved away from the historic centre, the more questions of logistics and security began to dominate the journey. In Turkey, we were stopped by the police multiple times. Controls were taking place on practically all the main routes leading towards the border. Officers checked vehicles, looked inside car boots, and monitored traffic along the roads. The situation on the Bulgarian side looked very similar. There, the police were especially interested in the luggage compartments of coaches and the potential smuggling of illegal migrants. Only during the return journey did it become fully clear how strategically sensitive this entire corridor between Turkey and the European Union really is.

Only then did I understand even more clearly the significance of this border crossing. From the perspective of a tourist, the earlier procedures could easily have seemed like nothing more than an inconvenient formality, but the evening inspections made it very obvious that this is one of the key external borders of the European Union. What stayed in my memory most strongly was a moment at the border crossing itself, where two coaches carrying Romanian tourists were standing beside ours. While we were allowed to continue after a standard passport check, both Romanian vehicles were directed into a special inspection hangar for a detailed search. Everything suggested that the authorities were looking for smuggled cigarettes or other goods being transported beyond the permitted limits. It was a very clear reminder that this route functions simultaneously as a tourist corridor, a trade corridor, and one of the EU’s most sensitive border zones.

We returned to the hotel in Bulgaria late in the evening, completely exhausted. In the span of just two days, we had spent nearly eighteen hours on a coach travelling between Bulgaria and Istanbul, while at the same time visiting some of the most famous places of the old world. By that point, the journey itself had become almost as significant an experience as the city we had come to see.

The following two days in Bulgaria finally brought beautiful weather. The sea regained its colour, the sky turned almost cloudless, and the hotel pool – which earlier had felt more like decoration than an actual place to relax – finally came to life. The water was still warm enough for comfortable swimming, which after such an intense trip felt like genuine relief for tired muscles. A few days later, we returned to Poland – this time flying to Kraków, much closer to Bulgaria than Gdańsk, where our journey had begun. The flight itself lasted around an hour and a half, although afterwards I still had a train journey back to Warsaw ahead of me. Fortunately, I had very good company, so the time passed surprisingly quickly.

Only later, back at home while going through the photographs, did I really begin to organise the entire trip in my mind. And perhaps it was then that I fully realised that Istanbul – like so many other cities – cannot truly be explored in just two days. At most, you can enter into a brief relationship with it, catch fragments of the city, and allow certain images to remain in your memory. For me, those images became above all the Bosphorus seen from the water, the ships waiting outside the strait, the damp air hanging over the city, the evening light above Sultanahmet, the semi-darkness of the Basilica Cistern, and the view of Hagia Sophia seen from a rooftop terrace over Turkish tea.