The Istanbul You Can’t Plan For

On the beauty of getting lost, talking without language, and walking with open eyes

Date: 23 June 2025

Start: Bahçeköy Merkez 10.15

Finish: Bahçeköy Merkez 14.45

Duration: 4h30’

Distance: 14km

Elevation Gain: 200m

Route Type: Circular

Weather: great and sunny, but trails completely shaded

Companions: Solo

Day 1: Crossing Continents and Conversations Without Words

I arrived in Istanbul yesterday, June 20th. Today is officially the first day of summer, and what better way to celebrate than by walking from Europe to Asia on foot? I'm staying near Taksim Square on the European side, but I quickly found out that the Bosphorus Bridge is closed to pedestrians (except during the annual marathon). Plan B: take the ferry from Kabataş to Kadıköy, then walk through Harem to reach Üsküdar.

After many wrong turns, passing a Turkish military base, finding the coastal promenade closed for vague "construction," and watching a youth football match (where, amusingly, the players and parents reminded me of when I played as a kid), I decided to take a detour. I wandered into a cemetery, but there wasn't a clear path between the tombstones. A local young man noticed me and kindly welcomed me, assuming I was looking for a restroom. I tried to ask about the cemetery, but the language barrier limited our conversation. When I said I was walking to Üsküdar, he recommended taking a bus. I politely declined, determined to walk the whole way.

I passed by a few casual restaurants—no menus, all Turkish, very home-style—but I wasn't yet hungry thanks to a massive breakfast (menemen and lahmacun!). I eventually found a park and sat on a shaded bench. An older man with a few missing teeth gestured to sit next to me. We tried talking, though we didn’t understand each other much. He asked if I was Italian (the second person that day to ask), and I learned his wife had passed away. We spoke about everything and nothing—Germany, the U.S., Turkish lira, the euro—all in broken bits and half-meanings.

When I asked for a good iskender place (my favorite Turkish dish), he suggested instead that we go have tea. There wasn’t space outside at the café, so the young waiter handed us two plastic chairs and said it was normal to sit in the park and return them later. And so we did. We sat there, sipping tea, not really understanding each other, yet deeply connected. Even the boy from the earlier football match walked by. Once again, someone asked if I was Italian. The old man checked his watch and had to go. He tried to pay for the tea, but I didn’t let him.

It was one of the most genuine, human moments I’ve had in Turkey. Despite the language barrier, there was curiosity and kindness—the same curiosity that sparked my first solo trip years ago. In a world where travel has become routine, commodified, and flooded by influencers and algorithmic recommendations, it’s moments like this that remind me why I travel: for the unexpected, for the connection, for getting lost and being found again.

I had planned to go to Çamlica Hill and visit Turkey’s largest mosque (I even packed long pants), but it was a 2-hour walk, so I changed plans. I’m writing this from Hollywood Café in Üsküdar, under a giant Godfather poster, sipping lemonade before catching the ferry back to Kabataş. From there, I walked to a popular spot for iskender, then chose the scenic route home through Maçka and Gezi parks—totally alone at moments in a city of millions.

As I was walking back through the parks, the memory of Michela came to mind—how she once insisted on taking the bus from Hackbridge just to see what the area I lived in was like. I remember not understanding her reasoning back then, not fully grasping the meaning of that slow approach to a place. But maybe, just maybe, it’s something I’ve only started to appreciate in recent years. That desire to see things not in highlights, but in pauses. In details. In silence.

Later, I found a terrace in Taksim and enjoyed a chocolate kunefe. I felt incredibly lucky.

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Day 2: Silence and Sandals in Belgrad Forest

Today, June 22, was my weekly Sunday hike—this time in Belgrad Forest, north of Istanbul. The forest is named after a group of Serbs relocated here during the Ottoman era.

After (another) heavy Turkish breakfast, I took the M2 metro to the last stop, then opted for a taxi since I couldn’t figure out the bus connection. I arrived at Bahçeköy Merkez, the start of my circular hike. At first, the area was busy with families picnicking near their cars, grilling meat under the trees. But as I left the first dam (almost dry) to my right, silence enveloped me. For the next two hours, I didn't see another human until I passed a trail runner. It was just me, the forest, and a few birds.

I followed various unmarked but well-maintained paths, reaching a second dam with more parked cars and people. The third dam was harder to reach—the trail was overgrown, and I regretted wearing sandals and shorts, but luckily the thick brush lasted only 200–300 meters.

Eventually, I reached the village again. I explored a few bakeries and cafes, but nothing appealed until I spotted a humble lokanta (canteen-style eatery) on a side street. I couldn’t read the menu, so I ordered what looked like the most comforting thing: a dürüm. The young woman behind the counter, Neslihan, spoke good English and encouraged me to try something more traditional: a kasarli pide and çiğ köfte (a spicy vegetarian wrap). She even let me taste a sample to decide. When I asked for a packaged juice ("Cappy"), she gently insisted I try ayran instead. Seeing me fumble with the lettuce wrap, she came over to help me fold it. Sweet, attentive, and warm.

Neslihan is from Gaziantep, Turkey’s culinary capital and the homeland of kunefe. Our brief exchange reminded me of the joy of genuine hospitality, of people untouched by mass tourism. Just like yesterday, I was reminded of my earlier trips to Ethiopia, Mexico, and Colombia—places where being a traveler (not a tourist) still means something.

Where tourists haven’t arrived yet, travelers are still welcome. The ones who arrive "on tiptoe," as Luca Gianotti says. Those without a checklist, without TripAdvisor, just with a little openness in their hearts.

Of course, the language barrier was real. I barely managed to communicate with the taxi driver this morning, or even get my stop right. But with Neslihan—and the young guy from the tea park yesterday—there was a sense that we could go deeper. Strangely, younger people have all the tools (language, tech) to connect, but often less desire or habit to do so.

Neslihan gave me directions back to the metro. I said goodbye to her and her family, who run "Bahçeköy 2," the warm little place where I had one of the best meals of the trip.

Heading home, I got off at the wrong metro stop—too confident. That mistake cost me 40 minutes because the entire center was blocked off due to an Islamic conference. Police weren’t interested in explaining. I eventually followed a woman whose Turkish friend negotiated our passage through the barricade.

Back at the hotel, I showered, thankful for my merino shirt that held up impressively after two days of heat and hiking. I tried to go to a nearby Iranian restaurant I had spotted, but it was closed. The alternative was across the red zone again—I gave up after seeing the policemen fixated on my socks-and-sandals combo. A bold look, maybe the future of fashion? Who knows.

So I stayed local, had a light bite and finished the night with katmer for the first time: thin pastry, filled with carrots, oranges, walnuts, and paired with a cold glass of milk. A perfect ending to a beautifully unplanned journey.