You know that rare moment when the universe conspires to hand you exactly what you didn’t know you needed? That was our Istanbul stopover.
We weren’t looking for a break—we were bracing for three weeks of cross-border travel in West Africa. But a new direct flight from Denver to Istanbul on Turkish Airlines, with onward service to Banjul, gave us the excuse. A pause. A deep breath before the plunge. What we found was a city brimming with history, hospitality, and winter weather that didn’t let up—rain, sleet, hail, and eventually, snow—all in a city better known for its temperate climate. I forgot my coat and had to pick up a cheap blue Istanbul hoodie and a funny beanie near Sultanahmet, which helped, but I still spent most of the time freezing. And yet? I loved it. We left wanting to return, charmed by a city that felt vibrant, beautiful, and incredibly livable.
This trip marked the beginning of a three-and-a-half-week journey in total—from February 7 to March 3—that was more challenging adventure than vacation. Brendan, my husband and travel partner, and I worked with TransAfrica to create a private 21-day overland itinerary through The Gambia, Senegal, Benin, Togo, and Ghana, with a dedicated driver and guide. While that leg of the trip was fast-paced—we rarely stayed in one place more than a night—our Istanbul stopover was a chance to slow down, reset, and enjoy our only multi-night hotel stay of the month. I still worked most of the week (overlapping with U.S. time zones), but our mornings were open for wandering.
Turkish Airlines had just launched a direct flight from Denver to Istanbul, with excellent connections to West Africa, and offers a very affordable level of luxury in business class. Their stopover program even included three nights in a hotel, which we extended by one more night on our own.
Turkish Airlines: More Than a Flight
The non-stop flight from Denver was our first time with Turkish Airlines, and from boarding to touchdown, it felt like an event. Business class came with spacious seats that converted into full beds, amenity kits adorned with cultural site prints, and meals that felt like a curated Turkish welcome. Our onboard chef—yes, chef, with the full hat and all—oversaw the service, which included a printed story about the history of bread in Anatolia and salt-and-pepper shakers shaped like mosque domes.
Dinner started with a silky tomato soup and mezze trio, followed by pasta and Turkish red wine. As we freshened up in the bathroom, the attendants made our beds with full comforters and turn-down service. We skipped the full breakfast, having dozed off after watching Kedi, a documentary about Istanbul’s famous street cats. My attendant looked genuinely disappointed when I passed on the main course after just the yogurt and fruit. Small touches like that left a lasting impression.
Arrival and the Radisson Blu Istanbul Pera
We landed around 5:20 PM on February 8. Immigration was laughably easy—one of the smoothest entries we’ve ever experienced—and we headed to the ATM before walking into the cold to find a taxi. Uber had quoted around 1,500 TRY (roughly $48 USD at the time, with the exchange rate hovering around 31 TRY to 1 USD), but we decided to hail a cab instead.
The airport is about an hour from the city, and our driver tried to drop us two miles short of our hotel—likely avoiding traffic—but we held firm and got dropped at the correct location. The fare came out to just under 1,500 TRY, about the same as a private transfer, tip included. Taxis in general were quite civilized: they used the meter, accepted credit card, and didn’t give us any trouble aside from that initial detour attempt.
We stayed at the Radisson Blu Istanbul Pera, which Turkish Airlines covered for three nights via their stopover program. We added a fourth night ourselves. The hotel sits near the vibrant Beyoğlu neighborhood and is just a ten-minute (steep) walk to the Tophane tram stop. Though construction around the hotel made walking a bit tricky at first, we loved the location. Our room was on a high corner floor, right above the construction site. It was lovely but icy—the marble bathroom had no heating and felt like stepping into a fridge.
Cats, Hills, and Public Transit
Beyoğlu quickly became our favorite neighborhood in our Istanbul stopover. Not just for the food and shops, but for the kedi—the famous street cats who rule the city like benevolent monarchs. We saw them everywhere: curled up on window ledges, lounging in cafes, padding through alleyways. Shopkeepers clearly took pride in caring for them, setting out food, water, and even mini cat hotels made from recycled wood and plastic.
Each morning, we walked the hilly route from our hotel to the Tophane tram stop and took the metro across the Golden Horn to Sultanahmet, home to Istanbul’s most iconic historical sites. Public transit was cheap, efficient, and easy to navigate. Despite the weather, we never considered a taxi—riding the tram was just too convenient.
Walking Tour of the Old City
After arriving in the Old City, we realized just how unprepared I was for the weather. I ducked into a souvenir shop and bought a cheap blue “Istanbul” hoodie and a knit beanie just before meeting our guide at the historic Pudding Shop Lale Restaurant. Once a gathering place for travelers on the 1960s “hippie trail,” the Pudding Shop became famous for its message board where backpackers left notes for each other. Our guide ended up being okay. His English was a bit hard to understand at times. Two older Canadian women and a gentlemen from India also joined us on the tour.
From the Pudding Shop, we wandered through some of the city’s most iconic sites:
- The German Fountain: Built to commemorate Kaiser Wilhelm II’s 1898 visit, it’s a domed, neo-Byzantine structure imported piece by piece from Germany. The gold mosaics and green marble columns still gleam today, though it’s a quiet echo of its once symbolic might.
- The Hippodrome of Constantinople: Once the roaring heart of Byzantine civic life, this vast arena hosted chariot races, imperial ceremonies, and public events. Though most of the structure is long gone, its spirit lingers through the monuments left behind—like the Obelisk of Theodosius, a 3,500-year-old Egyptian monolith re-erected here by the Romans, and the Serpent Column, twisted bronze coils salvaged from the Temple of Apollo at Delphi.
- The Column of Constantine: Erected by Constantine the Great in 330 AD, this Roman column marked the center of the newly rebranded city of Constantinople. Though scorched by fires and weathered by time, it remains a landmark of imperial ambition.
- The Blue Mosque: Officially known as the Sultan Ahmed Mosque, it’s one of the only mosques in the world with six minarets—a decision that reportedly stirred controversy when it matched the number of minarets at the Grand Mosque in Mecca. The 20,000 hand-painted İznik tiles that give it its nickname shimmered under the dim light, their delicate floral patterns still vivid despite centuries of wear.
- The Hagia Sophia: A building that’s been a cathedral, a mosque, a museum, and now a mosque again, Hagia Sophia looms large in both scale and symbolism. The guide shared how it was originally built under Emperor Justinian in 537 AD, and for nearly a thousand years it held the title of largest cathedral in the world. Though the modern-day visit felt a bit underwhelming—crowded and somber—the weight of its layered history was hard to ignore.
By the time the tour ended, the drizzle had picked up again and the cold was settling in for the day. But we still had a few more iconic stop sto make: the Basilica Cistern and the Hagia Sophia.
Basilica Cistern and Hagia Sophia
After the tour, we queued up to visit the Basilica Cistern—an enormous underground chamber built in the 6th century to supply water to the imperial palace. The entrance was surprisingly hard to find, with no clear signage or visible queue; we just noticed a cluster of people and joined them, realizing we were finally in the right spot. It took about 15 minutes to get in—buying tickets online would’ve saved time. We used the free audio guide via an app (downloadable at the entrance with Wi-Fi, though it got spotty once underground). There was no live guide. The audio app required your own headphones, so come prepared.
Inside, the cistern was dark and eerie, with massive columns rising from still black water and spotlights creating dramatic shadows. It felt like walking through the belly of a forgotten temple. Two famous Medusa heads—one upside-down and one sideways—sat at the base of the columns, their origins still debated by historians. You can even rent out the cistern for events, which feels wild considering the setting.
From there, we walked over to the Hagia Sophia, which has a complex, layered identity. Built in 537 AD as a Byzantine church, it became a mosque in 1453, then a museum in 1935, and finally reverted back to a mosque in 2020. That change came with some controversy, as it limited tourist access to certain areas and emphasized its religious function over its historical one. Tourists are essentially now restricted to the upstairs gallery, where you can look down on the active worship space. Muslims are allowed to enter the bottom area for prayer, as the Hagia Sophia is now more of a religious space than a museum.
We waited about 30 minutes in line to buy tickets for the standard entrance—skipping the much longer “Hagia Sophia Experience” line, which offered an augmented reality audio tour (but no live guide). As we waited, we were approached at least six times by freelance guides offering their services. Easy to find if you want one. We again regretting not buying the tickets online, in advance.
Finally inside, we would up a hallway and stairs to get to the museum area in the balcony. From the perch above, the space felt charged—far from peaceful. Hundreds of people talked, prayed, and moved below. Many mosaics were obscured or hidden, and the famous dome was hard to appreciate from so far up. The audio app once again required working internet to download, which we did not have there, and again required your own headphones, so we never did get to try it. It was actually a little underwhelming as there was not as much to see as we had expected. Very different from when I had visited in the late 1990s as a young girl, where it was more museum than mosque.
Rest, Warmth, and Thai Food
After our chilly yet enriching loop through the Old City, we rode the tram back to Tophane and climbed the steep streets to our hotel. I had some work to catch up on, so we warmed up and recharged—both figuratively and literally. Brendan relaxed while I jumped on a few meetings, my laptop glowing against the backdrop of the Beyoğlu rooftops.
Dinner that night was at Çok Çok Thai, a well-reviewed Thai spot tucked into a side street near our hotel. With Michelin mentions and a cozy interior, our hopes were high. But the meal didn’t quite hit the mark. We both started with soup—overfilled with chicken—and followed with mains: a passable green curry for me, and a pad Thai for Brendan, which turned out to be the best of the dishes. The restaurant was warm and familiar, if not particularly memorable.
On our walk home, we reflected on a tender moment earlier that day—after our walking tour, when we’d wandered toward the closed Grand Bazaar. While we couldn’t go in, we still found joy in the side streets nearby, particularly at a food stall where a local vendor had set up a small, heated nook with blankets for a cat nestled near his fryer. It was a vivid example of how much care the people of Istanbul show their feline neighbors. Like the city’s many mosques and palaces, these little cat sanctuaries added to Istanbul’s deeply lived-in charm.
Markets, Hammams, and Mezze
The next day, February 10, we again enjoyed the bright, not-too-sweet orange juice at breakfast—something we genuinely looked forward to each morning—before heading back to the Old City to explore the Grand Bazaar. Taking the tram from Tophane made the journey simple and fast, as it had been every day. Despite the rain, we appreciated how covered and dry the Bazaar was—plus it was noticeably warmer inside than out.
Still, there were quirks. The amount of indoor smoking was less than ideal, leaving a bit of a haze over the market’s historic charm. That said, the atmosphere was far more relaxed than we anticipated. We’d been to markets where vendors hustle hard, but here? It felt like everyone had collectively agreed to take a break. We’d walk past row after row of sellers all glued to their phones, barely glancing up as we passed. Once, we counted ten shopkeepers in a row, all scrolling in silence.
Eventually, we found some artwork we liked and started negotiating. The seller told us to take a walk and return if we didn’t like his final offer, so we did just that. A few streets over, we found another art shop with similar work. The owner there was more flexible, and we agreed on a price we felt good about. True to our word (and petty to the end), we never went back to the first guy. It wasn’t the price so much as the refusal to meet us halfway that broke the deal.
Here’s the picture we bought – they are embossed with gold leaf and depict stylized maritime scenes of Istanbul from Ottoman times:
A street vendor offered roasted chestnuts—a first for Brendan. Their warm, nutty flavor was a comforting treat in the chilly air, and the shells easily broke off, revealing a meaty center
As we headed back towards our hotel we popped into a wonderful eclectic shop with lots of cat art, including the famous Tomblii from the Kedi movie.
The gentleman working the shop was the brother of the owner and artist of the cat pictures. He was delightful and we chatted as we perused the store. He spoke great English but was eager to practice. I ended up buying a cat shirt and we also purchased some canvas bags with similar cat designs for us and friends. As we were about to head out it started hailing, so we headed back into the store to wait it out a bit. The man work offered us some Turkish coffee and shared that it was his hobby, and instantly regretting passing on what surely would have been a great experience, but Brendan was anxious to get back to the room before his hammam appointment at 1645 at the Kılıç Ali Paşa Hamamı, a 16th-century bathhouse designed by the famed Ottoman architect Mimar Sinan.
While I stayed back at the hotel to work and dry out, Brendan walked over and was welcomed with a glass of quince-flavored liquid sherbet. Then came the real show: a change into the pestemal towel, a good soak under buckets of hot water, and some serious scrubbing on a heated marble slab. He described the experience as deeply restorative—despite the surprise of how much dead skin came off his back under the loofah. The final touch? Wrapped in towels, sipping hot tea in the lounge area, thoroughly clean and wonderfully dazed. Brendan also mentioned that there was a little too much chit chat and conversation amongst the fellow bathers for his liking. More on all this later from my first-hand experience.
We reunited for dinner at Pera Antakya, which turned out to be our favorite meal in Istanbul. The mezze platter came loaded with muhammara, grilled pepper with walnut, spicy yogurt, olives with thyme, tabbouleh, hummus, baba ghanoush, and mutabbal. At our waiter’s suggestion, we also tried the oven-baked farmer’s cheese, which was bubbling, slightly charred, and totally worth it. We finished with a lamb shish—flavorful and tender.
To drink, I sampled some of the local Bomonti craft beer, a crisp and easygoing lager that paired well with all the spices and grilled flavors on the table. Though we didn’t order dessert, they brought out a small plate of candied pumpkin with our check, delicate and sweet like a parting gift.
A Classic Ottoman Ritual: My Hammam Experience
On our final morning in our Istanbul stopover, I visited the Kılıç Ali Paşa Hamamı at 1000, after breakfast. Brendan stayed back at the hotel to rest, planning to meet me later for our visit to Istanbul Modern. We’d learned earlier in the week that the bathhouse separates visiting hours by gender—men in the morning and early afternoon, women in the late afternoon and evening—so this was our only window for me to go.
Walking into the hammam, I was immediately welcomed with the same small glass of quince-flavored liquid sherbet that Brendan had experienced—a traditional gesture to start the cleansing ritual. The setting was elegant and tranquil, with gentle lighting, quiet voices, and the scent of clean stone and heat. After sipping my drink, I was escorted upstairs to the changing rooms where I stowed my belongings in a locker and changed into the classic peshtemal towel, disposable cloth panties (since I didn’t have a bikini bottom with me), and the provided flip-flops.
Back downstairs, I was led into the bath area—an architectural wonder of warm marble, high domed ceilings, and geometric skylights that let in streams of diffused morning light. The steam made everything glow. The sounds of the hammam were like a lullaby: trickling water, the gentle splash of pouring basins, an occasional murmur from nearby bathers.
The process began with a few good douses of hot water—not gently poured but confidently dumped over me like a warm waterfall. Then came the stillness. I was shown to the massive heated marble slab—called the göbektaşı—and lay down in a star-like formation along with other women. It felt amazing after two frigid and wet days. My body began to warm and soften under the weight of the heat. Water dripped intermittently from the ceiling, and sunlight filtered through the domed roof’s geometric cutouts. For a while, time vanished.
Eventually, my attendant—a traditionally built, Turkish grandmother-type woman—came and gently shook my foot. I followed her to a separate marble bench beside a basin. What followed was the most vigorous and thorough cleaning of my life. She soaked me, then created suds using a pillowcase-like cloth and a bar of soap, squeezing the bubbles over me and working them into every surface. The loofah was made from West African fishing nets—something we only learned later, but which felt like a poetic bridge to the next leg of our journey.
She scrubbed me head to toe. At one point, she looked at the sheer amount of dead skin she’d removed, gave a dramatic glance to the floor, and muttered, “Too much skin.” Then she repeated it, this time with a tinge of disbelief. I guess I’d waited too long for a good exfoliation. The exact same exclamation of being judged as disgusting had happened to Brendan the day before.
There was a little scalp massage, some laughter between us despite the language gap, and plenty of dousing with hot water. She cleaned my face, back, arms, legs, breasts, and more. It was thorough and unashamed. You had to get comfortable being naked around strangers, quickly.
After the scrub, I was guided to another area where I was dried off and wrapped in fresh towels. Then came the best part: reclining on oversized cushions in the cooling area, sipping hot tea. I felt soft, pink, slightly dazed, and utterly renewed.
Afterward, I met Brendan outside the hammam and we continued on to Istanbul Modern together.
Art, Empire, and Snowfall
Fresh from the most vigorous scrub of my life and a restorative round of tea at the hammam, I met Brendan outside and we walked together to Istanbul Modern. Both the hammam and the museum had been highly recommended to us by our neighbor JRC, and he did not steer us wrong. The experiences were among the most memorable of our Istanbul stopover, each offering its own form of reflection and rejuvenation.
In its sleek new Renzo Piano–designed space along the Bosphorus, the museum felt like a breath of clarity after a week of Ottoman domes and Byzantine mosaics. For a brief moment, the sun even broke through—the first we’d seen since arriving.
Inside, we explored a thoughtful and deeply personal collection of modern and contemporary art. Two installations in particular stood out to us:
Beirut (2005–07) – by Hale Tenger
This video installation transported us to the abandoned Saint-Georges Hotel in Beirut, with a haunting projection that made the viewer feel the weight of time, war, and decay. The visual emptiness conveyed a powerful sense of loss and resilience, and though it was about Beirut, it somehow reflected the spirit of every city touched by conflict—including Istanbul.
Between Worlds (Dünyalar Arasında) – by Chiharu Shiota
A room wrapped entirely in red yarn, suspending empty suitcases mid-air, each a metaphor for memory, migration, and identity. The symbolism hit home for us—travelers in between continents, between homes, between histories. The tangled threads evoked a poetic kind of chaos, mirroring the inner knots one carries when on the move.
Here is a collage of some of our favorite exhibits:
From there, we followed the waterfront to Dolmabahçe Palace, Istanbul’s 19th-century answer to Versailles. The last time I visited Istanbul I was a young girl, and had visited Topkapi Palace, so we decided to do this instead. Considering it was so close to our hotel made it an even easier decision.
Commissioned by Sultan Abdülmecid I to demonstrate Ottoman grandeur to Europe, the palace spares no expense: 285 rooms, crystal staircases, silk carpets, and the world’s largest Bohemian crystal chandelier, weighing in at 4.5 tons. It was breathtaking and overwhelming, a golden echo of a fading empire trying desperately to dazzle its way into the future. There were too many rooms and buildings to properly explore – though the audio guide (this time with headphones!) was helpful – we got tired of seeing similarly magnificent items over and over. The Harem House where the wives and family of the Sultan resided was at the very end of our tour and less interesting than we expected it to me. We could have just been opulence fatigued at that point though.
Rain started falling again as we exited the beautiful palace grounds. Istanbul wasn’t done being Istanbul, at least for us – the one time is constantly rains and snows is on our Istanbul stopover.
From Dolmabahçe, we made our way to the Galata Tower, one of Istanbul’s most iconic silhouettes. Though the entrance fee was a bit steep, we couldn’t resist the panoramic views from the top. The tower, originally built by the Genoese in 1348 as a watchtower for the Galata walls, once held the title of the tallest structure in the city. Today, it still offers arguably the best 360-degree vantage point over Istanbul’s layered skyline—minarets, mosques, the Bosphorus winding below.
Even just walking through the surrounding neighborhood was a joy—narrow cobblestone streets, boutique shops, and, of course, cats. Always cats. We spotted a few napping in window displays, others being doted on by shopkeepers who clearly knew their regulars. The energy in the area was buzzy but not overwhelming, perfect for winding down the day.
We eventually meandered back toward Karaköy, where we settled into Faros Karaköy for an early dinner of Neapolitan pizza. It was cozy and unpretentious, just what we needed after a long day of museums, palaces, towers, and tram rides. I ordered an Efes beer, and we toasted to the city that had surprised and challenged and, ultimately, charmed us.
We walked one last time up the hill from Tophane to Beyoğlu, thinking fondly of all the happy kitties and the kind shopkeepers we encountered on our travels, as the weather and wind slapped coldly in our faces one last time (our now baby soft faces thanks to the hamman!).
Onwards to West Africa
Around 2300, we took a taxi back to Istanbul Airport for our 0130 flight to Banjul. As we wound through the late-night streets, something quietly magical happened: it started to snow.
Not a flurry, not a drizzle—but actual, fluttering flakes that began to stick. Snowballs flew under lamplight. Laughter echoed down streets. Locals paused their walks to look skyward. It hadn’t snowed like this in nearly a decade, and the timing couldn’t have been more perfect. Our Istanbul stopover provided one final show.
Wrapped in that moment, we headed toward the next leg of our journey, but our hearts remained a little tangled in red string, grounded in marble, the warmth of purring, and dusted in snow. We left thinking of all the kedi (cats) we left behind, cozied up in their little make-shift houses that the Istanbul denizens lovingly made for them, warm, snug, and content in spite of the weather.
