I walk into a street where a man fills small rounded glasses with cay tea on an ornamented gold and silver plate that he carries along the street of spice and nut sellers, of carpet and souvenir dealers, restaurants and vintage boutique shops. Cats and dogs jump out of his way as he skilfully avoids the scooters, tourists and taxis. This street is never empty, never quiet and never not an adventure. Moustaches grow here, meat is grilled on a rotating spit. Golden necklaces and bracelets shine and sparkle covered with gemstones of any kind from their otherwise serenely white displays. The bar on the corner plays western pop songs, the lokanta across from it Turkish ones, both equally loud. In a restaurant a band plays, men dance arm in arm, half inside and half out. The relentless car horns from the obstipated streets nearby sound in the distance, sirens too. Occasionally overpowered by the misty blares from a ferry leaving a dock. The shopkeepers shout at each other when they’re not trying to coax the passing tourists. Local girls in groups of three or four giggle as they walk past. Sunbeams pierce through the narrow apertures from the building blocks challenging the smoke and smell from the dürüm grill that fills the street with a hazy glow. It lights up the cook’s face who’s slicing off the meat before filling the sandwiches and shaking the ayran. Further down the street boys separate the garbage from containers the into plastics, paper and glass. A trolly grills chestnuts, a trolly sells simits, another filled mussels, another yet boils sweet corn. Their smells mix with those of the foreign spices, both dried and powdered, displayed in colourful arrangement of a shop that’s sprawling onto the pavement. Men exhale large clouds of shisha smoke over their backgammon boards while they fiddle with their tespih’s. The call to prayer sounds from the mosque up the hill, so loud that all the noise from the street seem still. I turn a corner and it starts again. I’m overwhelmed, intrigued, energised and drained all at the same time. Istanbul will always captivate me. I’m enchanted by it.

I’ve met Petros the Greek at my first hostel, that I left because of an otherworldly snorer that checked in for a month just before me. We go out once and I’m a little hooked. I used to go out here a lot, way back when, and haven’t really experienced any nightlife seriously since I’ve started cycling. Now, with new years on the doorstep, Petros and I go out every other night, if not more. Cycling takes a certain focus. Especially with the freezing temperatures I have to plan my rides, make sure I make it to my destination, be warm, eat and drink enough etc. Going out in this city of 11 million, I enjoy the madness the drunken nights, the unexpected encounters and the irresponsibility that alcohol allows for. I’m living my 22-year-old experience once more.

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During the day I simply walk around. Istanbul – City of Seven Hills – is a sea of concrete waves, swaying up and down, vistas of another tide around each corner. I’ve seen everything already (edit: I’ve hardly seen anything of this sprawling 15 million people city, yet these parts I know) but the highlights I visit again. I walk down Istiklal street, the city centre’s main artery that connects Taksim to the Galata bridge. It slopes slightly down and standing on Taksim square, there’s not a cobble stone visible, the only thing I see is the dark hair on the tops of the insane amount of people that roam this street. It looks like festival every single day. Bright lights from the multinational flagship stores light their way. An ancient tramline chimes its way through the crowd in slow motion. It’s impossible to walk on your own speed, you belong to the herd here. Once down to the Galata bridge, fisherman’s boats bob on the water of the Golden Horn, selling Balik Ekmek (fish sandwiches) from their morning catch. The bridge itself is filled with fishermen dangling their rods on the top half, and with fish restaurants on the lower half. Following the bridge’s view towards to Sultanahmet the spikey minarets of the Blue Mosques pierce towards the clouds, next to it Hagia Sophia, Basilica Cistern and the Topkapi Palace. The history of this place and its geographical location as a bridge between Europe and the Middle East is unbelievable. It is even more intoxicating to realise that this is just one neighbourhood. The Old Town is but one tiny spec surrounded by the bars and nightlife of Besiktas, the fancy shops of Nisantisi, the residentialness of Moda, the ghetto of Tarlabasi and many, many more.

I do realise Istanbul has a lot of problems too. Political divide, safety of women, patriarchy, housing, economic opportunities, you name it. For me however, Istanbul is a place of magic. As a visitor (and man) I am not affected. It’s also magic because of the experience when I was younger. That was a formative time. Istanbul hasn’t let me down, not then, not now, and not the first time I came back. But in the same way that Amsterdam isn’t the Netherlands, New York isn’t America, and Paris isn’t France, Istanbul is also not Turkey. Having spent the better part of a week here, I’m ready to move onwards. I will miss this place with all my heart.

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