Istanbul’s Echoes

Breakfast with the Woodburns unfolded under the soft light of morning, as we gathered in the hotel’s quiet rooftop restaurant. The promise of a day in Istanbul beckoned.

After a leisurely meal, we ventured out, taking the historic Tünel, the world’s second oldest underground funicular, its gentle hum carrying us through the heart of a city steeped in time.

We paused to capture photos of the street food, savoring the vibrant scenes with our cameras. Istanbul offers such delights on many corners—grilled meats rich with spices and breads that speak of ancient grains. Then, our steps took us to the Istanbul Archaeological Museums, where history breathes and the past and present intertwine.

Among the relics, I found myself drawn to a modest sculpture, the name of its creator etched clearly at the base—unlike today’s artists, who often leave only a trace, a squiggle.

There, too, was the tale of how Alexander Hellenized Anatolia, a story carved in stone, ancient yet resonant.

But it was the panels on Homer that struck the deepest chord. At last, the epic tales of the *Iliad* and the *Odyssey* became clear. The myth of Eris, the goddess of discord, excluded from a divine wedding, had set everything in motion. Her golden apple, inscribed "to the fairest," led three goddesses—Hera, Athena, and Aphrodite—to seek Paris’s judgment. This small act, seemingly trivial, spiraled into the Trojan War. And as Paris gave the apple to Aphrodite, choosing love over power and wisdom, the ancient world cracked in a tectonic shift.

For the first time, after many failed attempts, I felt the pull to read Homer, truly read him, and understand the foundation of these stories.

We wandered through the museum’s halls until exhaustion overtook us. Among the displays, the origins of coin minting in Sardis caught my eye. Here was where the first coins were struck—symbols of wealth and power from a bygone era. The Lydians, with their electrum, transformed the economy of the ancient world, and in their meticulous methods, the seeds of modern currency were sown.

After hours immersed in antiquity, we stepped back into the present, craving something sweet. Tea and baklava seemed perfect, though the ants that accompanied the dish were less welcome. Still, we persisted, dismissing the insects and savoring the honeyed pastry.

The streets, cobbled and uneven, guided us back, with street sellers and locals sipping tea adding to the city’s rhythm. The mosques rose like sentinels, and Turkish flags fluttered proudly, remnants of Victory Day celebrations. 

Crossing the Golden Horn, the evening light softened, casting the city in hues of gold. We hurried back to the hotel, rushing to prepare for dinner. The tramway shaved minutes off our journey, sparing us from tardiness.

Moise Karakoy welcomed us with its rooftop view, the skyline alive with the glow of mosques and the glitter of the Golden Horn. Seven of us sat, five bottles deep, conversation flowing as easily as the wine.

(Credit: Desmond)

I drifted in and out of sleep, lulled by the warmth of alcohol and the comfort of friends.

We lingered over dinner, reluctant to end the night, before finally strolling back to the hotel. The streets, now quieter, allowed us to ignore the bustle of tourists, walking at our own pace, savoring the city that had hosted our day.