The sheets twist themselves up silently, like a secret whispered in the morning. No wake-up call to break the softness of that grey area between dreams and consciousness. A gust of warm air slips through the window which, as always, refuses to shut completely. It wafts into the room, bringing with it the steamy memory of the Bosphorus. As dawn stretches out, Kemeralti Street gently wakes up, a familiar cacophony that stirs something deep within me.
I frown. What time is it? A jolt. The clock dial draws me back to its rules, like a sheepdog. I push back against the pressure building up inside me. Another day to fill, boxes to check, “appointments” to get through. An endless race, until exhaustion. My gaze is drawn to the left. Noon. And I say, partly to myself:
“I’ve lost track of time. We were supposed to go to the Blue Mosque… well, Istanbul awaits, no?” A voice interrupts me: soft, assured. The one that has the power to put the world back in its place, to erase worries with a single breath. It ignores the “whens,” “whys,” and “hows.” It’s the voice of those who know that everything eventually settles down, when the moment requires it. “Yes, yes… but it can wait a little… We have plenty of time…!”
From one side of the Bosphorus to the other: the magic of the evening
Photos: © Franck Laboue
I let myself go and loosen my grip. Time flies by, we get up whenever we want, and the hotel room becomes a suspended cocoon. I could order breakfast to the room, just to prolong the moment. In this half-light, leaning against the window, the heat rising from the distance gently envelops me. The silhouettes of the mosques and the palaces float in the air like mirages, unreal, distorted by the light. An imperceptible smile spreads across my still somewhat sleepy face. The “old me” would surely have considered it absurd to return to Istanbul a third time and spend an entire week there. Yes, the “old me” would have rushed around like crazy to conquer the Golden Horn, consumed by that thirst to see everything, quickly, always faster. But here, now, things are different. The body finally understands that it’s time to slow down. My subconscious pushes me, and I let myself be carried away. You have to slip into the city, tame it step by step, and breathe at the rhythm of its alleys and its heartbeats.
A kaleidoscope of Turkish delights at the Golden Horn
Colourful houses on the hills of Balat
ÇUKURCUMA: WANDERING BETWEEN PAST AND PRESENT
We leave, contrary to what we had planned. An unexpected calm seizes me without me seeing it coming. Our steps stretch out, measured, always further north. The Galata Tower stays behind us; we let it slip away with no regrets. We set off and wander aimlessly, guided by nothing other than our instinct, making our way through the narrow streets. Furtively, the Bosphorus catches a glimpse of us between two buildings, like a watery mirror splashed by the sky. The wind whispers promises, makes portraits of Ataturk swirl in a distant breath, while old cars heat up motionless in the sun, recalling another time. The façades, combining Art Deco and local tradition, boldly burst with contrasts. Cats, meanwhile, reign everywhere. Indifferently, they blend into the corners of bookstores, lie down on chairs, or stretch out between the bars of windows, as if the city belonged to them, and we were there merely as temporary visitors.
Resting at the Topkapi Palace
And then, without warning, Çukurcuma snatches us up. The neighbourhood doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t show off. It takes you gently by the sleeve, at a crossroads, to the corner of a shop window that’s too dusty to be truly commercial. We didn’t decide on it. We simply find ourselves there. Perhaps that’s its charm. We enter an antique shop, somewhat by chance—or rather, we slip into it as one might slip into a memory. The door creaks; the light is low, golden, oblique. Everything radiates old wood and silent objects. Nothing is labelled, as if everything still belonged to someone. The walls seem to be holding their breath. A record spins in a corner, but there’s no music playing. The owner, silent, offers us a discreet smile—one of those smiles we reserve for people who don’t ask too many questions. We emerge, slowed down, as if the air itself had thickened, our vision blurrier, our hearts softened.
A little further down, the afternoon stretches out, bathed in that late-summer light that makes the façades dance. A patio appears: Mayko. Tables under flower pots—nothing imposing, but a quiet simplicity, a natural pit stop. We settle in here, without consulting each other, guided by that unspoken desire not to go any further.
The dishes arrive slowly, one by one, unhurried. Here, everything takes its time—the plates, the words, even the light. We exchange a few words with the owner, a woman with an easy laugh and a direct gaze. She knows each passer-by. They greet her with a nod, a word, a wink. A subtle, almost domestic warmth floats in the air, that of places you haven’t left yet but which you’re already dreaming of rediscovering. Cats move about under the tables, right at home—because they are. We aren’t yet, but we’re getting closer.
A sweet break with the temptations of Istanbul
We tell ourselves, without saying it, that this will be our headquarters. That things are good here. That sometimes, you don’t need anything more than a little light on a table, some warm mezze, and a friendly voice to feel like you’re exactly where you need to be. We’ll be back. That much is certain. Maybe even tomorrow.
THE LUXURY OF SLOWNESS IN MODERN TOURISM
In a fast-paced world, where travel is often reduced to a race from point A to point B, slowing down is quite a feat. However, this is undoubtedly the true luxury of our time: the art of taking your time. Letting go of overly perfect itineraries, tight schedules, and the urgency of the “always more.” Because travel, freed from the obsession with performance, turns into an invitation to live differently. To immerse yourself, to breathe in the world at the rhythm of your own steps.
Slow tourism, far removed from hectic practices, is redefining the very notion of travel. It’s no longer about checking boxes, but agreeing to get lost, to let places and encounters unfold at their own pace. Travel becomes an intimate relationship, a meeting with the soul of a territory, far removed from frozen clichés. It’s a search for authenticity, a taste for the unexpected, a return to slowness, off the beaten path.
But slowness isn’t just about slowing down for yourself. It’s also a gentler way of walking on this Earth. By opting for longer but less crowded routes, we’re choosing to reduce our footprint and give more time to the planet, to communities, to human experiences. Travel thus becomes a conscious act, a collective reflection on our way of moving around on and interacting with the world.
Adopting this philosophy isn’t a rejection of the modern world, but an invitation to reinvent it. Travel ceases to be a headlong rush, a quest for speed; ultimately, it’s nothing more than an immersion in the present. It becomes a suspended moment, where the beauty of the world is measured not by its speed, but by the way it affects us, transforms us, and connects us.
