Istanbul Day 2: Topkapı’s Grandeur, Hidden Artisan Markets, and missed Bosphorus sunset cruise
As expected, the alarm rang early, and we didn’t make it to Ortaköy Mosque for sunrise. The fatigue from the day before was still heavy. Instead, we woke just in time to watch the morning light spill over Galata Tower, the golden hue washing away the last traces of its artificial glow. It was quiet, almost meditative — the kind of moment you only get when a bustling city hasn’t yet decided what it’s going to be for the day. We dozed again for a while, then finally got up around eight, ready to greet the day properly.
Breakfast was at the Barnathan Roof, the same rooftop where we’d watched the sunset the night before. The spread was generous — a lavish Turkish breakfast with an entire buffet line of Turkish specialties. Trays of cheeses, olives, cured meats, fresh tomatoes, and peppers shared space with baskets of simit, poğaça, and soft bread rolls. There were platters of fruit, pastries dusted with powdered sugar, and the aromatic hum of Turkish coffee that never stopped flowing. We filled our plates, sat by the railing, and watched Galata Tower glow brighter in the soft daylight. The clouds rolled in quickly, the sunshine fading into a silvery haze, but that only made it more comfortable to linger outdoors with our coffee cups and morning calm.
Our plan had been to climb the Galata tower right after breakfast, but with the light flattened by the clouds, we decided instead to head to Topkapı Palace (Topkapı Sarayı). It seemed like the perfect use of an overcast morning — exploring the interiors and courtyards of one of Istanbul’s grandest monuments without worrying about the harsh glare of sunlight on stone. We ordered an Uber from the hotel, and while waiting, we couldn’t help but admire the small details of the Meroddi Barnathan Hotel’s design — mosaic-tiled floors, old brass lamps, and the framed Ottoman calligraphy that seemed to tell stories we couldn’t yet read. The drive to Topkapı was surprisingly short — about fifteen minutes, costing roughly ten dollars — and before we knew it, we were at the edge of the palace grounds, the taxi letting us off just outside the towering Imperial Gate (Bab-ı Hümayun).
Even before stepping in, Topkapı’s scale humbles you. Built by Mehmet the Conqueror in the mid-15th century, shortly after the Ottoman conquest of Constantinople, it became the heart of the empire for nearly four hundred years. From here, sultans ruled lands stretching across three continents. Unlike the singular grand palaces of Europe, Topkapı is a labyrinth of courtyards, pavilions, domes, and gardens, each one flowing into the next like chapters in a book. The still standing structure hints at both its military and imperial heritage, but the atmosphere feels serene, almost monastic, despite the crowds.
Entering through the Imperial Gate, we found ourselves in the First Courtyard (Alay Meydanı), also known as the Court of the Janissaries or the Parade Court. Once a place for parades and ceremonies, it now feels like a public park enclosed by towering stone walls. To the left stood the Hagia Irene (Aya İrini) — one of the few surviving Byzantine churches left unconverted after the conquest — and further along, the Imperial Mint (Darphane-i Âmire), dating back to the 18th century. We decided to skip both for now, drawn instead to the Gate of Salutation (Bab-üs Selam), its twin towers marking the entrance to the Second Courtyard. This is where your tickets or passes get scanned. There is also a ticket counter to the right of the gate. A free audio guide is available at the gate through a small wooden door.
Entering through the gate , the palace truly began to reveal itself. Guards once stood here, allowing only those with imperial business to enter. Beyond the gate stretched a manicured garden framed by wide paths and ancient trees. To our right were the Palace Kitchens (Matbah-ı Âmire), whose chimneys rose like clustered minarets; to our left stood the Imperial Council Chamber (Divan-ı Hümayun), where viziers once debated matters of war and state under the watchful eye of the Sultan. Above it loomed the Tower of Justice (Adalet Kulesi) — tall, elegant, symbolic. We lingered at the Council Chamber for a while, peering at the ornate tiles and gilded inscriptions, before continuing toward the Harem (Harem Dairesi) — the most storied, and often misunderstood, part of Topkapı. Access required a separate ticket, though our Museum Pass İstanbul covered it. Passing beneath the shadow of the Tower of Justice, we stepped into what felt like another world entirely.
Popular imagination paints the harem as a place of indulgence and mystery, but the truth is far more complex. The Harem Dairesi was the private residence of the imperial family — a space governed by rigid hierarchy, discipline, and education. Up to three hundred women lived here at its peak: concubines, servants, tutors, and, above them all, the Valide Sultan, the Sultan’s mother and the true matriarch of the court. She managed the inner workings of the household and wielded significant political power, often advising the Sultan himself.
We began in the Courtyard of the Black Eunuchs (Harem Ağaları Taşlığı), the living and working area of the Black Eunuchs (Kızlar Ağaları) — men brought from Africa and entrusted with guarding the harem and serving as intermediaries between the Sultan and his household. Despite their tragic histories, these eunuchs held unique positions of trust, often rising to become powerful administrators.
Their living quarters known as Dormitory of the Black Eunuchs (Karaağalar Koğuşu) were surprisingly ornate — domed ceilings, narrow hallways, with sleeping alcoves, each one opening to a communal space centered on a tiny fountain.With its three-story structure, intricate tile work, painted decorations (kalem işi) and original Ottoman cabinetry (Edirnekari), the ward reflects the classical Ottoman architectural style.
From there, we passed through the Food Corridor (Yemek Yolu), a long arched passage that once carried trays of delicacies from the palace kitchens to the royal family. The worn marble underfoot and the tiled walls seemed to whisper stories of unseen service — cooks, maids, and guards moving silently through these halls centuries ago.
Emerging from the corridor, we entered the Courtyard of the Valide Sultan (Valide Sultan Taşlığı) — bright, spacious, and adorned with Iznik-style tiles in floral blues and greens. This was where the Sultan’s mother resided, surrounded by her attendants. Her Apartments (Valide Sultan Dairesi) felt almost regal yet restrained — rooms lined with mother-of-pearl inlay, latticed windows filtering soft light, and divans arranged for both comfort and command. Her role was not just maternal; she acted as counselor, diplomat, and sometimes de facto ruler during her son’s youth.
Next came the Corridor of the Consorts (Kadınlar Koridoru), a series of connected chambers leading to the Apartments of the Chief and Second Consorts (Baş Kadın ve İkinci Kadın Daireleri). The rooms were decorated with intricate tiles and stained glass, each ceiling painted with delicate arabesques. It was hard not to imagine the quiet intrigues that must have played out here — alliances, rivalries, and romances hidden behind carved wooden screens. The final stretch led us to the Courtyard of the Favourites (Gözdeler Taşlığı), perhaps the most beautiful of all. From its windows, the city stretched below — the Bosphorus shimmering beyond the palace walls.
Below this courtyard lay a large open pool, now dry but once a sparkling centerpiece where water reflected the colors of the mosaics around it. Nearby were the Private Apartments and Baths (Hünkâr Hamamı) of the Sultan and his family — ornate chambers with marble basins, gold taps, and ceilings painted in cobalt and crimson. Standing there, it felt like stepping into a painting of luxury tempered by discipline; every detail served to elevate the Sultan’s authority and comfort. The path through the harem eventually curved past the Laundry and Infirmary (Çamaşırhane ve Hastane), ending at the somber Gate of Death (Bab-üs Saade Kapısı) — a passage once used for funeral processions within the palace. Passing through it brought us into the Third Courtyard (Enderun Avlusu), the Sultan’s inner domain.
You can also enter the Third Courtyard through the Gate of Felicity (Babüssaade),marking the transition from the outer administrative world to the private sanctum of the Sultan. Inside, we wandered through the Audience Chamber (Arz Odası), where foreign ambassadors once knelt before the Sultan, presenting tributes on silk cushions. The Library of Ahmed III (III. Ahmed Kütüphanesi), built in 1719, provided a quiet pause — shelves of ancient manuscripts and a cool breeze drifting through latticed windows. It was a scholar’s retreat in the heart of power.
To our right, tucked behind manicured hedges, were the Privy Chamber (Has Oda), housing relics of Islam — artifacts believed to have belonged to the Prophet Muhammad (PBUH) himself. The air inside was thick with reverence; the rhythmic recitation of the Qur’an echoed softly, creating a stillness that made the hair on my arms rise. It is one of the most spiritually significant collections in the Islamic world and contains items like the mantle of Prophet Muhammad, his teeth, beard, and autographed letters. The chamber was originally the private apartment for the sultans, but now serves as a museum display for these holy relics.
A few steps away, the Imperial Treasury (Hazine Dairesi) glittered in stark contrast — an explosion of gold and jewels. The famed Topkapı Dagger, with its three massive emeralds; the Throne of Ahmed I, inlaid with mother-of-pearl; the 86-carat Spoonmaker’s Diamond (Kaşıkçı Elması); and the Sword of Suleyman the Magnificent all seemed to pulse under the dim light, heavy with history.
By the time we reached the Fourth Courtyard (Sofa-ı Hümayun), the palace opened into a tranquil garden of marble terraces and tulip beds. The Mecidiye Pavilion (Mecidiye Kasrı), built in the 19th century, stood out with its European flair — chandeliers, mirrors, and French windows overlooking the Bosphorus. Before leaving, we wandered through the Revan and Baghdad Pavilions, masterpieces of Ottoman tilework, and peeked into the Circumcision Room (Sünnet Odas) with its gilded walls and geometric patterns. Standing on the Marble Terrace, gazing across the Bosphorus toward Asia, it was easy to imagine sultans once reclining here, sipping sherbet as the call to prayer drifted from the city below.
By the time we retraced our steps through the Hagia Irene courtyard and passed the kitchens once more, it was already two in the afternoon. We’d spent nearly five hours in Topkapı, and though some say it can be seen in three, anyone who looks closely will find a full day’s worth of wonder inside those walls. We paused at a café near the kitchen section for iced lemonade to cool down and relax under the shade. The kitchen section has rows of rooms with wide hearths, blackened vaults, and tiled counters built for rhythm and repetition. Their ceilings formed a series of low domes punctuated with small, star-shaped vents that released smoke upward, a practical and beautiful fusion of geometry and function.
By the time we stepped out of Topkapı’s gates, our legs were protesting so we ordered an Uber back to the hotel.After a quick shower and wardrobe reset, hunger took over again, this time with a mission: we were finally going to eat at Dönerci Engin Usta`nın Yeri, the place we’d missed the day before. The small shop sat tucked along a side street not far from Galata Tower — humble in appearance, almost easy to miss. Inside, though, the smell told another story. A vertical spit of slowly rotating meat hissed over the heat, each slice falling like silk ribbons. We ordered döner wrapped in warm lavash bread. It was simple, unpretentious, and perfect — juicy meat layered with a thin swipe of yogurt and tomato sauce. Street food elevated by tradition.
From there, we had a more unexpected stop — meeting Shay’s friend from Instagram, a small artisan brand owner who runs Peraru Chocolate in Beşiktaş. Their story fascinated us: a tiny “bean-to-bar” chocolate maker sourcing ethically grown cocoa and crafting each bar by hand. The studio was tucked in a quiet street near local boutiques, its interior filled with the scent of roasted cocoa and faint notes of caramel. We chatted with the owners tasting different chocolate with rich, earthy, and hints of fruit.There’s something intimate about watching someone pour their philosophy into their craft, and Peraru’s devotion to small-batch authenticity reminded us why we travel — to meet people who still make things slowly, intentionally. We left Peraru with quite a few bars of their dark chocolate (70%, bold and balanced) and plenty of time to reach our next plan — a sunset Bosphorus boat ride. We’d booked it an hour before sunset, hoping to see Istanbul’s skyline turn to gold. But Istanbul, in its infinite unpredictability, had other plans. Our Uber driver, unconvinced by Uber apps directions, decided to improvise — a choice that led us straight into the city’s notorious evening traffic. Within minutes, we were locked in a standstill. Horns blared, the sun kept dropping, and all we could do was watch the sun drop through the window. By the time we reached Kadıköy Pier, the boat was long gone. Missing the cruise hit harder than we expected. It was our only chance that trip, and Shay looked particularly crushed .The company was kind enough to move us to a backup slot for the next day, but with little certainty of getting a spot, we had to pivot. Standing there, we faced a choice: wallow or wander. Naturally, we chose to wander.
Across the street from the pier lay Eminönü — the city’s bustling commercial heart and gateway to some of Istanbul’s most iconic markets. We decided to cross over and make the most of the evening by exploring the Spice Bazaar (Mısır Çarşısı) and its neighboring alleys. Inside, the air was thick with fragrance — cinnamon, saffron, dried roses, and coffee beans mingling into an intoxicating perfume. Vendors called out in melodic tones, offering samples of lokum (Turkish delight), apple tea, and dried apricots glistening like jewels. The building itself, with its arched ceilings and stained-glass windows, was a sensory overload — but in the best way possible.
From the Spice Bazaar, we slipped into the narrow side streets that weave between it and the Grand Bazaar (Kapalıçarşı). These lanes were chaos personified — clusters of shops selling copper lamps, handwoven textiles, and towers of ceramic cups. We lingered over Turkish tea sets etched with gold and miniature evil-eye charms, perfect as keepsakes. We bought a cezve/ ibrik to make turkish coffee at home and also picked up a shallow copper pan called menemen tavasi for turkish scrabbled eggs.
On our way back just outside the Spice Bazaar, the irresistible scent of roasting beans drew us to Kurukahveci Mehmet Efendi, Istanbul’s oldest coffee roastery. Founded in 1871, it still grinds and sells its famous Turkish coffee by hand. The narrow street was filled with locals queuing for their daily dose, the air thick with the bittersweet aroma of freshly roasted beans — a sensory ritual that defines the city’s mornings. It's the brand that made us fall in love with Turkish coffee a decade back. It was nice to finally see them in action.
As light faded we wandered back toward Galata Bridge (Galata Köprüsü). The bridge’s lower deck, lined with seafood restaurants, came alive under strings of lights. Fishermen cast lines from the upper level, their silhouettes etched against the dusky sky. We picked one restaurant at random — more for the view than the menu — and ordered a fish wrap just to see if it lived up to its reputation. It didn’t quite match the one we’d had in Kadıköy earlier, but it came with something intriguing: a small cup of pickle juice (turşu suyu), served as a chaser. Salty, tangy, and oddly refreshing, it’s a local tradition — and surprisingly addictive.
After dinner, we strolled slowly back across the bridge, the city lights flickering on like a constellation around us. Still not ready to call it a night, we retraced our steps toward the Karaköy area. Our first stop was Faruk Güllüoğlu, a baklava institution. Inside, glass cases gleamed with every variety imaginable: pistachio-filled, chocolate-dipped, syrup-soaked. We ordered pistachio baklava and Turkish tea, continuing our nightly ritual. Each bite was crisp, buttery perfection — the layers shattering delicately before melting into syrupy sweetness.
From there, we wandered through Umbrella Street again, drawn by its glow and late-night hum. Souvenir shops were still open, their shelves glittering with copper lamps, ceramics, and hand-painted plates. One store, NT Rugs, caught our eye — we’d seen it mentioned in travel videos and decided to peek inside. The owner welcomed us warmly and began unfolding carpets like a magician revealing secrets. He explained the difference between wool and silk carpets: wool for durability and deep color, silk for luminous sheen and intricate detail. Each rug told a story — motifs of tulips for abundance, pomegranates for prosperity, and geometric medallions representing eternity. We eventually chose one in the Anatolian style, its reds and blues woven in symmetrical patterns. What amazed us most was how effortlessly they packed it — folded tight enough to fit in a carry-on bag without damaging the weave. They offered shipping too, but we decided to carry our little piece of Turkey home ourselves.
As we were leaving, something else caught our eye — a display of İznik tiles, their cobalt blues and turquoise patterns glowing under warm light. These weren’t the tourist reproductions you see in markets; they were handcrafted pieces made from ground quartz, just like the originals from the 16th century. The shopkeeper told us they came from a famous artisan named İsmail Yiğit , who still uses traditional firing techniques from İznik. The tiles were so beautiful they almost seemed alive — patterns of carnations, tulips, and vines frozen mid-dance. We bought a one, the perfect reminder of Istanbul’s artistry.
By the time we left, it was close to eleven. Laden with shopping bags and a deep sense of satisfaction, we made our way back to the hotel. Shay was radiant — she’d wanted a Turkish rug for years, and now she had one from the very place that invented them. We climbed the cobbled hill back to Meroddi Barnathan. Back in our room, the Galata Tower gleamed through the window like a nightlight for the city. We unpacked our souvenirs, took a shower, and sank into bed — exhausted, content, and still pissed about the missed cruise. Istanbul had its own rhythm, and we were learning to dance to it.