14/09. On the other side, in old Istanbul: the Egyptian Bazaar, the Rüstem Pasha and Süleymaniye Mosques, Küçükpazar.
Kate’s grumbling because we still haven’t bought the famous "Istanbul kart" for public transport (really handy, I’ll find out a bit later). But from our accommodation, I want to cross the Golden Horn on foot via the Galata Bridge to get to the other side, what’s called old Istanbul.
The bridge is packed with fishermen, squeezed in like sardines. I smile, thinking of Sète, my hometown. They seem a bit calmer than back home!
In front of us, the old Mediterranean city sprawls in tiers from the hills down to the sea...
Against the sky’s deep blue, facing the sun, I lose myself in the sight of those plump-domed mosques, their sharp minarets punctuating the urban landscape like exclamation points...


So, what now? Kate, who always takes the lead on our trips—handling transport, accommodation, all the paperwork (money, passports)—lets me plan the discoveries. I know she could do it without me, but that’s how we work; she trusts me. Plus, she has zero sense of direction—none at all! And she’s too busy worrying about the photos she’ll take with her precious, heavy Nikon. Okay, but I’ll have to step up anyway.
Yesterday’s first mosque visit left me frustrated. I’m in a Muslim country, in a civilization capable of creating magnificent places of worship, and I don’t want to miss out.
From the Eminönü tram station, we head toward the Rüstem Pasha Mosque, right in the heart of the maze of shopping streets next to the Egyptian Bazaar. Still overly cautious, I ask, "Can we enter the mosque?" Of course, I hadn’t yet realized that in Turkey, at least in Istanbul, mosques are freely accessible except during prayer times. We climb a steep staircase to reach a terrace. The information signs are clear, with English text and drawings: appropriate attire (headscarves for women, no shorts for men), don’t enter the prayer area. The 16th-century mosque’s interior is stunning, clad in blue with Iznik tiles, its gentle rise toward the domes, the carpet so soft under bare feet. No worshippers at this hour, just groups of tourists awestruck and respectful of the beauty around them.

Diving into the "Egyptian Bazaar." Misnamed, really, since it was actually run by Ottoman merchants in the 17th century, who preceded the Venetians and Genoese. The beautifully restored building forms a covered quadrilateral, supported by broken vaults on bicolored arches. Originally dedicated to selling spices, perfumes, and medicinal plants, it’s now essentially a market for tourists—both Turkish and foreign. You’ll find everything: spices, sweets, scarves, "made in China" souvenirs. The artificial light from the ceiling, the vibrant colors of the spices, Turkish delight, and fabrics give the place a magical, exotic feel—though it’s not exactly authentic, since I don’t think many Istanbul locals shop here.
You can see it from far away on the Galata Bridge. The Süleymaniye Mosque, perched atop the hill, dominates the urban landscape. Süleyman— Suleiman the Magnificent, the powerful sultan of the Ottoman Empire during what was the Renaissance in Europe.
Istanbul’s streets are steep, and the climb is tough. You’ve got to earn your way to the sky! We arrive at a vast esplanade offering a splendid view of the Golden Horn and the Bosphorus, the hills of Galata, and the Asian lands on the other side. From here, you really grasp the geography of this exceptional site.
While the exterior of the monument leans toward gray-blue, inside it’s mostly red that dominates—the carpets and the voussoirs of the arched windows. The space is immense, flooded with light. No benches like in churches; the space is open, and nothing stops your gaze from naturally rising upward. And of course, like in all mosques worldwide, no images—just calligraphic or floral motifs as decoration.


After spending a good while enjoying the tranquility of the place, we head toward a cemetery reserved for dignitaries, where the mausoleum of Süleyman, all blue and rounded, stands prominently.
A quiet lunch near the mosque along a row of small restaurants. A tout catches us. Normally, I hate that kind of behavior, but this guy is friendly and courteous, and his oddly empty terrace invites relaxation. We give in. I order kuru fasulye, a delicious stew made with white beans, a bit of meat, and tomato.
After the meal, we cross the Küçükpazar area, which slopes steeply from the foot of the mosque down to the Golden Horn. What a strange feeling. The upper part of the neighborhood is heavily run-down, pockmarked with vacant lots and crumbling houses, roamed by scrawny cats. Here and there, at the turn of a narrow street, a few colorful wooden buildings that must have been beautiful in their time. On a dusty square littered with trash, we spot a family looking destitute. The woman is crouched down, seemingly preparing soup cooking on a brazier. She’s not begging but puts her hand to her mouth to signal she’s hungry. Kate approaches and hands her a bill. The woman thanks her.
I don’t understand. The neighborhood seems abandoned—maybe it’s being redeveloped, as urban planners would say? A woman leans out her window and greets us in Arabic: "Salam Aleikoum." Kate asks if she can take her photo; she smiles and agrees. From the bottom of the street, I look at her—she must have been beautiful in her time too.



As we descend, the poverty gradually fades, and at the bottom, we cross a lively working-class neighborhood. Lots of men in the cafés. We decide to sit down for some çay to soak in the atmosphere.
I love Turkish tea—their ruby color, their slightly astringent taste (I drink it without sugar), the way it’s served in translucent, flared glasses.

The day ends in the good-natured frenzy of the shopping district around the Egyptian Bazaar and the New Mosque.

Before heading back, we finally buy the famous "Istanbul kart" at the Eminönü station. A quick stop at the supermarket—tonight, we’re dining in. Tomorrow, Sultanahmet and its sumptuous monuments. Tomorrow, it’s Byzantium...