With so much time on my hands, I followed narrow gobbled lanes
through residential areas to the Aqueduct of Valens, a monumental
aqueduct built by the Romans in the 4th century & spanning a busy
boulevard. In the afternoon, I hopped on a tourist boat along the
Bosphorus and saw the city from a different angle. On my return, I
made my way to the Yeni Mosque on Eminönü Square for my grilled
corn and Ayran.
This was my last day in Istanbul and I realised it will always linger in
my bones—the scent of simit, the shimmer of the Bosphorus, the
echo of footsteps on cobbled lanes. My bicycle was boxed, my laundry
folded, and my heart both full and restless. The tremor I felt days
earlier—subtle, seismic—seemed to mirror something internal. A
shift. A readiness. Now, the road pointed south. Cairo awaited. My
sister, too. The flight would be short, but the transition felt vast—
Turkey’s layered empires giving way to Egypt’s ancient sands.
The road was never just about distance. It was about presence.
About being in the moment, even when that moment was muddy or
mundane or magnificent.
And so, with Istanbul behind me and Cairo ahead, I whispered a
thank you to the road. To the strangers who became companions. To
the landscapes that became memories. To the wind, even when it
pushed back.