The Waypoint of the Moment
The Gateway of Warmth: A Fleeting Moment on an Istanbul Layover
Fresh out of my Ph.D. program on a graduation trip.
Below, the earth glittered in a vast, unbroken expanse of electric light. Even at five in the morning, Istanbul pulsed with an unflagging vitality that gave me a moment’s pause. A subtle wave of anxiety washed over me as I prepared to step out into this foreign city.
The plane’s tires struck the runway with a dull thud, and the cabin lights brightened slightly. I rose hastily, eager not to try the patience of the stranger seated beside me.
A March morning in Istanbul carries a bite crisp enough to turn your breath to plumes of white mist. The sky hung heavy and dark, as though the world had been cast in a soft, monochromatic filter. Woven from a labyrinth of steep inclines and abrupt turns, the cityscape reveals almost nothing of what lies around the next corner.
Treading carefully to avoid losing my footing on the uneven cobblestones, I set about checking off the destinations on my self-made itinerary, one by one. As the distances began to take shape, a comforting truth dawned on me. So long as I kept my bearings, nowhere was ever truly out of reach on foot. No one paid any mind to an Asian woman walking alone.
My principal objective was künefe. When it arrived at the table, I scattered crushed pistachios across its top and drizzled it with syrup.
At the first touch of the knife, it yielded with a light, crisp crunch, exposing a core of softly melted, snow-white cheese.
I took a bite and was struck: it was astonishingly weightless. In its effortless play of sweetness, salt, and the toasted aroma of wheat, it recalled an American pancake. Yet the texture couldn’t have been more different. The thin, threadlike pastry known as kadaif crackled and rustled in a delicate rhythm with every chew. The syrup—applied by my own hand at that very moment—refrained from soddening the fragile threads, lending instead a subtle, elegant note of rose. The cheese within stretched like mozzarella, carrying a faint, savory richness reminiscent of cured meat. And the crunch of the pistachios provided an accent, bridging the gap between a pastry far more fragile than pie and the elastic pull of the cheese.
A moment warm, fleeting, and utterly perfect.
Much like Istanbul itself.
If Japan is a traveler’s final destination, Istanbul is a city that has thrived as a waypoint. Perhaps that is why, whenever you speak to someone here, they respond in fluent English accompanied by a warm, welcoming smile. It is as though the city knows precisely how to be remembered, and how to be chosen once again.
I will never forget the moment I turned to look out over Istanbul from atop the Galata Bridge. A vast mosaic of weathered facades emerged from the pale mist, stretching as far as the eye could see. Lingering in the air was not merely the presence of those alive today, but the profound resonance of an unimaginable multitude who, since recorded history began, built this city, passed through it, and wove its history.
Long before Japan possessed a permanent capital city, this location was already serving as a vital linchpin along the trade routes bridging Asia and Europe.
And here I was, en route from Japan to Europe, standing on the very same ground. A small, transient point appearing quietly within a narrative thousands of years old.
This is not a place where journeys come to an end. It is a city that gathers travelers from every corner of the earth, gently nudges them forward, and sends them on their way.
By the time I returned to Istanbul Airport, my initial apprehension had dissolved. I sank into my seat on the plane bound for my next destination: Prague. Carrying the warmth and momentum received at this gateway to the world, my first long journey was about to open its next door.