My inbound landed at 18:00. My outbound wasn’t due until some 6 hours later, at about half past midnight. Six hours that I could’ve spent wandering aimlessly through the airport corridors, boozing in a lounge, ending up – inevitably – staring at a clock ticking away.
Or, instead, I could’ve taken a tram into town, guided by timeless allure of the Eminönü waterfront, its coming and going of ferries, its food stalls, its timeless charm and happy personal memories. I didn’t need a moment to decide: I was out in minutes, ready to go.
Of that layover a few pictures – four, to be precise – all of them in black & white, because Istanbul deserves only the most stylish colours. Men during the rush hour commute, a purchase of roast chestnuts before catching the ferry to Kadıköy, a view from Galata Bridge and a party of women tucking into a fish sandwich. Random pictures, occasional snapshots of an evening that is now only blurred in my mind, but tinted with pleasantness.
Because, at the end of the day, there ain’t such a thing as a bad time in Istanbul.