A Night in Istanbul

MOVING BETWEEN BARS, DANCE FLOORS, AND CROWDED STREETS WHERE MOST OF THE NIGHTLIFE HAPPENS OUTSIDE, SITTING OVER CHEAP TEA AND SHISHA UNTIL THE EARLY MORNING.

Kadıköy

22:47. We get on the ferry without thinking too much about it. It’s the easiest way to start the night, a slow crossing over to the European side of the old city. The air is heavy and warm, carrying the smell of salt and diesel from the water below. Most people have already started their chain-smoking for the night and phones light up around us constantly. Messages, plans, “where are you?”, the usual logistical dance that precedes nights like these. 

We don’t really have a fixed plan, that’s normal, Istanbul doesn’t seem to really reward planning. We decide to pick a direction and adjust as we go. Karaköy is already busy when we arrive. People are arriving, meeting, and splitting off again every few minutes as someone recognizes someone else across the street. Music leaks out from different bars at once, blending into the general noise of the neighborhood.

The first stop is somewhere easy, a bar where we can talk without shouting too much. I order a drink, a slightly overpriced beer, something which seems to be expensive everywhere in Turkey. Conversations overlap around us: Turkish, English, Arabic, bits of German, fragments of French. No one seems fully settled, everyone halfway between starting the night and figuring out where it will go next.

By 01:30, people start moving. NOH Radio is already crowded. It’s packed inside, made up of cool-looking Turkish students and groups huddling together discussing music, their disdain at the current state of politics, and upcoming deadlines. The upstairs bar moves slowly, people waiting patiently for cocktails that are beyond overpriced, but no one’s really here because of them.

Downstairs is tighter, a small dancefloor with a DJ who seems to know what they’re doing. The bass feels heavy in the room, bouncing off the walls and people gradually compress toward the center of the room. We stay dancing for a bit, just long enough to start overheating, then eventually end up outside like everyone else and join in on the chain-smoking and the endless pavement conversations that seem to stretch across friend groups and strangers alike.

That’s where most of it happens. The street is full, people sitting on steps, standing in loose groups, leaning on cars, drinking from bottles they’ve brought out with them. Someone passes around a lighter every few minutes. People talk about music, someone’s breakup, where they studied, where they might move next year.

Some locals tell us that this started during COVID, when bars had to close early and people just stayed outside. It sort of just stuck and now it’s like this most nights, especially weekends,  half the nightlife happening on the street rather than inside.

An alley nearby does the job, with tea being poured constantly and a few low stools arranged around small metal tables. This trip has been humbling for my knees, everything here seems to happen closer to the ground.

Tea is cheap, about 15 lira, so we sit and smoke. The small tulip-shaped glasses arrive one after another. I inevitably burn my fingers once again on the always-boiling glass cup.

Later, we end up at Erenler Nargile, inside Çorlulu Ali Paşa Medresesi. It’s a tucked-away çay and shisha hangout spot, and really easy to miss if you don’t know it’s there. The courtyard is calm, covered in Turkish carpets, with cats constantly weaving in and out of our legs, and it feels oddly timeless. The walls are old stone, worn smooth in places from years of people leaning against them. It’s all locals except us, people who clearly come here often. 

We sit, order a nargile (hookah, shisha, whatever), and tea again. The coals crackle quietly while someone nearby taps ash into a small metal tray. There’s a group of police sitting nearby, also drinking tea. They’re not doing much, just there. No one seems to pay them much attention. By 04:30, things slow down naturally.

Back on the street, people are quieter now. We get food without really planning it, a greasy adana kebab and a dripping döner sandwich wrapped in thin paper, the kind that’s impossible to eat without getting sauce on your hands. It’s perfect.

By morning, everything resets. The streets are calmer, the light starts coming in between the buildings, and the city looks normal again.