From the diary of the “Ramadan Press Trip” expedition

My immersion into the heart of Türkiye began at an altitude of ten thousand meters. The Ashgabat–Istanbul flight operated by Turkish Airlines brought the first pleasant surprise: by a fortunate coincidence, I was offered an upgrade to business class. Sinking into comfort, I realized that this journey would be one where hospitality (in Turkish — misafirperverlik) would become the main leitmotif.

Our flight departed from Ashgabat very early — at four in the morning — and for passengers observing the fast, it was the perfect time for the final pre-dawn meal (suhoor). The Turkish airline seemed to know this: on a small tray were neatly arranged ham, several types of cheese, hummus, three kinds of olives, fresh vegetables, and a mound of tropical fruits — kiwi, oranges, and grapefruit. For me, Türkiye began not at the airport, but here, high above the ground. After such a “modest” breakfast, I dozed off...

Four and a half hours passed almost unnoticed, and our airliner began its descent. A strange feeling: we took off at four in the morning Ashgabat time, flew for nearly five hours, yet the clock showed only six. It was as if we had outrun time — the difference in time zones had gifted us this morning twice. By the time we reached the baggage claim area, the suitcases were already moving along the conveyor belt. There is also another feature at Istanbul Airport: once you turn on your phone, it automatically connects to free Wi-Fi for guests, allowing you to immediately call those who are meeting you or inform your loved ones about your safe arrival.

The Istanbul International Airport was living its bustling, ultra-modern life, but as soon as we stepped out toward the bus parking area, that distinctive air hit us — moist, slightly salty, and full of the promise of spring. At the exit we were already greeted by our guide, Berkan Tashan, and our bus driver, Iskander.

The road from the airport to the city is always a transition from futuristic glass and concrete into the embrace of living history. The bus glided smoothly along the highway, while outside the window the panorama of awakening suburbs were unfolded. At the beginning of the journey, our guide Berkan introduced us to the program of our stay. It was very rich, and I could already imagine how many steps the pedometer on my phone would count — because, as is often the case, most of our route would be covered on foot.

The morning sun, not yet warm but already dazzling, gilded the tops of the pine trees and the roofs of distant houses. Inside the bus it was warm and quiet; only the soft hum of the engine gently lulled us after the flight. Yet no one felt like sleeping. Curious eyes followed every turn of the road until, ahead in the hazy mist, the silhouettes of minarets and the masts of ships began to appear. The city that stands between Asia and Europe, divided by the great waters, slowly unfolded before us, promising that this spring in Istanbul would be something special.

The real key to the city’s secrets turned out to be our guide — Berkan. Fluent in Russian and filled with the enthusiasm of a true teacher and historian, he proudly revealed Istanbul to us in the smallest details. From his stories we learned that this city was not built merely by architects, but by geniuses of global stature. Berkan told us an astonishing fact: at the beginning of the 16th century Sultan Bayezid II dreamed of connecting the shores of the Golden Horn and sent an invitation to Michelangelo Buonarroti himself. The great Italian considered the design of a bridge that could have become the eighth wonder of the world. Although the project was never realized, the very thought that the hand of the creator of David might have touched the image of Istanbul makes one look at the bay differently.

…We arrived at our hotel, The Marmara Pera, which would become our home for the next two days. The hotel is located in the very heart of Beyoğlu — an ideal base: Galata Tower, Taksim Square, and Istiklal Street are all nearby.

At the reception desk we noticed an unexpected detail: an entire wall covered with women’s hats. As we were told, the hotel’s owner had brought them back from each of his travels around the world. The collection was assembled over many years — hats from Paris, Milan, Cairo, Istanbul… Now they decorate the lobby and accompany guests on their way to breakfast.

Otherwise, the hotel delighted us with its classic advantages: a rooftop pool overlooking the evening city and the Mikla restaurant with a panoramic view of the Bosphorus. Yet this small “museum” at the reception set the mood: Istanbul welcomed us not only with coffee and lokum, but also with a story gathered from all over the world.

Berkan gave us some time to rest and announced that we would meet again in the lobby in three hours. After leaving our hotel, we headed to another one… But this was no ordinary hotel — it was a hotel-museum, Pera Palace: a place where time folds into rings.

There are places that do not simply preserve history — they breathe it. Pera Palace in Istanbul is exactly such a place. When you approach this building on the hill of Beyoğlu, the first thought that comes to mind is that it remembers things we can hardly imagine.

The year was 1892. In Paris the memory of the Commune was still alive, Vincent van Gogh was painting his final sunflowers, and in Istanbul a hotel was opened especially for the passengers of the Orient Express. Imagine it: on a chilly evening, a lady wrapped in furs steps off the train, followed by a gentleman in a top hat. Only yesterday they were having tea in London, and today Constantinople greets them with its minarets and the cries of seagulls. And they are led not to an ordinary inn, but to a place where electric lights already glow and hot water flows from the tap — unimaginable luxury for those years.

The hotel was built at the highest point of Pera — as this district used to be called — so that every guest could look down upon the Golden Horn, as befits a traveler who has conquered distance.

And then there was the elevator — the first electric elevator in Turkey, the second in Europe after the one in the Eiffel Tower. It still works today. Just imagine this machine of time: an ornate cast-iron door, wrought-iron patterns, mirrors dimmed by the patina of age. When the porter, with a bow, opens the little gate and you step inside, it feels as though the cabin might shudder and carry you not to the fourth floor, but straight into the century before last. You can hear the old cables humming, and somewhere deep in the shaft the mechanism creaks softly.

It was in this very cabin that the wives of ambassadors rustled their silk dresses. And here, holding his hat, a young officer named Mustafa Kemal once rode up to his floor — the very man who would later become Atatürk. Mustafa Kemal Atatürk stayed here many times beginning in 1917. He loved this hotel, perhaps because from here one could look out over the city he dreamed of transforming. His room — number 101 — today resembles a frozen frame from an old film.

Here, every object seems to remember the touch of his hands. The books in Turkish and French that he once read. The medals on his uniform. An old carpet, a gift from an Indian maharaja — they say that if you look long enough at its intricate pattern, you can discern the hidden date November 10, 1938, the day when Atatürk’s heart stopped.

The room on the first floor is always half in shadow; the light falls only from the windows. It feels as though he has simply stepped out for a moment — that he will return any minute, sit down at this desk, draw the curtain aside, and look out toward the Bosphorus.

These staircases, these corridors… Agatha Christie walked through them in 1926. And again in 1933, when she was working on Murder on the Orient Express. They say she locked herself in Room 411 for entire days, drank black tea, and tapped away at the keys of her portable typewriter. That very typewriter still stands on a small table by the window.

There is also a legend. In 1926, Agatha disappeared for eleven days. All of England searched for her, yet she seemed to vanish without a trace. Later she was found in a hotel in northern England, with no memory of what had happened. Historians still debate whether it was a nervous breakdown or a carefully calculated act.

Then, in 2004, a medium came to Istanbul and declared: “The key to the mystery is hidden beneath the floorboards of Room 411.” Beneath the floorboards, they indeed found an old key. Of course, it was later revealed that it had been planted there as a publicity stunt. But does that really matter? What matters is that now, every evening at dusk, it feels as though a shadow might slip around the corner — a figure in a long coat with the collar turned up. And vanish. Like Agatha. Like time.

Today, Pera Palace is managed by the Dubai-based hotel chain Jumeirah — the same group that built the famous Burj Al Arab in Dubai. Yet the old elevator still creaks as it carries guests from floor to floor. In the Agatha Restaurant, an English breakfast is served, while in the Orient Bar they mix cocktails that Ernest Hemingway once enjoyed. From the wall, Greta Garbo gazes down in a black-and-white photograph, and Alfred Hitchcock seems as if he has just stepped outside for a cigarette.

In the evening, when the lights of the Galata Tower come on and the Bosphorus darkens, turning almost the color of oil, you can sit in the lobby, sip Turkish tea from a delicate glass, and listen to the wooden floorboards creak softly. At Pera Palace, time does not stop. It simply moves in circles, like that old elevator, returning us to an era when travel was an art, hotels were palaces, and life itself felt like a novel.

The morning has only just begun, yet the diary in my mind is already filled with impressions. And ahead lie thousands of steps, thousands of stories. This is only the beginning. To be continued.