Istanbul’s Gray Days

Often I think the best times to explore Istanbul’s neighborhood are on the gray days. The threat of rain thins out the crowds, and the heavy clouds add drama to a city that’s already full of it. The Bosphorus turns the color of concrete but vibrancy bursts from unexpected corners—the red of a simit seller’s cart, the blue hull of a quiet boat, the unexpected patches of green grass sprouting under lonely trees. The dreariness is romantic, in a strange way. Istanbul emits a false loveliness in the sunshine. This complicated city, with the heaviness of gray, is truer to the way I feel here. There’s nothing like riding the ferry with a hot cup of tea on a rainy afternoon on your way to a quiet adventure. The sky sits closer on those cloudy days. You can find a smallness, and nook, a space to make your own. Whether its exploring empty playgrounds in Uskudar, walking the long way up to Eyup, or running on the washed-out seaside in my own neighborhood of Moda, the rain and the gray and the clouded sky makes unplanned excursions into exuberant explorations. An outing to Istanbul’s Emirgan Park is usually mobbed during the halcyon April days of its Tulip Festival. The park swarms with both tourists and locals desperate to enjoy one of Istanbul’s green spaces and craving the shock of color that the tulips bring. But on a recent trip at the tail-end of April’s fading days, the tulips had withered and the persistent drizzle kept the park quiet. That quiet is rarer than park space in Istanbul; having these sprawling grounds to ourselves was doubly special. The rain was sporadic, mostly lingering in mist. Emirgan was atmospheric, and the faded flowers added to the ambience: a foggy oasis in the middle of the wild city. Rained-out parks, dead flowers—there’s something ecstatic about all the beauty that exists in unexpected places. Emirgan Park in the blooming sunshine would have been nice. Emirgan Park in the dying fog was a dream. The gray days are full of surprises, full of small pleasures.