Galata Bridge

Listen first. Below your feet, traffic hums across the deck. A tram bell rings somewhere behind you. Above it all, gulls cry and turn in the wind coming off the water. Look to the railing and you will see fishing lines. Dozens of them, sometimes hundreds, drop in thin silver threads toward the Golden Horn. Plastic buckets sit at the anglers' feet, half full of seawater and small, flickering fish. This is Galata Bridge, and the first thing to know is that it is a working street.

The bridge crosses the Golden Horn, a long, curved inlet of water that splits the European side of Istanbul in two. On one bank lies Eminönü and the old walled city, the heart of Byzantine Constantinople and later the Ottoman capital. On the other bank lies Karaköy, at the foot of the old Galata district. For centuries, these two shores felt like different worlds. One was imperial and religious. The other was a quarter of merchants, sailors, and foreign communities.

Here is something many visitors never hear. In the early sixteenth century, the Ottoman Sultan Bayezid the Second looked for a design for a bridge across this inlet. Leonardo da Vinci sent a proposal. His sketch showed a single, elegant arch of stone, far longer than any bridge of its time. The sultan did not build it. Centuries later, engineers studied the drawing and found the idea sound. A small version based on his design now stands in Norway.

For a long time after that, people crossed this water by boat. Small rowing boats called caiques carried passengers from shore to shore all day long. The first bridge at this spot came in the nineteenth century, built of wood and floating on pontoons. Over the following decades, it was replaced several times as the city grew. Each new version carried more people, more carts, and later, more trams and cars than the one before.

The bridge you stand on today is the most recent of those crossings. It opened in 1994. Its predecessor was an older floating bridge from the early twentieth century, with shops and cafés along its lower level. That older bridge was badly damaged by fire in the early 1990s. Parts of it were later towed up the Golden Horn, away from the city centre. So the bridge has moved, burned, and returned in a new form — always in roughly the same place.

Now look at the structure itself. The bridge is made of steel and concrete, and it is fairly plain to the eye. Its central section is a bascule, which means it can lift up, like a drawbridge, to let tall ships pass. On the upper deck, you will find car lanes, wide pavements, and the tram line in the middle. Below, a lower walkway runs along both sides, lined with restaurants and cafés just above the water.

The fishermen are the true residents here. They come at dawn and stay late into the evening, in summer heat and winter wind. Some are retired. Some come after work. Many seem to know each other well. They mostly catch small fish, such as horse mackerel and, in season, anchovies. Watch for a moment and you may see a line pulled up with several fish at once, each one shining as it swings over the rail.

Turn toward the old city side for one of the best views in Istanbul. Near the water stands the New Mosque, with its grey domes and slender minarets. Despite its name, it is several centuries old. Higher on the hill, look for the large mosque complex of Süleymaniye, built for Sultan Süleyman, often called the Magnificent. Its domes crown the ridge. Further along, the skyline continues with more domes and towers, one layered behind the other.

Now turn around and face the other shore. Rising above the rooftops of Galata, you will see a round stone tower with a pointed cone on top. This is the Galata Tower. It was built by the Genoese, traders from Italy who controlled this district in the late Middle Ages. From the bridge, the tower looks small against the hillside. But it has watched over this water for centuries, long before any bridge existed below it.

Smell is part of the experience too. At the Eminönü end, the air often carries grilled fish and smoke. Boats moored by the shore have long been known for selling fish sandwiches, called balık ekmek, which simply means fish and bread. Nearby, the Spice Bazaar sends out traces of cinnamon, coffee, and dried herbs. Street sellers push carts of simit, a ring of bread covered in sesame seeds. Many locals eat one on the walk across.

Watch the water traffic for a few minutes. Ferries move constantly in and out of the piers near both ends of the bridge. They carry commuters to the Asian side of the city and up the Bosphorus, the strait that links the Black Sea to the Sea of Marmara. Small fishing boats, tour boats, and the occasional larger vessel also pass. Gulls follow the ferries closely. Passengers sometimes throw bread from the decks, and the birds catch it in midair.

The light here changes the whole scene. In the early morning, the water can look pale and calm, with mist over the far shore. At midday, the bridge is crowded and loud. As the sun sets, it often falls behind the old city, and the domes and minarets turn into dark shapes against an orange sky. The fishing lines catch the last light. After dark, the restaurants below glow, and reflections spread across the water.

Before you move on, take one more slow look around. Notice the buckets, the bent rods, the patient faces at the rail. Notice the tram sliding past and the ferries leaving white lines on the water behind them. This crossing has never been only a monument. It is a place where people work, eat, wait, and pass through, every single day. As you walk on toward either shore, you are joining a very old habit of this city — simply moving from one side to the other.