Cihangir is the hillside neighbourhood that tips down from Taksim toward the Bosphorus, and you feel it in your legs first. The streets fall steeply toward the water, and between balconies and laundry lines the strait keeps appearing in silver slivers with the old city rising beyond it. Café terraces spill onto the pavements. Tall stone apartment buildings line the slope, raised around the turn of the twentieth century after fires cleared the wooden houses that stood here, and they give the quarter the faded European look it still wears.
Cats doze on doorsteps and windowsills, fed by half the street. In recent decades this became Istanbul's bohemia, home to writers, filmmakers and antique dealers, and the second-hand shops of neighbouring Çukurcuma stack mirrors and chandeliers into the light. A mosque Sinan built for Süleyman's son Cihangir stands on the hill and gave the quarter its name. It stays lived-in rather than monumental: people buy bread, linger over tea and watch the ferries cross while the call to prayer drifts up the hill.