Feriköy's Sunday antique market began with dealers squeezed out of pricier antique districts and older flea grounds, who regrouped under a plain concrete market roof in Şişli. What they built is a weekly memory bank for the whole city. Row after row of folding tables carry Ottoman coins, Yeşilçam film posters, Bakelite telephones, brass samovars, cracked vinyl, and photographs of strangers no one remembers. Film-set dressers, collectors, and decorators comb the rows before most of the city is awake.
Come on a Sunday morning and the hall fills with the smell of old paper and machine oil. Tea sellers weave between the stalls with swinging trays. Nothing has a fixed price, so every purchase is a short, friendly negotiation. You crouch, you dig, and a bundle of someone's handwritten postcards slides out of a shoebox. Today the market draws students, travellers tired of the Grand Bazaar, and Istanbullus who treat it as a weekly ritual rather than a shop.