Galata Tower has kept watch over the same bend of water since 1348, when Genoese merchants raised it as the crown of their walled colony across the Golden Horn from Byzantine Constantinople. They called it the Tower of Christ; it was a beacon and a statement in stone. The Ottomans put it to work for centuries — watching for fires, holding prisoners, tracking stars — and its conical cap has been lost and rebuilt more than once. What survives is one of the city's oldest tall structures, a nine-storey cylinder of rough pale stone on a hill that was already crowded when it was new.
You climb to a narrow balcony that wraps the top, and the whole city arranges itself below: the domes and minarets of the old peninsula, the Golden Horn threaded with ferries, the Bosphorus opening toward the sea. The lanes at its foot still tangle downhill toward the water, full of music shops, cafés, and buskers. Legend says one Ottoman scholar flew from this balcony on homemade wings. Today the tower is a museum, and a slow queue winds beneath it for much of the day.