There are trips that change your routine. And then there are journeys that change your soul. My solo trip to Türkiye was the latter: a tapestry of warm smiles, ancient echoes, and small acts of sisterhood that stitched themselves into my heart.

I had always dreamt of wandering on my own, not just travelling, but truly experiencing what it means to be alone with the world. Türkiye called to me with its soulful blend of East and West, offering the comfort of familiarity and the thrill of the unknown. 

I carried a thousand anxieties in my suitcase. But what I found instead was unexpected kinship, saffron-scented streets, and endless cups of Turkish tea—often gifted by strangers who greeted me with a simple, disarming phrase: “You are from Pakistan? Welcome, sister.”

Türkiye, with all its mystery and history, both excited and unnerved me. I was anxious, clutching my passport tighter than needed, heart pounding at every airport sign. What if I got lost? What if I wasn’t safe? But the moment I stepped onto Istanbul’s soil, something shifted.

Strangers smiled. Tea was poured. Doors opened. My fears melted into the warmth of Turkish hospitality. In a foreign land, I found unexpected familiarity, like a sisterhood stitched in silks and saffron. 

In Istanbul, the cultural soul of Türkiye and once its political capital until 1923, history lingers in every stone and silhouette. Though the seat of government was moved to Ankara to mark a new republic, Istanbul remains a living archive of empires, faiths, and stories.

I checked into the charming Nidya Hotel Galataport, just a short walk from the Bosphorus, a simmering strait connecting Asia with Europe. The staff welcomed me with a steaming cup of apple-flavoured Turkish çay (which instantly became my favourite) and kind eyes that gently eased my nerves.

That first evening, as I wandered the quiet lanes near my stay, something within me began to soften, a cautious exhale I didn’t know I’d been holding in for years.

Back home in Karachi, stepping out alone often came with an invisible weight, a quiet fear stitched into every plan, every route. But here, in Türkiye, the streets seemed to cradle me gently, watched by warm lamps and eyes that did not pry. 

I was drawn into a quaint antique shop where a kind Turkish shopkeeper pressed a Nazar Boncugu (evil eye bead) bracelet into my hand, refusing payment. “Pakistan, dost,” he smiled. “Gift.” And in that small moment, wrapped in kindness and unexpected calm, I felt myself begin to truly unwind.

Echoes of empires

I began my day with a hearty Turkish breakfast, locally known as kahvalti: a feast of cheeses, olives, fruits, and breads, finished with endless pours of strong black tea served in tulip-shaped cups.

A charming addition to my Turkish culinary experiment was rose petal jam: soft, blush-pink, almost too pretty to eat, but one spoonful in and I was hooked. I began my full-day tour of Istanbul’s Old City, and it felt like stepping into a painting.

The Sultan Ahmet Mosque felt majestic, bathed in the soft glow of its iconic blue Iznik tiles, their delicate patterns quietly drawing my eyes upward.

Built in the early 1600s under the rule of Sultan Ahmet I, the mosque is more than a place of worship; it’s a testament to Ottoman ambition and architectural elegance. Its six minarets, bold for their time, once sparked controversy for rivalling the sacred mosque in Mecca.

Across the square, the Aya Sofya Mosque rose in quiet, timeless majesty, a sacred silhouette etched into nearly 1,500 years of history.

Once the world’s largest cathedral, its vast dome floated impossibly above, a marvel of engineering and devotion that shaped architectural dreams for centuries to come.

Through its many lives, church, mosque, museum, and now mosque once more, it has absorbed the spirit of each era, blending Byzantine splendour with Ottoman grace.

Inside, despite the soft murmur of visitors, the air thrummed with reverence. Whether in awe of its celestial ceilings or kneeling in prayer, one cannot help but feel the weight and wonder of centuries beneath its dome.

Across the courtyard stood the former seat of the Ottoman sultans for over four centuries, the historical Topkapi Palace that held a story in every corner.

It is a sprawling complex where I wandered through opulent chambers that once cradled the empire’s most powerful secrets.

Every doorway opened into another world: one of gilded relics, handwritten Qurans, and jewel-encrusted swords, each artefact echoing a time when politics and poetry lived not in opposition, but in exquisite harmony.

Even in bustling tourist hubs, shopkeepers, surprisingly, spoke Urdu. “From Skardu,” one said proudly, referring to Baltistan in northern Pakistan. My heart swelled. We were strangers, but not.

Leaving Istanbul, I took a bus the next morning to the hauntingly serene Gallipoli Battlefields, where time folds gently into memory. At ANZAC Cove, I stood where thousands of Australian and New Zealand soldiers had landed in 1915, part of a doomed campaign to claim the Dardanelles.

At Lone Pine, the silence was deeper. Beneath the whispering pines, simple headstones stretched across the earth, each one a quiet elegy to lives lost in days of brutal combat. The ground here bore the weight of grief, yet offered a solemn grace in return.

Then I moved on to Chunuk Bair, a place I had read about in history class as a child. It's one of the highest points seized by the western forces; the view was heartbreakingly beautiful.

It was here that Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, the future founder of modern Türkiye, made his name as a commander, famously rallying troops with the words: “I am not ordering you to fight; I am ordering you to die.”

The serenity of the coast, the soft hush of waves, the scent of wild thyme on the wind, stood in haunting contrast to the sorrow buried beneath the soil. That evening, at the Iris Hotel in Çanakkale, I sat in quiet reflection over dinner, the weight of the day still lingering in my thoughts. 

From myths to history

The next day began with the mythical ruins of Troy, yes, the land of the fabled city of Homer’s Iliad, where Greeks and Trojans clashed over love, pride, and power.

While the towering wooden horse may be legend, the ruins are very real: layer upon layer of ancient settlements dating back over 4,000 years.

I wandered the site alone, without a guide or group, yet never once felt unsafe. There was a quiet reassurance in the air, the quiet comfort in the way Türkiye embraced its visitors: kind eyes, unspoken nods, a staff member pointed out a shaded bench without me asking - small gestures that wove together a feeling of being looked after, even in the solitude, as though the land itself was keeping watch, gently holding you in its timeless, generous spirit.

From myth, I moved to history. At Pergamum, once a jewel of the ancient Greek and Roman worlds, I climbed to its acropolis, perched like a crown above a sunlit valley.

This was a city of thinkers and builders, where the Library of Pergamum once held over 200,000 scrolls, and temples stood proudly in the name of Athena and Zeus. The hillside theatre, carved straight into the earth, looked out across centuries.

That night, in Kuşadası, I checked into the Adakule Hotel. My balcony faced the Aegean, its waves murmuring softly outside my window. I slept deeply, knowing I was far from home, and yet somehow, profoundly safe.

The next morning in Ephesus, the sun warmed the marble roads. Here, grand columns and an ancient amphitheatre told tales of love, worship, and civilisation.

Once a thriving Roman city and one of the best-preserved ancient sites in the world. As I walked past grand colonnades, the towering façade of the Library of Celsus, and the vast amphitheatre that once held 25,000 spectators, I felt the echo of a civilisation deeply invested in art, debate, and divine ritual.

This was the city where St. Paul preached, where the Temple of Artemis, one of the Seven Wonders, once stood, though now only a single pillar remains. I wandered freely, unhurried, and never felt once the need to glance over my shoulder.

Later, in the hillside village of Sirince, I sampled fruit wines and bought a delicate, handwoven scarf, gifted by a young Baltistani vendor who insisted, “A sister should wear colour.”

I was surprised, then delighted, to find so many vendors from Baltistan scattered through Türkiye’s tourist towns. Many had travelled here for work, drawn by the country’s welcoming visa policy, steady tourism economy, and deep cultural ties with Pakistan.

Over time, they’d built small communities, bringing with them the warmth of the Karakorams and a spirit of hospitality that felt right at home in Türkiye’s sunlit bazaars.

At the carpet village nearby, I watched women knotting silk threads into art. Carpet weaving here is more than a livelihood; it’s a legacy passed from mother to daughter, steeped in Anatolian tradition dating back to the Seljuks and Ottomans.

They handed me a tiny corner of a carpet-in-progress. “For luck,” one woman whispered, pressing it into my palm.

White dreams and whirling

In Pamukkale, the terraced white travertines glowed like frozen waterfalls under the afternoon sun.

I floated in Cleopatra’s Pool, surrounded by ancient Roman columns submerged in warm, healing waters. Legend has it that the pool was a gift from Mark Antony to Cleopatra herself. It felt timeless, magical, like bathing in history.

And just like much of Türkiye, it held that same spellbinding balance, where myth and memory blur, and the past doesn’t feel distant, but quietly alive beneath the surface.

That evening at Colossae Thermal Hotel, I bought handmade hammam soaps and fragrant olive oil from the spa, their scent a lasting memory I carry still.

On the ancient Silk Road to Konya, I took a pause at the Sultanhani Caravanserai, a 13th-century stone fortress that once sheltered weary traders and their animals. Its arched courtyards still echo camel bells and merchant tales.

At the Mevlana Museum, the shrine of Rumi whispered peace. The final resting place of the Sufi poet whose words have crossed continents and centuries. The scent of rose water hung in the air, and soft prayers floated between rooms.

That night, I attended the Whirling Dervishes ceremony, and my soul stirred. As the semazens turned and turned, robes like petals blooming, time stood still.

Although I am not too religiously inclined, as I watched, my gaze turned glassy, gently held by the weight of wonder. There was a stillness in the movement, a silence in the sound, a truth in the turning.

That small whirling dervish figurine I bought afterwards now sits on my work desk, a reminder of surrender, of trust, of grace.

Next stop, Cappadocia, which greeted me like a dream. It was still dark when I was picked up from my hotel in Göreme, heart pounding quietly with anticipation.

By the time we reached Love Valley, the night had begun to loosen its grip, the sky shifting from ink blue to a gentle lavender. I clutched a paper cup of steaming tea, the aroma mingling with the faint scent of morning soil.

As I stepped into the balloon’s basket, a soft hush fell over me. Sixteen strangers, one pilot, and a silence that felt sacred. And then, lift off.

The world below slipped away. I watched the land unfold: fairy chimneys, ancient hills, winding love valleys and cave homes wrapped in early light, all stretched out like a dream I didn’t want to wake from.

That morning in Cappadocia wasn't just breathtaking, it felt like the kind of moment that splits your life into before and after.

Then exploring Göreme’s Open Air Museum, a UNESCO World Heritage Site where medieval cave churches, chapels, and monasteries are carved directly into the rock, many still adorned with faded frescoes of Jesus Christ and the saints.

These were once places of refuge, where early Christians worshipped in secret and found shelter from Roman persecution.

Even now, they carry a profound sense of resilience and sacred silence. With its underground cities and cave churches, I marvelled at how deeply faith and survival were carved into stone. 

My stay at Burcu Kaya Hotel added to the enchantment with its cave-style rooms.

Ankara’s heartbeat

On my way back to Istanbul, I paused in Ankara, visiting Anıtkabir, the grand mausoleum of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk.

The vast plaza, flanked by marble lions and carved colonnades, felt monumental, a tribute to the founder of modern Türkiye, whose reforms reshaped the nation’s identity. Standing before his sarcophagus, I understood how this country honours its past while continuing to redefine its future.

That night, back at Nidya Hotel Galataport, I packed my bags slowly, slipping in my Turkish tea set, Hafiz Sweets, nazar jewellery, soaps from Pamukkale, and that tiny dancing dervish from Konya. But more than objects, I carried memories.

At the airport, as I said goodbye to the country after 10 fulfilling days, I knew something had shifted inside me. This wasn’t just a solo trip. It was a love story with a country that saw me not as a tourist, but as a sister. A traveller. A soul seeking something deeper.

From warm-hearted Turkish hosts to Baltistani brothers running shops and handing out free tea, Türkiye gave me more than sights. It gave me connection, courage, and calm. It gave me a piece of itself, and kept a piece of me.

As Rumi said, “Don’t get lost in your pain, know that one day your pain will become your cure.”

I came with anxiety. I left with peace.

So, to Türkiye, from a Pakistani girl who came alone and left whole, thank you. I will return.