Istanbul doesn’t sit in Europe or Asia.

It floats between them — stitched by bridges, split by water, and softened by centuries of salt air.

This is a city of edges.

The edge of land and sea.

The edge of empire and faith.

The edge of continents that never fully separate, yet never fully merge.

From above, the city curls like a question mark along the Bosphorus, tiled in terracotta, metal, and morning light. Ferry horns echo between hills, and every street seems to tumble downhill into another century.

The skyline isn’t clean — it’s layered. Domes press up against antennas. Minarets meet cranes. The old city doesn’t resist the new, it grows around it like moss on stone.

Istanbul doesn’t ask you to choose. It’s a place that lives in the middle — not in-between, but in-all.