Spanning the Golden Horn, the Galata Bridge is more than just a link between old and new, East and West. It’s a pulse point of the city, where the hum of life never fades. Vendors call out, grills sizzle, the scent of tea and roasted corn lingers in the air. People move with purpose—or simply linger, drawn by the ever-changing rhythm of the bridge.

And then, something unexpected. A makeshift tattoo studio, where Ali and Riza work with quiet focus. It’s not the kind of place you seek out—it finds you. Passersby slow their steps, curiosity pulling them in. Some stay to watch, some walk on. Others, caught in a moment, leave with more than just a memory.

For a few nights, I stayed with them, drinking tea, watching ink sink into skin, listening to stories exchanged between strangers. The bridge above carried on as always—cars, footsteps, the weight of the city—but down here, time stretched, marked only by the hum of the tattoo needle.