A view from a top-floor hotel room in Istanbul is its own kind of therapy. Before you, a calm, almost meditative city unfolds: endless rooftops, windows, a tangle of antennas and old chimneys, and, of course, seagulls.
There are hundreds of them here, as much a part of the city as the cats. On the very first morning, I was already standing by the open window, camera in hand.
For a while, I watched them tracing circle after circle, until I suddenly noticed movement on the roof next door. And there it was: a nursery. Two grey chicks, awkwardly shuffling across the tiles.
The most touching part was feeding time. One of the adults (mother or father, I’m no expert on gull family dynamics) would arrive with food, and a simple, almost mechanical ritual would begin: passing it from beak to beak. No rush, no unnecessary movement, just a kind of natural, almost primal care.
Occasionally, the other adult would show up, keeping a slight distance, as if simply checking that everything was in order.
A bit later, I noticed the nest, tucked away beside a chimney, almost invisible unless you knew where to look. At some point, the chicks moved there, and the adult gull took up position above them, standing guard over their sleep.
And just like that, an ordinary rooftop view turned into a very human story. Just with feathers.
PS. Funnily enough, the hotel I stayed at was called The Nest, which made the gulls next door feel like neighbours in more ways than one.
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