A Day Wandering Through Edirne’s Undercurrents and Sunlit Corners
Driving toward Edirne always feels like gliding toward the thin line where stories from the Ottoman centuries still drift like dust motes in the air. The road bends and straightens, bends and straightens, as if warming up for a grand entrance. To me, arriving by car is almost like walking through a long hallway before stepping into a palace. The fields stretch out with calm, hay-colored patience, and every few kilometers the horizon lifts a little higher, hinting at rooftops and minarets waiting ahead.
By the time I reached the city border, the sky was doing that soft blue trick that makes everything look washed clean. The signs for “Edirne Merkez” flickered into view, and the city unfolded like an old friend who didn’t rush the greeting. No loud welcome. No hurried handshake. Just a slow, grounded approach, the kind that makes you feel you’re entering a place that knows its own worth and doesn’t need neon lights to prove it.
I parked near the city center, stepped outside, and let the cool morning air tap my forehead like a quiet hello. Edirne has this grounded confidence, a sense of being both a crossroads and a resting point. And during my visit, I felt like I was stepping through layers of the city rather than streets. Edirne is made of levels. Underground, above ground, ancient, modern. One slab of history stacked on another, like a baker making mille-feuille out of centuries.
Into the Underground Bazaars
My first stop was Edirne’s famous underground bazaars, the Bedesten and the tunnels branching around the old marketplaces. Walking down the steps felt like sinking into a pocket of time. The sun softened behind me, and the air changed from open-city breeze to a cooler, stone-scented whisper. There was a faint echo under the arches, the kind that made you slow your steps so you wouldn’t disturb whatever old stories might be napping down there.
Stalls lined the corridors, each glowing with its own tiny universe of objects. Copper shone like captured sunset. Silver bracelets rested on velvet pads like sleepy snakes. Wooden spoons, carved with spirals and flowers, leaned in bunches like gossiping friends. There were small decorative plates painted with bright tulips, miniatures of mosques, nazar boncuğu pendants, and embroidered cloths that folded the colors of spring into tidy squares.
One shop sold nothing but spices, each mound rising like a tiny mountain range. Reds, golds, and browns gleamed under the lamps. The smell hit before I even reached the counter. Paprika smoky enough to make your mind drift toward kitchens; cumin warm enough to remind you that even the simplest food can carry a memory. The shopkeeper scooped herbs with brass cups that looked older than my grandparents, and each movement made a soft rasping sound, like sand sliding through an hourglass.
Another stall specialized in soaps made from olive oil and lavender. Their scents drifted out in slow, clean waves. I picked up a bar shaped like a pomegranate. It fit in my palm like a small secret. The seller joked that if I carried it in my bag long enough, my backpack would smell like a spring morning in the Mediterranean.
There was something almost dreamlike in the way the underground bazaar held so many different colors, textures, and scents in such a small space. Like a treasure chest cracked open. Every turn felt like stepping into a new alley of possibility. And yet, it wasn’t loud or chaotic; it was grounded, measured, like the city itself knew how to balance excitement with calm.
Back Up to Sunlight and Toward the Old Bazaar
When I climbed the steps back into the sunlight, it felt like resurfacing from a warm pool. The brightness came rushing in. People walked in the square above, vendors called out their prices, and children chased pigeons without worrying about history or architecture.
The Old Bazaar, the Arasta, stretched ahead like a colorful ribbon. Narrow but lively, lined with shops that seemed woven into the walls. The storefronts glimmered with handcrafted jewelry, leather bags, traditional patterned scarves, and rows of ceramic bowls that caught the sun like tiny mirrors.
I wandered at a comfortable pace. A good walk in Edirne doesn’t need to be rushed. The city almost nudges you to slow down, to savor the curve of an old wooden doorway, the way shadows fall over shop displays, or the rhythm of conversations drifting from cafés.
One corner sold music instruments next to keychains shaped like Ottoman hats. Another offered wooden backgammon boards with deep, glossy varnish. A shop owner waved me closer and showed me a set with mother-of-pearl inlay that looked like moonlight trapped inside wood.
Nearby, an elderly man sold handmade brooms tied with red string. He told me they sweep “bad vibes as well as dust,” and he laughed with the kind of joy that sounded older than the building we were standing in.
The Pehlivan and His Bronze Strength
Not far from the markets stood the statue of the pehlivan, the oil wrestler. Even from a distance, the bronze figure caught the light in a way that made it look like he was ready to step off the pedestal. His muscles were shaped like a map of strength, each curve telling a story of centuries-old Kırkpınar traditions.
Standing in front of him, I felt a quiet shift in the air. The statue wasn’t just commemorating a sport; it was holding up a piece of Edirne’s soul. Oil wrestling is both ritual and competition, both art and endurance. The pehlivan’s pose, determined but grounded, mirrored the city’s own character, balancing grace and toughness.
Kids climbed around the base, parents took photos, and pigeons strutted by as if guarding the place. Life went on around the statue, but he remained steady, bronzed in timeless focus.
Mimar Sinan Watching Over the City
A short walk away, Mimar Sinan’s statue rose with a quiet dignity. He gazed forward with the calm of someone who knew his work would outlive empires. In his left hand rested the tools of his craft, and on his face was the kind of thoughtful stillness that architects carry like an extra muscle.
There was something powerful about standing near his sculpture while remembering that just a short distance away stood one of his masterpieces, the Selimiye Mosque. Even though much of Selimiye was under restoration during my visit, its silhouette still pressed against the sky like a long breath of beauty. And seeing Sinan’s statue here gave the whole area a sense of continuity. As if the architect was still watching the city he shaped, checking the lines, the arches, the balance.
People walked around him freely, but I lingered. Sometimes a statue feels like decoration. This one felt like a conversation.
Edirne’s City Square Breathing Around Me
The city square was my next stop, and it was buzzing with easy energy. Not frantic, not loud. Just alive. The fountain sparkled under the afternoon light, cars circled gently, and the steady flow of people gave the place a heartbeat.
Old buildings, some with delicate facades, looked on as if listening. Small cafes sent out drifting clouds of tea steam, and the clinking of spoons against glass created a soft city soundtrack. Birds darted across the sky, making loops above the people-hum below.
I took a slow turn through the square, letting the atmosphere wrap around me. Every city has a center that holds its mood. Edirne’s felt like a blend of patience and pride, warmth and tradition.
A Walk That Felt Like a Moving Postcard
As the day stretched on, I decided to take a long, looping walk through the streets. It wasn’t planned. Just one of those wanderings where your feet decide the direction and your mind follows like a curious passenger.
Side streets twisted gently into wider avenues. Old houses stood with their wooden shutters half open, as if watching the world from narrowe
d eyes. Cats claimed sunny steps as their rightful thrones. People greeted each other with the easy familiarity of a city small enough to know itself.
Every turn revealed a little detail that felt like a gift. A patch of flowers under a window. A bakery door swinging open to release the warm scent of fresh bread. A mural painted with bright blues and yellows. Even the sidewalks had their own personality, cracked in places but full of character.
Walking through Edirne felt like moving inside a living sketchbook. Lines, colors, motion, history, all layered in real time.
Tava Ciğer: The Crispy Crown of the City
Eventually, hunger tugged at me. And in Edirne, there is one answer that rises above all others: tava ciğeri.
I found a small restaurant with a wooden sign and a glass display full of peppers that looked ready to start a carnival. Inside, the air carried the familiar sizzling scent of frying liver. Not heavy. Not greasy. Just right.
When my plate arrived, the thin slices of liver were golden and crisp, like little edible leaves from a tree that only exists in this corner of Turkey. Beside them sat a pile of fried green peppers curling like small dragons. A slice of lemon waited politely on the edge of the plate.
The first bite was all crunch followed by a tender, warm rush of flavor. It tasted like something simple perfected over time. Like a dish shaped by both skill and pride. The peppers added a playful fire, the lemon added brightness, and together they formed a trio that could charm anyone. Even someone who claimed not to like liver.
I ate slowly, letting each bite settle. The restaurant buzzed around me, forks chiming, conversations rising and falling, waiters weaving between tables with practiced ease. It felt like sitting in the middle of a local heartbeat.
Evening Drifting In
When the sun began to tilt downward, the city shifted into a softer version of itself. The sky turned a mellow orange, the streets thinned out, and the buildings glowed like warm stones.
I made my way back toward the car, the walk carrying the gentle fatigue of a day well spent. The air had cooled, and the city square shimmered with streetlights. People were still out, but in softer numbers, like the day was exhaling.
The statues of the pehlivan and Mimar Sinan stood calm in the dusk, their bronze catching the last strands of light. The underground bazaars had closed, their treasures resting in darkness for the night. The old bazaar streets had quieted, their colors waiting to brighten again in morning.
When I reached my car and turned the engine on, the headlights carved a small tunnel through the falling evening. Leaving Edirne felt like stepping out of a storybook through the same door I entered. The drive back was smooth, the sky shrinking into darkness, the day replaying itself in my mind like scenes from a film.
Edirne stayed behind me with its statues, bazaars, smells, colors, and calm energy. But part of it traveled back with me, tucked somewhere between memory and imagination. A city of layers, both above and below ground, stitched together with history, warmth, and the quiet confidence of a place that knows it doesn’t need to shout to be unforgettable.
Hello. I'm here with a new and beautiful travel post. I've created a post about the old bazaar of Edirne, the city located in the westernmost part of Türkiye and Türkiye's gateway to Europe.
I'd like to thank #Hive and 
I'd also like to thank 
All photos were taken by me.
