I’m in Istanbul for a wedding. My friend has lived here for years and I’ve visited when I can, but this is my first time in summer for a while.

The airport was pristine: a less honest gateway to a chaotic city than London’s claustrophobic Gatwick.

We were picked up by a pimp-my-ride people carrier with neon detailing and Amy Winehouse politely piped from massive speakers mounted into the head rests.

I booked a hotel in the old town, near Sultanahmet, as my last few visits have been largely spent with locals on the Asian side, seeing weird folk bands with Iranian dissidents and singing karaoke in basements to bemused Bon Jovi ultras.

I don’t want to sugarcoat Istanbul. It’s a city with many problems, in a country under an authoritarian chauvinist leader, a parody of Ataturk for our new fascist age.

But it’s still a place full of outsiders, at the crossroads of it all. Though not everyone gets to head West to fortress Europe.

The hotel is cheap, looked kitsch in the photos and had a walled courtyard for breakfast, and that was good enough for me. It was even better than expected.

The evening receptionist was called Iskender, and apologised for the lack of bellboy. He is from Anatolia, and assumed I was German. One of eight brothers, most of his family are farmers and have stayed home, moving their crop from pomegranates to strawberries, following the money.

He explained that our building used to belong to the church next door. What was it used for?

“Downstairs, laundry”.

We wandered down to a restaurant, past a kebab shop with an intriguing mural and some cafes under the trees.

One thing I’ve missed when back in England is being able to eat out late without the options being limited to dodgy kebab or dodgy fried chicken restaurant, under bright lights, staring into a plastic tray in tired eyed disappointment.

Full meal in a garden next to an olive tree at 11pm? No problem. Random street cats begging at your table? No problem. Restaurant with its own built-in scratching post? No problem.

The walk back took us past a very cheery gang of marauding street dogs, and a greengrocer smoking at his ancient sewing machine surrounded by grapes and watermelons past midnight.