Middle of the day in one of the busiest spots in the city and as expected, there’s no shortage of sights here. Crowds of shoppers, families and tour groups densely pack into the thin paths, shuffling impatiently at a perpetual snail’s pace through the rows of brightly coloured produce, the shelves of little packets containing exotic herbs, the mountains of egg cartons that look ready to collapse at the leisure of the misguided elbow of some careless shopper. Occasionally someone will stop abruptly to appraise a small branch of longan they will likely never buy, or to gaze at the little mounds of marinated olives, arranged with care into a striking gradient of blacks, browns, greens and reds. Despite the vibrance of the market, sight alone is never enough in a place like this; it could never navigate you through the thick concoction of sea salt, the rich smokiness of a hundred different cuts of deli meat, the enticingly sweet fragrance of fresh picked peaches. It dominates the senses instantly and without reprieve, drawing any lone deserters of the crowd with hungered curiosity to each of the stalls, their aromas only occasionally interrupted by the scent of a nearby shopper clutching their börek inside a white paper bag, or the overbearing chemical deodorant on a busy vendor briskly brushing past. Someone is yelling about raspberries in the distance, desperate in his attempt to attract the loose banknotes of the ever-growing crowds.