It’s a hot, dusty day in Istanbul. So it’s busy here at the Karakoy ferry ticket office, with throngs of people looking to escape the city for the day.

In Istanbul, ferries run like buses, plying the Bosphorus in all directions. Workers cross from the European side to Asia and back again in their daily commute. Longer voyages criss-cross points along both sides up to the Black Sea, or head towards the tiny picturesque Princes Islands in the Sea of Marmara.

I’m watching and listening to the chaos around me. It reminds me of the bar scene in Star Wars. A mixed bag of languages hits my ears. German, French, Russian, Turkish, Arabic – it all sounds like Babylon to me.

People raise their voices just to be heard above the din. Street vendors call out, hawking watermelon slices, fresh orange juice, and simit – those tasty twists of dough and cheese. Horns blast to warn of departing ferries.

This is Istanbul.

Children dart about chasing seagulls, feral cats and each other. Boarding announcements are barely audible. It hardly matters. Frenzied line ups seem to pop up randomly wherever ferries are docking. A crush of passengers wait impatiently at a closed chain link gate. They start pushing before the gates open and when they are finally allowed to board, you’d think it was 1975 and the last flight out of Saigon.

I’m fascinated by this vibrant assortment of humanity, but it’s the women that fascinate me most. I’m awed by the myriad cultural differences in their attire. Some are fashionably dressed, with colourful hijabs around their heads and necks in dozens of styles and varying degrees of coverage. Others look unbearably hot in heavy cloaks that fall nearly to the ground.

There are women in tunics and Jilbabs and abayas, and of course, niqabs. Worn by women young and old, the dark heavy coverings and veils drape from head to toe, leaving only a slim opening where dark eyes peer through. I glimpse jeans and running shoes from beneath the folds of the niqab and wonder how these women don’t faint from the heat.

One young woman stands close to her husband. She is wearing a niqab and he is sporting shorts and a cream coloured shirt. She’s been taking pictures with her iphone and they’re looking at them together, heads close, like honeymooners. He says something that makes her laugh.

A trio of women in full niquab passes me, long layers of black cloth billowing around their feet. Behind them a family of Americans – in shorts, tee shirts and sandals, maps and guide books in hand – search intently for their ferry.

I live in a city that prides itself on its multi-culturalism. But it’s not like this. Watching this humanity and listening to the cacophony around me, I can’t help but fall in love with it. I could watch it all day.

But my ferry has arrived. I hurry to join the crowds to get a seat with a view.