Nicosia, a strange capital you have to see at least once in your life
I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect from Nicosia. A forgotten capital? A city split in two, full of tension? What I found was something much more disorienting: a place that feels like a patchwork sewn by hand, a mix of eras, cultures, silences, restlessness… and above all, a city that doesn’t try too hard to please. It just is. And maybe that’s why I loved it so much.
I’m not going to give you a top 10 list just to sound like a “travel blog expert.” I just want to tell you what I saw, what I felt. And if that makes you want to go—great.
The Cyprus Museum – like a doorway into everything I didn’t know
Funny thing, it took me a while to understand what I was looking at. I went in more or less by accident, mostly tempted by the air conditioning. And then I wandered through the rooms. Pottery thousands of years old, statues with missing arms, tiny pieces of jewelry… At first, I was only half paying attention. Then, it happened.
A small clay figurine. Barely ten centimeters tall. It showed a woman—or a goddess—or maybe both. I stopped. I thought about the person who made it, what they believed in, what they hoped for. And I thought: “Okay, Cyprus is deep. There’s something here.”
I ended up spending nearly two hours in that museum. Not because it was spectacular. But because it was simple, smartly curated, and it told the story of an island we too often reduce to a postcard.
The Venetian walls – walking along a boundary
There’s a strange feeling when you walk along Nicosia’s fortifications. First, because they’re huge and imposing—but also because they don’t protect anything anymore. They surround a city now crossed by a separation line. In a way, these walls have become a reminder of what the city has lost.
I walked along them one morning. It was already hot. The stones burned under my shoes. Cats were sleeping in the shade. In the distance, I heard the call to prayer, and then, moments later, church bells. It was surreal.
The bastions are still there—some in ruins, others more alive. But what struck me most was this strange blend of beauty, sadness, and resilience. Nicosia is a city that’s learned to live with its scars. And somehow, that moved me more than any perfectly restored monument I’ve seen elsewhere.
The Büyük Han – sipping coffee in a caravanserai
I don’t know about you, but I’d never been in a caravanserai before. I barely even knew what one was. Then, in the north of Nicosia, someone said: “Go see the Büyük Han, you’ll love it.” So I went. And I got it.
It’s a big stone building, built around a courtyard. Back in the day, merchants would stop here with their horses. Now, it’s a vibrant place. There are cafés, small artisans, people painting, others selling handmade soaps or jewelry.
I sat at a table, ordered a Turkish coffee—strong, black, slightly bitter—and stayed. For an hour. Maybe more. Listening. Watching. The wind rustled the leaves of the tree in the center. A woman sang softly in the corner. And I thought: “This is what travel is. Not selfies. Not checklists. Just being there.”
Selimiye Mosque – where two histories meet
This might be the most striking site I saw in Nicosia. From the outside, it’s a Gothic cathedral. Inside, it’s a mosque. It’s a church that was transformed. And you can see everything: pointed arches, stained glass, added minarets. It’s both unsettling and fascinating.
I stood for a while watching people come and go. Some came to pray. Others, like me, were just curious. The place is alive. Not frozen in time. And that mix fascinated me: the stones are ancient, but what happens here is very much present.
I took off my shoes and walked barefoot on the carpet. I sat against a pillar. And I thought about all the people who had prayed here—regardless of the god—throughout centuries. And I felt a little dizzy.
Ledra Street – crossing a border on foot
It’s not every day you cross a border on foot—let alone in the middle of a shopping street. That’s Ledra Street. You walk along, see the stores, the crowds, familiar signs. And then suddenly: a checkpoint.
They ask for your passport. You show it. And you’re through. And everything changes. The architecture, the language, the currency, the posters… You’re still in Nicosia—but not really the same one. It’s disorienting.
But that’s what makes this city so unique. You realize how thin borders can be. And at the same time, how real. I walked for a long time in the northern part, no real goal. Just to feel the city. And I liked it.
Eleftheria Square – a square that lives
I passed through it several times. In the morning, it was almost empty. At noon, full of people looking for shade. At night, crowded with families, teens on skateboards, old folks chatting on benches.
What I love about this square is that it’s really lived in. Not decorative. Not just there to look good in photos. It’s used, stepped on, shared.
One evening, I bought a sandwich from a nearby bakery. I sat there alone, watching life pass by. An old woman smiled at me. A kid asked if I wanted to play ball. It was nothing. But it stuck with me.
The Byzantine Museum – faces that stare back at you
I’m usually not a big fan of icon museums. Too much gold, too stiff. But something here moved me. Maybe it was how the icons were displayed. Or the stories you can imagine behind those still, solemn faces.
There’s this image of the Virgin—black eyes, piercing. And around her, dozens of faces—frozen in a kind of golden eternity. It’s beautiful. Strange. A bit sad, too.
I stayed a while. Just watching. And that was enough.
The Whirling Dervishes – hypnotic, no explanation needed
I’d heard of the Whirling Dervishes. I expected a show. But it wasn’t that. It was slow. Silent. Very slow.
They spun in place, arms open. As if dancing for someone invisible. And I was there, sitting in a chair, unable to look away.
I couldn’t tell you exactly why it touched me so much. Maybe because it didn’t feel like a performance. It felt sincere. Deep. And it made me want to be quiet. To just listen.
Leventis Museum – not the history of kings, but of people
This is the kind of museum I love. Small. Simple. Human. You see how people lived. What they wore, what they ate, how they decorated their homes.
There’s a wedding dress, an old bicycle, black-and-white photos. It’s modest, but it tells the story of the city better than any history book.
It made me think of my own family. My grandparents. All the things we forget.
Folk Art Museum – hands before machines
This was the last museum I visited. And it left a strange impression. Because it speaks of a world that’s gone.
Tools, embroidery, old mills. All handmade. Slowly. With care. With patience. Today, we go too fast. We don’t look. We don’t take time.
I looked at an old loom. It creaked slightly. And I thought: “We’ve lost something.”
And after that?
I left Nicosia with a strange feeling. No euphoria. No “wow.” Just the sense of having walked through a real city—alive, full of contradictions. A city you don’t forget.
And if one day you want to try it too, come. Not to check a box. Not to take pretty photos. But to actually live the place.
Do you want to go abroad? Want to see something different? Come with us — we’ll take you there.
One last look
As I was leaving Nicosia, I saw a cat lying on a border marker—as if mocking human divisions. That little moment stayed with me. That’s Nicosia: a city that slips through your fingers, gently shakes you, leaves you with more questions than answers. And honestly, that’s exactly why we travel. Not to understand. Just to feel.