There was a time when I’d only read of the scent of Jasmine. Now I’m familiar with its deep, candy sweetness. There was a time I didn’t know its white, five-bladed blossom. I knew it twined about fences and gates, and overhung stone walls, dousing the air with a scent favored by Persian poets. But I never knew about the thick coils of razor wire it concealed beneath.
Istanbul, you’re a mistress of many secrets, aren’t you?