On Jabal Amman, one of the city’s original seven hills, the nights were magnetic. Rainbow Street, once home to aristocratic villas, now pulsed with cafés, bookshops, and expats.

Frankincense curled into the night air, mingling with fried sweets and the spice of falafel. Vendors sold rainbow-dyed chickens, bakers pulled bread golden from ovens, juice vendors pressed oranges and pomegranates into glass. The alleys coiled into labyrinths where cats ruled the stones, cotton candy spun into flowers, and hidden bookshops masqueraded as speakeasies.

In open-air cafés, vines climbed over Ottoman lamps, scattering jewel-toned light. I drank Turkish coffee, sipped mint tea, and watched the city shimmer into dawn. Here, Arabian nights were not legend—they were lived.