alamut, iran, may 16-17

After an early morning visit to a sangak bakery (where we had to remove the hot stones from the bread before eating it) and a quick stop at a traditional underground community laundry, we left for Qasvin. After arriving we hasitly arranged an overnight visit to the mountains of Alamut. Our guide/driver arrived right away - a blonde-haired, blue-eyed man named Mehdi from the Qasvin area who screamed energy. We knew this was gonna be fun.

First he took us to his apartment for lunch. He had called his wife 20 minutes earlier and somehow when we arrived she had khoresh gheimeh and rice ready for us. Mehdi showed us his son's West Asian gymnastics championship medal - given his own physique his son's success was not surprising. This random stop was one of those beautiful things we experienced in Iran on many occasions - people open their homes and offer you so much without any expectation of payback.

We left and headed up an unremarkable mountain pass. As we rolled over the crest, we saw Alamut. Seemingly all of it, at once. We got out of the car, walked to the cliff edge, and just stood there for a while. The view was one of those that is so expansive - deep, wide, and complex - that if you were a child you'd swear this was half the world. Exactly unlike Mt. Damavand, it looks so much bigger than it is. Green and red rolling mountains as far left and right as the eye could see were sprinkled with clusters of villages, smaller hills, and a modest brown river below. Alamut is the name given to this area of long adjacent mountain ranges (the northern one being the Alborz) and the valleys and canyons that separate them. It is famous in Iran for its natural beauty and the Castles of the Assassins.

Mehdi started collecting wildflowers and herbs for us, including these interesting purple "tea leaves". The aromas were so nice. We continued the descent down the mountain and very soon we were in the valley. Too soon. It felt wrong to traverse such an apparently vast landscape so quickly, so easily, just sitting there in the passenger seat daydreaming as it all whizzed by. As it was, we were suddenly on other side, in the Alborz mountains. We stopped at a narrow deep canyon with swirling tie-dye-like gray rock walls before arriving at the base of one of the castles of the Assassins. The castles, forts, and amazing cliff-hanging villages surrounding them were built on mountain peaks in Alamut in the 12th century by a fierce warrior cult that rose to dominate this strategic pass connecting the Persian Gulf to the Caspian for 150 years. According to Marco Polo the leader would recruit young men by inviting them to the gates of his "magnificent" castle garden. There he would have them drink a potion with hashish. When they were stoned asleep he would bring them in and upon awakening they would see this amazing garden with beautiful dancing women. He told them it was paradise. He preached agnosticism, telling them to forget about the prophets, to fear nothing. These "hashishins", following orders, would then seek and kill high-ranking officials of opposing regimes. Hence the English word "assassin".

We walked up a dirt road towards a path where a young guy stood to collect the entrance fee. This 20-something must have been a government employee but it was hard to tell in his T-shirt and jacket with an F.B.I. logo on it. I teased him, saying he could get into trouble if he wasn't careful. "I don't care. They can do whatever they want. I like America. For that matter, I like Israel too," he said with a knowing laugh. We headed up a steep path, where Mehdi stopped us often to point out various features of this castle/village ruin. The rock face was so steep that the ancients had to use hundred foot ropes and pulleys to get materials and goods to the top. In the castle ruin itself the security guy let us through to the off-limits excavation area where you could see (just like in Takht-e-Soleiman) layers of history dug up from meters deep in ground.

On the way down, we took a detour along a hill where Mehdi demonstrated an echo effect with a loud yell. We were impressed, and perhaps reminding himself that he has a great voice, he started singing opera style for the next half-hour. It was awesome, and you know that if he lived in the West there would be a good chance he could make a career out of that voice. Fortunately, he didn't care to be anywhere but where he was at that moment. He's not just trying to make ends meet or looking for a way out like so many others. He loves nature and his family, ignores politics, and believes that international borders are artificial and wrong: "Do these birds care whether they're in Iran or not?" At the end of the trail we also heard women singing - in public. This doesn't sound noteworthy, except that in Iran it is illegal. But being so far in the middle of nowhere, the women were just a bit more free. Madhavi took advantage of this to remove her annoying headscarf and overcoat during our hike the next day - she was so happy!

As the sun set, we headed to one of the villages where we'd be staying for the night. At the door of the typically modest home, a middle-aged couple let us in. They had just set out dinner, so we immediately sat down and ate with them and their cute 12 year-old daughter, the youngest of seven. The food was simple - bread, cheese, grape jam, rice with peas, yogurt, and doogh (the yogurt drink). It all tasted so fresh because it was. They grew and harvested or otherwise made all their own food: grains, dairy, fruits, vegetables. They hadn't been to a market in months. We saw the spot outside where they had been aging cheese underground for a year. In their simple living room with a small decorative cabinet and outdated calendars, they had a picture of Aishwariya Rai in one corner. Deep in rural Iran this should have come as a surprise but it didn't. Travelling through Asia revealed to us that perhaps the most consistent element of popular culture across the continent (and now that we're in Africa you can throw this continent into the equation) is fondness for Indian cinema. The father, echoing people in other countries, said he loved the family-oriented drama and the singing. Later we talked to the girl, who reinforced our experience in the Zanjan village by saying she wanted to move to a city. I asked what would become of the village. Mehdi then stood up and did a hilarious imitation of old people bent in half with canes and quivering voices (he was a friend of the family, so they took it well).

The next morning we thanked this kind family and left for more exploring. Mehdi showed us everything from a spring-fed lake to unusual flowers to huge eagles to fruits like cherries, wild pomegranate, wild rubarb, and mulberries. He was such a fantastic guide: knowledgeable, funny, and phenomenally enthusiastic. He stopped so many times to allow us to take pictures that even I had to ask him to chill out. One of the best things about him was the way he illuminated things we never would have noticed. Like the time he stopped and said "Look at those birds." These little hummingbird-size guys were speeding in a circle over a small hill of daisies. But we didn't notice anything particularly interesting until he said "Pay attention. They never stop flying. They never sit, never rest." He was right. We watched for at least 10 minutes and not a single one of the 20 or so birds stopped for even a second. A few days later my all-knowing Ame Monir would explain that they do fly constantly and catch flies in the process.

We ended the day with a climb up a hill to another of the castles. This time it was the trek up that was most interesting. We passed through beautiful fields of daisies, dandelions, red and orange poppies, and purple and blue flowers, all of which were wild. I picked a bouquet or two for Madhavi. We had lunch at another villager's home, that of a couple who had a memorable garden that included pink roses (the ones from which Iranians make rosewater). She made a great egg/tomato omelete that was so simple but so good; it reminded us of the one we had at Mama's way back at in December in southwestern China. The 16 year-old daughter of the family was fun to talk to. Somehow the conversation turned to religion and I mentioned that I don't pray. "Good, just like me," she exclaimed with a chuckle. But when I went a bit further she became distinctly alarmed, turning to Mehdi for help, "But he has a God right?" "Of course he does," he reassured her, "he just doesn't pray."

We started the drive back towards Tehran. On the way we stopped where a group of college girls who were out on a research/field trip. We chatted with them for a bit. I explained to one of the hipsters that the "Bulls 23" on her jeans represented a famous retired basketball player named Michael Jordan. She didn't seem to care. As they drove away in a bus the girls stood up and started singing and dancing. It was a great scene.

zanjan, iran, may 14-15

We woke at dawn to begin a few days of exploring nature in the northwest of the country. We hopped into a cab hoping to avoid Tehran’s heinous traffic on the way to the train station. It didn’t really work, but the occasional snail’s pace did provide us with views of some of the poorer neighborhoods of the south side of the city – the standard concrete apartment buildings were old and worn, but we didn’t see anything we’d call a slum, at least from a distance.
The train station was fairly crowded and offered the usual inefficiencies, such as waiting 20 minutes in a line for an agent to tell you to wait in another line. The tickets were absurdly cheap, reminding us that Iran might have the most affordable public transportation in the world. I don’t remember that day’s prices but a week earlier we had traveled 60km via a metro line linked to a train line (kind of like the taking San Francisco MUNI N-Judah from UCSF to the BART to somewhere well north of Berkeley) for 17 cents per passenger!

In our compartment were four men - two college kids, a married businessman, and an old man with a cane. While Madhavi read Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s autobiography and took her usual 3 hour moving vehicle nap, I chatted with the guys. In Iran, if you haven’t already noticed by our previous stories, conversations with strangers (especially if you’re a foreigner) often end up on the final common pathway of politics. I need not bother telling you how they felt about things domestically. The old man, though, surprised me. On average older Iranians, who lived through the worst of the Shah and American puppeteering and are inherently more socially conservative, may (at least in the cities) dislike the regime but they tend to have a more nuanced perspective. This 80-something, though, was a downright radical. He railed against the mullahs, expressed sadness for the youth and their lost opportunities, and vigorously defended G.W. Bush while blaming the Iraq disaster on the Arabs. Once again I found myself in the odd position of having to present essentially the Islamic Republic’s side of things: regarding both Bush and the deposed Shah (the latter almost revered by all four of them who collectively blew off my stale criticisms). When the college guys started describing the epidemic of youth drug abuse, I once again sunk into depression. It’s hard not to get depressed in this country, especially if you are connected to its culture and people and you know its potential. Of course, Iranians get sad talking about it themselves. Sometimes in these situations I tried to be the American cheerleader, breaking the dreary silence with “history is long” and “a government not supported by the people will never last”, etc. I emphasized that overwhelming popular sentiment is not easily crushed, which is why the Shah was powerless against the hundreds of thousands of peaceful protesters of 1978. But someone inevitably replies with an ace of hopelessness (this time it was the married man): “The Shah didn’t kill all those people, but these mullahs will.”

We arrived in Zanjan. The married man invited us to stay at his house, and when we politely declined he came with us in the cab to make sure we got to our hotel. After a nice lunch in the city square, we headed back to the hotel for a nap but were woken by a wicked hail storm out of nowhere – sun to golf ball hail back to sun again. We walked around the main bazaar eating delicious dried mulberries and listening to the singing street vendors who turned “fresh strawberries, grapes, oranges” into love songs. After discovering an old underground teahouse, we called one of the college guys named Ardeshir to invite him out for dinner. We planned to eat in a famous caravanserai but it was closed for renovation. The kind manager did let us in to have a look at this magnificent old restaurant, with hidden sections accessible by small corridors where you had to duck to get through. He ended up recommending another place, which turned out to be a little jewel itself – one of those old exercise theaters (like we saw in Yazd) turned into a restaurant. The four of us ate dizi and kabab and smoked a coconut milk galyoon (rather than the standard water). The conversation, as usual, was fast and non-stop. Ardeshir and I talked on and on about classic rock music, which now includes Guns-N'-Roses and Nirvana - God I’m old! He loves rock and plays on his electric guitar. He's quite a good player (I heard a recording of his on his cell phone), which makes even sadder that he can only play in private as pop music is forbidden by Islamic law.

The next morning Mr. Ayatollah (just a name, not a title in his case) picked us up for a day trip into the countryside. Within 30 minutes we were driving through really spectacular mountains covered in different shades of green with little stone and straw villages set in valleys and hillsides. We passed mines of copper and iron with their distinct blue-green and silver hues. We stopped for pictures, and on occasion Mr. Ayatollah would pick some wild herbs for us, one of which was so minty good that we kept it to add in sandwiches later in the day. A couple hours into our drive we decided to stop at a particularly enchanting village for a short break and a hike. Madhavi and I walked up the muddy hill by goats and sheep and colorfully dressed curious onlookers, mostly women and children. After trying to make some conversation, I realized that the villagers don’t speak Farsi but rather Azeri, which is closer to Turkish and is the primary language of the majority of people in northwest Iran. So we just planned on walking through the village and hiking up a hill when a kind woman with plump pink cheeks and a welcoming smile greeted us and it was clear she knew Farsi. I think her name was Parvaneh. She introduced us to her very cute 5 year old daughter Roya as well as her sister-in-law and mother-in-law, we started chatting, and soon she invited us in.

We walked half-bent into the mud-brick home and sat in a room on dusty red carpets around a table that stood over a fire pit. Dad had described this special kind of table, where during winter you sit on the ground with your legs tucked underneath it to be warmed by the fire. The room also had a wood oven-fireplace and a few pictures on the wall. Parvaneh served us tea and homemade nun panir (bread and cheese), showed us old pictures, and told her story. She grew up in the then small town of Zanjan but moved to the village after marrying. Though she enjoys the serenity of the village she says life here is too difficult. Every day she and her husband wake at 4AM: he goes to the mines while she farms, tends to the animals, makes carpets (she sold one that took her almost two years to make for over $4,000), and raises her son and daughter. They finish work at 10PM. Her daughter Roya was so adorable, quietly just sitting and watching us before finally opening her coloring book to scribble away. Parvaneh said Roya and her son would probably continue school as long as possible and eventually move out of the village like many other children do. There are only 40 families left now, she said. She recalled being a child and the commotion at home when everyone was glued to the TV. “Mom, what’s happening?” “Imam Khomeini is coming; the Shah is leaving.” She and many rural dwellers saw real improvements in their lives, like electricity, good roads, and new schools, thanks to Khomeini and his populist policies. So even if she complains about the current government not doing enough for the villagers, she remembers Khomeini fondly.

We gave Parvaneh mulberries and pastries and left for Takht-e-Soleiman. After waiting for the rain to let up, we entered this very ancient Zoroastrian fire temple, a sprawling maze of mud buildings set around a crater lake. The lake was important as it allowed the Zoroastrians to have the four elements of the universe – air, water, fire, and earth in one place. We wandered around, soaking up the phenomenal natural setting for a while. One of the workers graciously gave us an extemporaneous tour, pointing out key features like the sleeping quarters, the naan-making rooms, the layers of unearthed columns revealing additions and changing styles through the centuries, and of course the place of eternal fire. We met a couple of nice Kurdish families, easily distinguishable by the traditional baggy pants that the men wear. They came from close to the Iraq border in the west, where most of them live. I nosily inquired about issues of Kurdish separatism, testing the general wisdom and our experience in Orumiyeh/Tabriz that minorities in Iran feel a strong bond with the country and that separatist movements are thus very weak. Their answers (“I’m both”, “Whatever God wants”) were neutral, which seemed appropriate given my excessive forwardness.

We headed down the road to Zendan-e-Soleiman, the original site of the temple before it collapsed. We climbed and sloshed up the hill in pouring rain before reaching the top where we saw a massively deep crater lined by gray volcanic rock. We gingerly walked around side of the hill to see the incredible surrounding green valleys and distant snow mountains from all perspectives. We were totally soaked, and it was time to head back to Zanjan. There we had a quick dinner in a hole-in-the-wall and I met Ardeshir. He came to our hotel to give me his original guitar pick of 14 years ago. I graciously refused, and he refused my refusal. I felt badly taking something that means so much to him, but in the end I took it and was touched.

These couple days were exhilarating, and we were so happy that we had taken some detours off the beaten paths to see a quiet and beautiful side of the country and to once again meet wonderful people. We were excited that more was to come.

tehran, may 5-13

Returning to Tehran was starting to make us feel like our time in Iran was beginning to come to an end. One by one people started leaving. First Kia, then Dad, then Mom. But before they left we had a few more really fun days. We visited a couple of museums and parks. At the Park-e-Shahr in the center of old Tehran we saw the ping pong tables, chess boards, and funky red and yellow exercise machines (which we’d seen in other parks in Tehran and which were the Shah’s attempt to encourage physical activity). Nima and Kia were interested in playing ping pong. A nice gentleman noticed, called his wife to bring some paddles, and came over to chat with us. Nima played against his wife who was training for a local ping pong tournament. We also had a chance to visit Darband, a foothill path along the Alborz Mountains and a popular place for the local hikers and rock-climbers. The lower part of the trail was a bit overdeveloped but the vistas were lovely. In our travels around the city we braved the Tehran metro. It is actually excellent- clean, efficient, and incredibly cheap- so you can imagine that it can get very crowded especially during rush hour. The crowds and the push to get on the train were intense- so much so that the crowd on a two-level train carried me and Dad up the stairs and Kia and Nima down the stairs so we sat separated for the whole ride. We were just glad we hadn't been trampled.

Our evenings were spent with family and at parties. We caught up with aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, cousins and friends, ate really well, and laughed a lot. One particularly fun party was at the home of another of Dad’s second cousins. Nima and I had spent time with them before in the US and in Iran but that night was something else. They filled there home with family, old friends, good food, and alcohol. Everyone seemed to have talent- dancing, making up rhymes, and playing music, whether on an exquisitely carved home made tar (string instrument) or on an improvised tombak (drum, but in this case a garbage can). Particular crowds favorite were the rhymes about their hometown Hamedan, the women of the town, and alcohol (or is it snake poison).

As we bid farewell to Kia and our parents we knew we would see them again in a few weeks at our cousin Narges’s wedding, which made saying bye a little easier. We became expert in stuffing their bags with all the things we could not leave Iran without- carpets, food, etc. Nima escaped the packing for a little while to check out Friday prayers at Tehran University, traditionally a hotbed of political discussion. Nima estimates that 8000 people were there listening to the lecture with him. After the lecture he felt awkward standing there watching while 7999 of them kneeled over in prayer in front of him, so he left.

We had planned to leave Tehran afterwards to spend time in the northwest again but could barely wrench ourselves away. Instead we visited the massive and interesting Tehran International Book Fair (where there were thousands of stands with hundreds of thousands of books for sale), visited the Martyr’s Musuem and the US Den of Espionage (previously the US embassy), lunched with our aunts, searched for the best milkshakes in town (through an amazing thunderstorm but what can get in the way of a chocolate fix), and spent the weekend with Ame Manijeh, Ame Monir, Ame Parvin, and Sara before we headed off by train on Monday morning to the lovely town of Zanjan.

caspian sea, iran, may 2-4

The morning after returning from Esfahan, we hopped into a hired mini-van with Mom, Dad, Kia, Khaleh Nahid (Mom’s aunt), Baba Abbas (maternal grandfather), and our family friends the Javaheris (wife, husband, and son Hooman). We were heading for Shomal, which means “north” but used alone it usually refers specifically to the Caspian Sea coast. Winding up and through the Alborz Mountains, the drive was fantastic. We passed picturesque villages with characteristic multi-colored rooftops and a famous doogh-making factory (doogh is a favorite Iranian yogurt drink). The road was quite good, a far cry from the pothole-ridden dirt mountain paths we had seen in South America or East Africa. And it was a reminder that for all its political and social woes, Iran generally does not have an infrastructure problem.

Turning a corner at one point, we encountered a spectacular sight. In the foreground a village valley flanked by small lush hills gave way to a pure white, perfectly conical, monolithic mountain. We had glimpsed it before, from far away. But never like this. It was Mount Damavand, the highest point in Iran, reaching almost 19,000 feet into the sky. It’s one of those mountains, like Kilimanjaro, that is so wide and slopes so softly into the earth below that it doesn’t look tall. You can’t believe that the peak you’re staring at, which you swear you could run up in an hour or two if you were in better shape, is actually 10,000 feet above you. It doesn’t look tall, just big. Also like Kili, it is a volcano. I think maybe only volcanoes can look like this: gentle, deceiving, grand in solitude.

After stopping at a roadside joint with those cool carpet platforms for lunch, we continued on and reached the Caspian by mid-afternoon. Then we drove along the coast for 45 minutes or so, a drive that was fairly depressing. We rarely saw the sea itself between all the ugly storefronts and hotels littering a road that Dad said “was so beautiful just 20 years ago.” Apparently development is now restrained, but it looks like the damage has been done. We arrived in a cute neighborhood covered in fruit and flowering trees. The Javaheris were graciously hosting all of us for the weekend. Madhavi and I explored their front yard, picking grapes, oranges, kiwis, and our favorite-of-all kumquats from the carnival of plants. All ten of us took a walk to the sea together, appreciating its beauty only from the end of a pier where the view was finally unobstructed.

We spent the night smoking galyoon and drinking citrus martinis made by Mom. The source of the liquor? “You just call the right number and it comes to your door,” said Dr. Javaheri. That’s exactly what Agha Rezania told us in Shiraz! Was Prohibition this easy? Dr. Javaheri is one of those super-cool laid-back Malibu kind of guys, always seeming to take it easy but also mindful of whether or not you're having a good time. Hooman, his son, is just as nice. And Ms. Javaheri is the swank cosmo aristrocratic matriarch, always fun to be around.

I need to mention that we played Rook, a wonderfully complex trump-based card game known to maybe 2% of Iranians and no one else. The story goes that it was invented in my Mom’s small hometown of Abadeh. Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, it is a significant contribution to the culture, one that binds the generations (my 10 yo cousin begs to play with the otherwise “boring adults", though he is almost always denied as you can’t play well at that age). Madhavi has learned it – study is mandatory for significant others in the family – and she played some that night.

The next day Madh and I walked around the neighborhood smelling flowers (nice lavenders, etc) and stealing fruit, especially kumquats – who knew kumquats were so good? We joined everyone for breakfast on the patio and noticed something. It was humid outside! With a drizzle coming down every so often it constantly felt wet, though thankfully also cool. What a contrast with the snowy rugged Alborz Mountains or the deserts of Yazd. I had just read somewhere that Iran has one of the five most diverse climates/landscapes in the world. Assuming this was true, we started discussing the issue and thought of 3 of the likely other 4 landscape-diverse countries: the U.S., China, and India. But what is the 5th? Maybe Chile? We weren’t sure.

We headed down the coast to picnic at a favorite local getaway spot, which turned out to be a bit touristy but still pretty fun (the tourists in this case are Iranians from elsewhere in Iran). We took a gondola 800 meters up a steep slope, getting great views of the blue-green waters of the Caspian before disappearing into a dense fog. We got off and wandered around this mystical cloud forest of sorts with its evergreen trees interrupted only by the obligatory café/restaurant where young hipster Iranians were hanging out. Back down at the base we had a nice lunch and smoked galyoon again. I realized that this was a lot of smoking so I decided to stop inhaling, for what that’s worth. Besides, Kia was teaching me how to make smoke rings and that was plenty of fun.

Back in the cabin that night Mr. Javaheri and Hooman cooked kababs and we all drank, joked, played Rook, and so on. Ms. Javaheri ranted about the evils of communism, and when we (Madh and I) played devil’s advocate (I hate when people play devil’s advocate) she beautifully retorted “It’s great to be communist children of wealthy capitalist parents, isn’t it?” That shut us up pretty good.

The next day Madh and I wandered around a really dense mossy grassy woody foggy jungle lacking any sort of footpaths or signs. We got majorly lost, and while trying to escape we discovered a giant tree that had been almost completely split down the middle, both sides now in a semi-reclined position propped up by other trees. By the burnt bark in its trunk Madhavi astutely determined that the tree had been struck by lightning. Cool! OK, back to ‘how the hell do we get outta here’? We ran around for like 40 minutes and finally emerged on some abandoned road, where miraculously our driver happened to be cruising along searching for us. .


Soon we started the drive back to Tehran. Along the way we paid more attention to the south side of things and noticed the dense green mountain forests with clouds slithering through their canyons and other nice views. But as day lapsed into night this long drive would get longer. Basically, our driver was overwhelmingly incompetent and for almost two hours tailed at about 20km/hr behind the most black-exhaust-spewing lorry in the Eastern Hemisphere while repeatedly rolling down the window over our desperate objections and telling us to not worry about it, “[Just drink some doogh and you’ll be cleaned out]”. Every time he whined that it was too dangerous to pass on this one-lane road, a caravan of 18-wheelers would casually do just that, literally in our face. When we finally submitted to the pain, Kia and I would look at each other and during a break in coughing we’d just laugh. Iran must have the most polluting and inefficient vehicles in the world, one consequence of their manufacturing all their own cars and putting 100% tariffs on imports.

Anyway, by the time we arrived back in Tehran the situation got so ugly that even very proud Khaleh Nahid (my 70-something yo great aunt) got into it with this driver and in the heat of the argument she demanded that he stop the car and let her out. In the middle of the freeway! Which this jerk did, of course. I tried to stop her but before I knew it she was out of the car and walking towards the off-ramp. Then we drove away. We were all in shock and on the verge of castrating this guy. In the end, 6 hours after we began, we were home. We called Nahid and thankfully she also made it back just fine.

hamedan/esfahan, iran april 27-may 1

Our second journey with the family included another very important place, Dad's hometown Hamedan. This time Mom, Dad, Kia, Nima, and I piled into a bigger vehicle with our somewhat wild driver Reza and headed southwest. The drive was beautiful with desert and mountain intermixed with a more lush terrain. After a quick detour for lunch we entered the 7 km-deep Ali Sadr cave. The story goes that it was discovered by a Shepard who in the driest desert would see his goats come back at the end of the day with a wet chin. He followed them one day and saw the cave with a glorious fresh crystal clear river carving a passage through the rock. We boarded a small river boat, still the only mode of transportation, and floated by the rock formations in the cool darkness of the cave. On the road again towards Hamedan we passed through the small town where Dad was born.

Hamedan, nestled amongst the snow-capped Zagros Mountains, lies at about 1500 km above sea level. We drove straight to one of the mountains at the edge of town to see the Ganjnameh. The Ganjnameh can be likened to the Rosetta Stone, a translation of the ancient Persian language that allowed archaeologists to decipher it and mysteries of Persepolis. Set next to a lovely waterfall where the snow line ends, it was Xerxes' tribute to his empire and to his forefathers. Dad told us that they used to walk several km from the town to camp in this place and that the road had only been built since he left Iran. At the Ganjnameh Dad’s second cousin and his family (none of whom he had never met) found us. Agha Afshar, Khanum Mariam, and their children are beautiful people. Not only did they share their home with us but they showed us that “distant” family does not mean anything. It is all just family. Khanum Mariam is a spectacular cook (one of the three masters Nima referred to) who adds a bit of a personal and a Kurdish twist to her Persian dishes. Agha Afshar entertained us with his hearty laughter and his amazing voice as he sang Kurdish, Turkish, and Farsi folksongs. Their son Shahin showed us all around town - poet’s tombs, the tomb of the famous Persian physician Avicenna (whose textbook was the standard in Europe into the 18th century), and Dad’s old family home. We found his home replaced by an apartment building. We were having a great time with this family and could hardly get ourselves to leave for our next destination Esfahan, but in the end we stuck with our plans.

The treacherous ride to Esfahan took us through a severe rainstorm in the dark with our crazy speeding driver Reza. If it weren’t for the great company and the spectacular lightening storm we might have wanted to turn back around. But when we arrived in Esfahan back at Khaleh Zohreh’s apartment we felt a comfortable familiarity settle in. Our three days in Esfahan were our most intensive in terms of sightseeing in Iran. There was so much to see and take in but here are some of the highlights: the Jameh Mosque with its subdued timeless sandstone walls, the shaking minarets (shaking one causes the other to shake as well but no one has quite figured out how), the Abbasi Hotel with its gorgeous garden courtyard and amazing Ash Reshteh (a soup), the beautiful mosques and palaces of Naqsh-e-Jahan with their exquisitely tiled portals and mathematically perfect domes. There were many more sites and each of us had our favorite. But the fabled beauty of Esfahan is only partially captured by these sites. The city is an oasis of green with tree-lined boulevards set in the desert. Its classical Persian architecture is typified in the stunning Naqsh-e-Jahan square with its endless white archways interrupted by two brilliant blue mosques. Sitting at a teahouse drinking chai, smoking galyoon, overlooking the square allowed us to take in the families picnicking on the lawn and the schoolgirls holding hands and spinning in circles.

Our evenings were spent along the river at the bridges. We were especially drawn to famous Si-o-Se Pol, a pedestrian-only 33-arch bridge lit in golden colors and a beautiful place to watch the sunset and wind down. Afterwards we always had a good dinner at home before preparing for the next day's sites. In many of the places we visited we attracted the attention of high school girls all expressing their love of Indian movies and curious about who we were and what we thought of Iran. At the Chehel Sotun Palace, Dad and Kia searched for Nima and me (always slower with seeing sites) and they found us amidst about 20 girls all in blue uniforms giggling as they asked us ho we met and when we got married. They wanted to be doctors and engineers and artists. One wanted to be a Bollywood film star. Our time in Esfahan was too short but I imagine that it is a place we will return to over and over again. Our return trip to Tehran was relatively straightforward. We had the opportunity to stop in Qom to visit the graves of Nima’s paternal grandparents. I wish I’d had the chance to meet them.

tehran, april 24-26

We landed in Tehran ~7AM and were surprised to be greeted at the airport by Amu Reza (Mom’s father’s brother). He is a 70 year-old that looks no more than 60, hikes up a mountain once a week, makes excellent full-bodied shiraz-style “grape juice”, and reads everything from Persian poetry to English language political books. Of course, after the revolution he (like several members of my family and thousands of others with his type of background) was imprisoned for “ties” to the Shah. Now, ironically, he works in the higher echelons of government on issues of education and culture. He made doubly sure to pick us up that day because he was afraid we hadn’t heard about the Islamic Regime’s new crackdown on women’s dress. In fact, we had certainly heard about it as it was the talk of the town for a couple days and we even saw students protesting these absurdities in Shiraz. Reza’s wonderful wife Kokab had her delectable fresh homemade orange peel and strawberry jams and her sister’s amazing pistachio breakfast cake waiting for us in our apartment. Ah, what a life!

That night we visited an Iranian college student whom we had met in Tabriz. She described how the previous day she witnessed police on patrol picking up provocatively dressed women and became so frightened that she ran full speed down a random street and jumped into the first cab she saw. She went on: “My own friends were actually arrested for bad hejab the other day but they just escaped from the police van. It was so great!” The usual consequence of arrests for dress code violations is that your parents have to come to the police station with more appropriate clothing for you while slipping the cops $50 or so before taking you home. Regardless, it clearly does instill some fear in the young – though not enough, by our observations, to change their fairly rebellious Western garb, hair-dos, and make-up.

Afterwards we met up with Mom and hopped in a cab to find a place to eat. I did my usual grilling of the driver and he told us that in the early ‘80s he participated in planning a coup to overthrow Khomeini, was arrested, tortured a bit (“how do you think my nose got so flat”), and was released after 7 years. He said all of this so casually it was ridiculous. We got off at a hole-in-the-wall where we had delicious kabab and warm nan. At 1AM we, along with dozens of family members, headed to the airport to pick up Dad, Kia (my brother), and my aunt Bahar who were arriving from the U.S.. So the first time ever my nuclear family was in Iran together!

The five of us spent the next day hanging out at the bazaar for a bit before ambling through a park where we discovered the phenomenon of brightly colored Sesame Street-looking public outdoor exercise machines – so funky. Kia and I played on them and it was like we were kids again – well not really, but anyway. That night we went back to Alighapoo, that restaurant with live music. This time, though the instrumentalists were again quite good, the singers were louder and even cheesier than last time. The second guy was just unforgettable. He looked and dressed like Neil Diamond but sang and generally behaved like Wayne Newton. Every time he tried to carry a note while moving the mic away every so dramatically, we’d all bust up laughing so loud it was embarrassing. He was a really nice guy, though – he noticed some foreigners in the audience, most obviously an East Asian who seemed to be having a great time, and said: “We love people from every country. Let’s have a big round of applause for all the foreigners, including Koreans!”

The next two days were spent with loads of family and some family friends, probably more than 40 people in total. It was great. One day people paraded in and out of our apartment to hang out and the next we went back to Ame Manijeh’s (Dad’s sister) for joking, eating, and generally chillin’. One night we went to Amu Reza’s and Kokab’s place for dinner. Oh my God, Kokab’s food is soooo good! The tachin, fesenjun, koobideh, goodness! Madh and I have determined that she is one of 3 supreme master chefs whom we met during our stay in Iran.

We continued to meet fascinating cabbies. Riding a cab in Iran can be both a life/limb-threatening Formula One 3D video game-like experience and phenomenally entertaining, even enlightening. One guy we met is a police officer moonlighting to make ends meet. You'd think knowing that should have shut us up a bit, but no. We had the usual political conversation and his comments were indistinguishable from anyone else's. It was just extra special coming from a cop. Another cabbie was a former book publisher who was just hilarious, even if in a macabre sort of way. In the insane Tehran traffic we got onto the topic of pedestrian casualties. He said in Iran these incidences are always considered to be the driver’s fault and the penalty is at least $50K. Dad jokingly asked “What’s the punishment for running over a mullah?” The driver said “I don’t know, maybe they deport you to the U.S.. Come to think of it, in that case maybe I’ll run over two!” Later I pointed out a tree that was particularly beautiful and he quickly replied “Yeah, but it would be even prettier with a couple mullahs hanging from it.”

abadeh/persepolis/shiraz, iran april 20-23

We were excited to reach Abadeh, Nima especially. His whole life he has heard stories about this place, the town where years ago his grandfather Baba Abbas was mayor, where Mom grew up, and which was the purported origin of the favorite family card game Rook. Before arriving in Abadeh, we stopped briefly in the town of Abarqu to visit a wondrous 4000 year old cedar whose height, width, and demeanor were astounding.

We arrived at the home of Ame Shirin (Baba Abbas’s youngest sister) and her husband Agha Rezania, some of the only family still living in Abadeh. Their love of the outdoors, natural healthy foods, and creative quilting guided our visit. We ate delicious food including an addictive sauce made of sesame seeds, grape extract, and honey which we devoured with every meal just because we couldn’t get enough. We drove to a nearby mountain where we picked wild herbs, ate watermelon, and hiked along the brush covered hills. Like many Persian homes, theirs was filled with carpets, many made right in Abadeh. Before we left, Ame Shirin and Agha Rezania showered us with gifts, including quiltwork that she made and a wooden galyoon piece that he carved.

Early one morning we had to say goodbye and head south to see the ruins of the ancient Persian Empire. Started by Cyrus the Great about 2500 years ago, the Empire grew and shrank to eventually become present day Iran. Fabled for his tolerance, Cyrus was sometimes even welcomed by the people who were swept into the empire. The most famous site, Persepolis (Takht-e-Jamshid in Farsi) was actually built by Cyrus’s son Darius and was unearthed in the 1930s. Before reaching Persepolis we stopped at Pasargade and Naqsh-e-Rostam, homes to Cyrus’s tomb and the tombs of subsequent emperors. Carved into cliffs, the rock carvings, beautiful in their own right, were a prelude to what we were about to see in Persepolis. The wild red poppies dotting the landscape were a taste of Iranian spring.

Persepolis itself was impressive. You can imagine that it was even more amazing in its heyday when roofs stood over the hundreds of columns and the reliefs were polished to a shiny black. But what remains is still a testament to its grandeur. The stairway leading up to the Gate of All Nations, the reliefs of international delegates walking hand in hand to the gates, and the multilingual inscriptions were well preserved. We met a couple of families, including one that lives nearby and hikes along the mountains around Persepolis every week. As we left the sun was setting over the columns, tinting them all with a golden hue. Our day ended when we arrived in Shiraz in search of Ame Vida’s and her husband Agha Rezania’s (different person than Abadeh) house. Who would have thought that the street numbers would change within 24 hours after we got directions!

I fell in love with Shiraz- it is difficult to say it is my favorite city in Iran since Esfahan is pretty amazing, but still I loved it. The city has so many beautiful gardens full of citrus, grapes, and cedar trees. Every park is lovelier than the one before. The tangerine trees began to flower and their blooms scented the air with a sweet smell that reminded me of jasmine.

Our time at home was wonderful. We ate our meals under the pomegranate tree, again always fresh food including eggs from Agha Rezania’s chickens and fresh greens from Ame Vida’s garden. We drank home-made sour cherry vodka (so many people have learned to make alcohol since the revolution when alcohol was banned for all Muslims in the country). We laughed at stories of the rivalry between Mom and Ame Vida, like when Mom (who is younger) used dubious logic (my father is older than yours) to argue that she is the oldest grandchild in the family. Agha Rezania told us of his memories working on agricultural development for the U.N. in Sri Lanka for 7 years.

Though there were many sites including mosques and markets, our favorite sites were actually the tombs of Iranian poets Hafez and Sa’di. Poetry is such an integral part of Persian culture. Everyone can recite poetry, and poems are often used to express thoughts in the middle of everyday conversation. Many people visit the tombs of the great poets as some might visit religious sites. We spent the most time at Hafez’s tomb, which became one of our favorite places in Iran. It draws families, young couples, and young poetry readers to its beautifully landscaped garden and serene courtyard. It also draws people who want to determine their future - while touching Hafez’s tomb, they open randomly to a page in his book of poetry and read. Nima’s poem encouraged him to seize the day, a nice reminder that maybe this world trip is the right thing at the right time. After watching the sunset, we sat and had tea with a young couple who told us about local music, life in Shiraz, and their studies.

Another memorable part of our visit to Shiraz was our driver. He was hilarious and entertained us with colorful words - he wished many evils on the current regime (including "[khak tu saresh]" - dirt on their heads). His instincts kept him alive during his many years of fighting during the Iran-Iraq war of the 80’s, like when he responded to his commander who had told him to head to the front lines with "[If it's so easy why don't you go first]." Shiraz was a wonderful end to our week in central Iran.

yazd/chak chak/kharanaq, iran, april 18-19

Hungry and tired, we drove around a neon green maidan archway as we arrived in Yazd. After Javad (our driver) stopped every 2 minutes to ask directions, we found a small bazaar alley that led to a dark gas lamp maze-like corridor and eventually twisted our way into the grand tent-roofed courtyard of the Malek-o-Tojjar, a former private mansion turned hotel. We loved it and proceeded to eat all our meals in Yazd right there: Khaleh Nahid, Mom, Madh, myself, and Javad sitting on the same traditional carpet-lined platform in one corner of the courtyard. The warm bread and classic Persian khoreshes (gourmet stews) with a local Yazd twist were delicious. Ducking to avoid hitting our heads in the tiny spiraling stairwells and having equally small rooms with old wooden shutters opening onto that grand courtyard only added to the charm. Thus it was easy to forgive the place the next morning when it took us 15 minutes to figure out that "hot" meant "cold" and the shower head broke and to top it off the toilet wouldn't flush. It was so Asia: Western bathrooms - overrated.

The next day, while Mom and Khaleh Nahid hung out in town, Madh and I decided to explore the desert. With Javad at the wheel and our trusty Lonely Planet in hand, we headed off. After 30 minutes on a desert highway, we told Javad to turn left where a rickety old sign pointed to our destination, Chak Chak. On a bumpy dirt road we went, and we went, deep into a world of heat, sand, shrubs, red-brown mountains, and nothing else (save a couple sheep and an abandoned hut) for mile after mile after mile. Almost an hour into this, just as Javad was about to panic, we turned a hill corner and saw a non-descript branching blue-white building perched on a steep mountain. "There's no way this is it," I thought. We almost drove past it when a couple guys from Dad's hometown of Hamedan miraculously showed up in a burly SUV, told us that this was indeed Chak Chak, and gave us a lift up the steep slope.

From there I looked and noticed that farther up a single giant tree seemed to leap from the mountain. We got out and walked uphill past the basic modern building to an old temple with a 1500 year-old brass door containing beautiful classic reliefs of Persian Empire-era officers. An old man slowly walked up and opened the door. We removed our shoes and walked into this cave-like structure. Coming from 95 degree heat, our bare feet immediately luxuriated in the amazingly cool wet floor. We could hear and occasionally feel drops of water all around, and through a large opening in one wall we saw that the water was dripping right out of the mountain, feeding the grand old tree whose trunk grew into and through the temple to face the desert outside, a solitary tower of rich green.

We were standing in the heart of Chak Chak, the holiest place in the world for followers of Zoroastrianism, an ancient Iranian religion that along with Judaism is one of the original monotheistic religions. For four days every June Zoroastrians from around the world (now mostly from India, especially Bombay) make a pilgrimage to stay in that spartan blue-white "hotel" and worship at the temple on the mountain that drips. It is no small irony that Iran's original religion has now been relegated to such an isolated, albeit stunning, corner of the country.

The talkative Hamedani guy asked the gatekeeper what a tableau on the temple wall read. After ignoring him twice the ornery old man, sitting expressionless under the tableau, said “[It’s right there, read it yourself!]” As we walked out the Hamedani guy asked me "[Is it true that in the U.S. people shoot each other randomly]?" Thus began a one-hour conversation about life and politics in the U.S. and Iran that soon involved all of the dozen workers there that day, including a young woman on a platform above us kneeling with a tray of tea in one hand and learned refutations boldly delivered with a gavel-like index finger in the other hand. By the end of it, everyone was trying to convince me and Madhavi that the Shah (deposed in the ’79 revolution) was a wise leader and that Iran is now screwed. To hear such things in Tehran was not a surprise, but hearing them with such unanimity among a bunch of guys in the middle of the desert was quite revealing. This also began or continued, I don’t remember which, a comical theme that would recur several times during our trip in Iran whereby I found myself almost having to defend the Islamic regime’s position on some issues: the Shah was not a good ruler, George Bush is not a hero, etc.

We headed off with the Hamedani guys to Kharanaq, a lovely old mud brick desert village inhabited for 4000 years until it was abandoned ~ 20 years ago. A sweet old man showed us around this city of dirt and straw where he was raised and lived for most his life. He took us through a maze of little alleys by ancient bathhouses, bakehouses (tiny rooms with a hole in the ground), and guesthouses. With Madhavi wisely watching from below, I climbed up a tall shaking minaret (made of mud brick, of course). I was barely thin enough to squeeze up the tightly twisting steep inner stairwell. On top I hardly rocked back and forth before the whole minaret responded in kind, producing the kind of genuine giggling fear you felt as a kid looking down from the Empire State Building. The 3-foot diameter at the top of the minaret and the lack of any protective railing only added to the effect.

That night back in Yazd we went with Mom to a traditional exercise performance at a “zudkhuneh”. Iran has historically excelled in the strong man sports of wrestling and weightlifting, and the zudkhuneh has long been the communal gym where the strong men train. As the audience of European tourists, local Iranians, and we sat on the ground in a circular room, a dozen or so guys gathered in a matted pit in the center. On a stage by the pit two men played percussion and one of them passionately sang poems of love, brotherhood, culture, nationalism, and Shi’ism, inspiring the men to lift huge weights and later to spin like whirling dervishes. The singer was fantastic and we had a good time.


The next day we went on a walk through Old Yazd. Yazd is a gem of a city, due mostly to its delightfully ancient mud-straw buildings (the city claims to have the second oldest collection of structures in the world) and its people, who are as kind as any we’ve met anywhere in the world. On our walk we saw the usual beautiful colourfully tiled mosques but also some things unique to Yazd. Among these were the qanats, deep underground water channels found throughout Iran and built over the centuries and even now by engineers from Yazd. There were also the badgirs, ancient windtowers that use ingeniously designed vents and flaps to somehow deliver cool breezes into fortunate homes; Madhavi and I visited a home with a 33 meter tall badgir and experienced winds that probably reached 25 miles per hour – indoors!

We randomly discovered a charming teahouse and then a breadhouse where the four workers couldn’t stop joking and laughing as they served up amazing hot naan with bits of tarragon that eventually brought us back for more. Mom bonded with a jolly fabric merchant who pleaded for us to have lunch with him and his wife at his house – we had to decline. We spent most of the afternoon wandering through bazaars and alleys and relaxing at Malek-o-Tojjar for more gheimeh, kashk-e-bademjun, and doogh. After Madh and I had climbed up the famed Amir Chakhmaq complex for sunset views of the city, we took off for Abadeh.

Yazd and its surrounding desert wonders were unforgettable. I must say that part of what made it so fun was travelling with Mom and Khaleh Nahid, who are an unmatched comedy duo. It was like hanging out with Bette Midler (Mom) and Joan Rivers (K Nahid) at the same time – you don’t talk, you just listen and laugh. They are also very loving and always made our enjoyment their top priority, even when doing so was a bit painful. Thanks guys!

esfahan/naein/meybod, iran, april 15-17

Nima's mom's arrival to Tehran heralded the beginning of a whirlwind trip through central Iran (a la our North India trip). Mom, Khaleh Nahid, Nima and I squeezed into our car and started on a journey that would last about a week. Our first stop was the fabled city of Esfahan, called "half the world" by a traveler more than a century ago. It is famous for its lush green landscaping and beautifully tiled mosques. We barely brushed its surface, but actually that was by choice since we had a plan to return with Nima's dad and Kia a couple of weeks later. Instead we spent our time touring the markets with occasional stops to drink tea and smoke Galyoon (a water pipe). We were on a bit of a mission to find a Persian carpet and to find tiles for our nonexistent home. We found the tiles after hours of sifting through beautiful pieces squatting on the floor in a warehouse. We stayed with another of Nima's grandmother's sisters, Khaleh Zohreh, who may seem frail on the outside but is incredibly strong of character.

From Esfahan we headed towards Yazd, a town in the desert. But along the way we made a couple of stops, one in Naein and one in Meybod. The central maidan in Naein and the two block main street are nothing to write home about but the 1000 year old mosque with mud brick walls and ingenious alabaster tiles to let the light through is beautifully simple in contrast to the other ornate mosques. Our main reason for stopping in Naein was to see the famous style of carpets that we had started to fall for in the markets of Tehran and Esfahan. We didn't see much we liked in the shops but then we met a gentleman who invited us to his home. There his wife, a carpet-maker, weaves amazing carpets while taking care of her home, baking cookies, and raising seven successful children. She demonstrated her work and showed us why a 1.5 x 2.5 meter carpet can take two years to make. We fell in love with one of brilliant blue but unfortunately it was sold before it was finished to a German woman who had lived in Iran.

Meybod was different from Naein in many ways. It was stunning for its vistas with deep green trees rising up between mud brick homes with domed roofs stretching between the desert mountains. The maidans were lovely with spring blossoms, fountains, and fig trees. A castle in the middle of town provided the best views. There we met an old bricklayer who for more that five decades has been in the same two block area living with his wife and working in the hot sun in the courtyard of the castle mixing mud and shaping flat wide bricks.
We visited an old renovated caravanserai- a place where men, camels, and goods would park for the night on the famous silk road caravan routes. We ate luscious dates, sipped tea, and imagined the sounds and smells the place would have had a century or two ago. After sunset we headed to our next destination- Yazd.

tehran, april 5-14

Madhavi writing to start: We descended on the expansive night light city scape of Tehran. On arrival, we were showered by warm hugs and kisses and flowers from Nima's family who had begged and pleaded their way into baggage claim. We couldn't wipe the smiles off our faces all night and really rarely throughout our first week with them. Ame Manijeh, Ame Parvin, and Ame Monir (who lives in Toronto and whom I met before) are three of Nima's dad's sisters (Ame means father's sister). Sara (15yo) and Peyman (33yo) are two of his cousins, Khaleh Nahid is Nima's grandmother's sister, and Agha Kosari is Nima's uncle (Parvin's husband). We spent the week with all of them, catching up on decades of life. Peyman, though, was often conspicuously absent - little did we know it was because the day we arrived he happened to meet the woman of his dreams, beginning a whirlwind romance that we'll describe later. The whole family seems to be gifted with an incredible sense of humor. We learned the drama of the extended family - love, passions (like Sara's deep love of the music group Arian), divorces, revolution, brushes with the Revolutionary Guards, hopes, and loneliness. We found a wonderful Farsi teacher in Ame Monir who improved Nima's ability to speak Farsi and taught me to read and write the Farsi script like a four year old. Everyday we felt Ame Manijeh's love in her words, stories, and hugs. Ame Parvin constantly protected us - after Agha Kosari took us on a challenging but beautiful mountain hike she was so worried that we were overtaxed and would fall ill that she warned poor Agha Kosari to not do that to us again. Khaleh Nahid is perhaps the funniest person I have ever met, in a way that's so hard to describe - you need to just watch her in action in every day life.

Nima writing now:

In this eight day stretch with family I communicated almost exclusively in Farsi. I savored the opportunity to improve though occasionally I just wished that invisible language barrier would disappear so I wouldn’t constantly sound like a 6 year old. I had never before appreciated how much your perceived IQ drops when you’re speaking a foreign language. Like when I tried to formulate a question about Iran’s nuclear program but got stuck with my Farsi and asked Ame Monir for assistance with vocabulary: “[What’s nuclear energy again],” I said, and looking bemused she replied Well, they take these atoms and smash them together…]”. Despite such trials I persevered, aided by the unreliable pretty blue Persian-English dictionary that was glued to my body. Meanwhile Madhavi (as usual) started picking up words quickly – no thanks to me as often either I couldn’t translate what others were saying or I’d just sort of make it up.

The first time we walked out in daylight we looked up and held our breaths for a moment. Rising thousands of feet into blue sky and draped in snow that belies the warm sunny city below, the Alborz mountains were staring straight at us, like the fortress wall of north Tehran. They are a stunning example of perhaps the greatest motif of the Iranian landscape: towering snow-covered mountains visible from base to peak contrasting sharply with everything below. As far as seeing the Alborz, we were apparently lucky as the air quality in the capital during our visit was unusually good - Tehran’s air is usually among the most polluted in the world, though it may be improving in part because Iran finally stopped producing a horrible exhaust-spewing clunker of an automobile called the Peykan (Lonely Planet accurately describes it as “a shitbox of the highest order”).

Our time in Tehran was quite relaxed. We did make it to the main bazaar, where we fell in love with a brilliantly colored tribal Kashkai carpet that we eventually bought. We didn’t do too much sight-seeing. One notable sight, however, was the National Treasury, which houses an astounding collection of priceless jewels including the Persian Peacock Throne and the largest pink diamond in the world. We also visited the old royal palaces, which were often depressingly gaudy but worth seeing anyway. One night the whole family took us to Alighapoo, a famous restaurant (on Gandhi St.) set underground with rich and colorful décor, solid food, and live traditional Persian music that starts at 9PM and runs well past midnight. The tombak (Persian drum) players were scintillating, the santoor (Persian xylophone) and tar (Persian guitar) players were very good, and the singers were terribly cheesy without ruining the whole thing.

The urban culture and attitude of Tehran mostly reflect one overarching idea: we hate our government. From cabbies refusing to pick up mullahs (who, perhaps for safety reasons, are rarely seen in public), to women loaded with make-up with their headscarves pulled back revealing bleached blonde hair and walking hand-in-hand with their boyfriends who sport tight Armani T-shirts and punky spiky hair, to the general malaise palpable almost everywhere. Of course, one of the best sources of opinion and perspective were the Iran’s ubiquitous taxi drivers. The drivers are mostly young-middle-aged men who nearly universally hate the Islamic regime. “[Iran is ruined]” was a common refrain. Often the criticism was laced with hilarious Persian humor deliverable only in the Persian language – we’ll give some examples in a future entry. One conversation, though, left us depressed for hours. The 20-something cabbie is college-educated, works 2-3 jobs, takes no days off, still lives with his parents with no prospect of ever buying a home (houses in the better neighborhoods in Tehran are more expensive than those in San Francisco) and is thus unlikely to marry anytime soon. I asked him if he had any hope, if the youth were capable of changing the system. “No,” he replied emphatically. I asked why. “[All the kids are depressed. If they’re not taking Prozac they’re doing drugs].” I asked what kinds of drugs. “[Opium, heroin, crack cocaine].” He continued, “[And the government likes it this way. If they catch you with alcohol you may be in trouble but if they catch you doing hard drugs you get a little slap on the wrist].” Another experience offered more hope. After detailing the misery of life without a future under the regime, the young driver said: “[The Persian people are smart. The Persian home – the family – is still special. We could be a great country. And despite all I’ve said, if anyone put their foot even 1cm onto our soil, I’d park my car that day and head to the front lines].”

orumiyeh/tabriz, iran, april 1-4

We were slightly nervous about our ability to navigate through northwest Iran. Though Nima had been furiously studying Farsi for about two months, most people in the area speak another language called Azeri. But our fears were allayed within moments of our arrival. We found ourselves in a a small cozy hotel with welcoming warm red Persian carpets in the "small" 500,000 person town of Orumiyeh. We tossed our bags down, bundled up against the cold drizzle (me with my head scarf and manteau), and headed out full of excitement. The town turned out to be our first exposure to many experiences we would have over and over again in Iran. Our first meal was dizi- a delicious stew of chick peas, tomatoes, and lamb eaten with lavash. It became one of our favorites. We met several young men, both at the two table restaurant and at a lovely shop selling sugar-coated nuts, all friendly and all expressing the sad desire to leave Iran because of the political environment. We also experienced the famous Persian tradition of "tarof". This most often heartfelt process involves refusing payment for any services rendered over and over again until the patron can finally convince the seller that she must pay. In a tiny dessert place after eating paludeh (a frozen rice noodle sweet) we were never able to convince the owners to take our money even after several attempts. Our first day in Iran and Nima's 33rd birthday turned out to be a wonderful way to begin our two month trip to a place we had been hoping to visit for so long.

We woke up the next morning to a cold rain and a national holiday. Sizdah Bedar is the 13th and final day of NoRuz (the Persian new year celebration) and is a day that all people in Iran spend outside with the family playing games, walking, and picnicking. We headed to the popular destination of Band, a beautiful open area in the mountains where, despite the cold weather and the rain, many families had gathered. There they sat on rugs, making tea on portable camping stoves, eating fruits and kebab, playing instruments and ball games. We wandered around the main road, ate kebab, and met a few families who were curious about our lives and travel plans. After kilometers of walking through the treacherous roadside mud that doubled our shoe height, we finally headed back to Ourimiyeh to catch the easy but boiling bus (Iranians love the heat!!) to Tabriz.

Our first day in Tabriz started off with a small adventure. Out of Iranian Rials, with no access to credit cards/ATM cards/travelers checks (since none can be used in Iran thanks to American credit card companies), we wandered around a bit hungry and slightly confused in search of the one bank in town where we could exchange dollars. We never ended up finding it but we did have the luck to run into Ali Keshvarazi, a teacher and guide from the local tourism office. He exchanged our money, bought us flight tickets to Tehran, showed us some of the less well known sights in Tabriz, and found us a tasty Tabrizi breakfast place. In the end he ended up inviting us to dinner at his place, another thing that we experienced over and over again during our next few weeks in Iran. We took him up on the offer and later that evening, after wandering through the covered bazaar, we caught a bus to his home where we met his sweet wife and two sons, one 25 and one 28. We spent the evening chatting, listening to classical Persian music and poetry, and eating a traditional meal cross-legged on the floor. Their warmth and generosity made us feel so at home.

Our last day in Tabriz brought us to another home, this time the family of a friend of Nima's parents. Another group of strangers who welcomed us with tea, sweets, delicious Persian food, and interesting political conversation. I can't express how much kindness we experienced over and over again in Iran but the story of a woman working at the front desk of our hotel might be a good example. We asked her where we might find a place to get a haircut. Instead of telling us where to go, she told us she was getting off work and that she would take us there. She drove us to a small women's salon and stayed with me the whole time chatting and acting as my interpreter. So many times I was amazed by the extra time and energy people took to make our trip easy and comfortable.

the day we entered iran, april 1

April 1st. We awoke at dawn in Istanbul. It was time to begin our journey to Iran, which we decided to undertake via an uncommon overland route - partly to visit northwest Iran on our own, partly for the drama, and all despite Dad's implorations to do otherwise. We flew to Van, a small city on the eastern edge of Turkey. On the plane I was a bit nervous as we were flying to an unknown city without a great plan for getting to Iran – the Lonely Planet mentioned a bus, and that's all we knew. As the plane descended into Van, we saw snow blanketing all the mountains: whoops, didn't think about the weather. We asked the only person at the airport who spoke decent English "How do we get to Iran?". She told us to take this shuttle into a terminal in town and there we'd find a mini-bus. We found our mini-bus (really a van) and jumped in. It was really cold, making the tightly packed little van quite cozy. A woman in the back was speaking Farsi to her children, which was comforting, as if now we knew we must be going to the right place. We began the drive into the mountains, which looked just as one would imagine them in Central Asia in winter: a stark gray-brown alternating with sheets of snow. Then snow began to fall from the sky, visibility dropped, the windows fogged up, and it seemed like we were in a far away place going farther away.

As Madhavi slept I nervously practiced my Farsi, focusing on immigration terms and anticipating questions, knowing that from here on Madhavi was totally dependent on me and a language that I had never learned well. I had been studying it for about a month, though, and now it would be put to the test. The bus stopped. We had arrived at the border. We got off, slung on our huge backpacks, and looked up to see perched on hills across the snowy border gigantic pictures of Khomeni and Khameni (the current Leader). Images that would normally and soon again stir feelings of anger and frustration now only made me happy, if not a bit more nervous. I remembered that I had a tiny bottle of Johnny Walker Black Label on me, which I quickly threw away.

We walked into a very ordinary beige-roofed cement-walled administrative-looking building. After 30 minutes we were passed Turkish immigration. We walked into a short glass-enclosed corridor and Madhavi stopped me: "Nima, look". Off to the right, through the glass, you could see a barbed wire fence perpendicular to the corridor with the Turkish flag on the near side and Iranian flag on the other. We were about to cross the border. Madhavi, knowing what this meant to me, told me to go first. So I started slowly walking across, trying to stir up emotion that was being smothered by anxiety. Reality took over: two guys were waiting for us on the other side and casually held out their hands. We gave them our Iranian passports, which had taken almost two years for us to obtain. One of the guys opened my passport, paused looking confused, and said something like: "in batel shod, kar nemikone [this is invalid, it won't work]". . Huh? I had practiced and practiced Farsi for just this moment but I simply froze. What did he mean it was invalid? I knew he was wrong but I just stood there in shock as if I had just bought these passports off some guy in the street and couldn't believe I had gotten so jipped. "Nima, what did he say?" "He said my passport is invalid" "What?" Fortunately the other guy took a look and saw that 30 pages after an "expired" stamp there was a renewal stamp, so we were allowed past.

After two more immigration and customs stations, we were let through without a problem. So at 4PM on April 1st, 33 years to the hour after my birth, we walked onto the soil of the place of my birth, something I hadn't done since 1977.

The Lonely Planet presciently stated that the "[Sero border crossing is an isolated place where all you'll see are some guys changing money at a bad rate and cab drivers who feverishly campaign for your patronage; if any of the drivers tries to outbid another, a fight will ensue]". So as we started walking a guy waved us over to exchange money. We hadn't even looked up the exchange rate, but he gave us 8000 rial for every dollar we gave him, which seemed great to us (9200:1 is the rate). Then we headed towards the cabs. About 10 big, gruff and tough middle-aged dudes starting yelling for us to enter their cabs. As we approached saying nothing, the competition seemed to narrow to two guys. I said: "mikhaim berim Orumiyeh, chand-e [we want to go to Orumiyeh, how much does it cost?]" One guy said "hasht tuman [eight tumans]" (A tuman is roughly equal to one dollar). The other guy countered with "shish tuman [six tumans]". They started shouting at each other and before we knew it we were standing there on this snowy mountain pass in the boonies of Iran with our oversized backpacks and a Farsi dictionary trying to navigate and savor these first moments in the country when these two guys break out into a full-fledged fight, almost throwing punches before all the other cabbies jump in desperately trying to break it up. We were speechless. Just stood there like deer in the headlights. Finally, after several minutes, they stopped swinging and lunging and were back to just shouting. As if nothing had happened, we got into the eight tuman cab. The cabbie apologized for the other guy's behavior, explaining that he was an idiot.

We were finally on the way to Orumiyeh. We were stopped at a checkpoint, where I was asked to come into a small booth and show all sorts of ID and answer all sorts of questions. My Farsi was warming up and I did a decent job. The guy questioning me asked why I had left Iran, as "[it's now so good here]". He was so transparently unconvincing. This would be our last checkpoint of the entire trip and it would be one of the only times we heard anyone saying anything good about the current state of affairs in the country.

hello from iran

Hi everyone. We're over one month into our Iran trip and we haven't written anything about it yet. We've just been running around so much, seeing so many people, and we haven't had a computer in our Tehran apartment, so we've had no time to update the blog. But we're adding our Jordan article now (see below), and we've kept a handwritten journal of our experience here.

To summarize, it's been fantastic. The country is beautiful and my family and the people here in general have been wonderful. We're just trying to avoid getting run over by the insanely aggressive Tehran drivers!

Madhavi and I hope you're all doing well. And please look for updates on the blog in a couple weeks.