The many faces of Persia (Iran Part 3)

Shah Isfahan Mosque. There used to be a long expanse of turf where this fountain now is. The Shahs of the Safavid dynasty played polo for amusement on its green grass.

So we made it back, in one piece, but just barely. From this latest flying experience I have extracted the following worth its weight-in-gold insight: NEVER AGAIN will we fly Lufthansa to Iran or to Europe or to anywhere else the bloody airline says that it will take you. Apart from one steward, who really was so much more than Lufthansa deserved as an example of a good employee, they did their utmost best to worry us at every leg of this trip. We lived through a nearly lost flight in spite of the fact that we were at the airport more than three hours in advance of our scheduled departure AND with boarding passes on hand mind you; we also survived having to deal with the sheer incompetence of their on-the-ground personnel (except perhaps for the nice pregnant lady at the departure counter in Frankfurt) and we succumbed to more headaches than I will ever care to feel in the span of one day. What that spells is auf wiedersehen Lufthansa and ein Glück, das wir das (good riddance) to you.

Anyway, it has been 2 days of waking up at around 1:00 am. I try to stay in bed and sleep. I do. But I've got a serious case of the sleep snatchers. I know that it is going to take a while to reverse this whole my day is backwards phenomenon but looking on the bright side, you can not imagine how much I'm getting done in the wee hours of the morning. Productivity extraordinaire. Never mind that I'm falling asleep as I'm trying to type this post. The pitch black cup of coffee I just had is bound to kick in any moment now and in my midday exhaustion, I'm finding it quite liberating to just type without mentally editing what I'm putting down. Perhaps sleeplessness is the key to unblocking my inner cascade of verbosity. Then again, this all just might read as mad ramblings tomorrow. We'll just have to see.

So yesterday I spent the better part of two hours downloading and editing through several hundreds of photographs (about 400 to be precise), in order to select the most passable of my photo-journalistic efforts. It was a disappointing exercise. There wasn't much there that you could call truly "good." I'm not being harsh with myself, just honest. Were I still in one of my photo critique classes, I'm sure my fellow students would shred me without mercy. I'm hoping you'll be more kind.

Without further ado, the little I know of Iran...

Ceiling detail of the Masjid-i Shah Mosque, Isfahan.

Most of us who live in the Americas suffer from historical nearsightedness. Faced with the advantages of our modern lifestyles and the relative youth of our colonizing past on this continent, it is perhaps easy to forget, or put into context the ancestry of our European forbears. Much more difficult even to wrap our heads around the antiquity of Oriental and Middle Eastern cultures. I can tell you that while flying over the sprawling vastness of modern-day Tehran with its crowded construction and segmenting highways, that even perceiving how contemporary it looked from above, that by contrast, the very air I breathed felt ancient, that the underlying architecture of the land looked time-worn, immemorial, old. On this, my second trip to the country of my husband's childhood, I felt even more the mental displacement of period and place. The proximity of the past something that seemed like I could peel my way into, if only I were capable of shedding the plastic-sheeted illusion of this, our present time.

There is something about Iran that forever and pervasively reminds you of your blip-like insignificance, that hints of knowledge long sacrificed to the rhythms of the seasons and the memories of those who are no longer alive to tell their secrets and their truths. I suppose that were I a native, accustomed to wending my daily way through this living torrent of history, that I would feel less overwhelmed, more capable of blinding myself to the images my spotty knowledge of Iran insists on supplying for me, like 3-D glasses I do not have the benefit of removing. A double vision of made up instances that are solely the product of what I've read and my overly active imagination.

Early morning inside the cobbled interior of the Baazar, Tehran

That is why I can step into the cavernous murkiness of the baazar in Tehran and substitute the all black-clad women, smothered in their mantos and hejabs for bejeweled, doe-eyed beauties, swathed in embroidered silks, adorning their tresses of silky curls with jewels and pearls. To me, it makes no difference if it ever happened or not, I just see it all, tantalizingly diffused, but for all that, beckoning with baroque richness, dazzling in all-hued color.

Burberry hejabs and Louis Vuitton bags. The affluent young in Tehran.

For the moment, I'll stop here but I'll surely continue blogging on Iran for a couple more posts. Before I go, I leave you with some of the photos I took and I would like you to know that I'd simply love it if you'd ask me questions about anything you might want to know that I'm not addressing. My memory always works better when it has something to trigger it. Until next time then. I'm happy to be back. Milena


Another mosque in Isfahan.


Women in Tehran are very fashionable. Here is the latest in designer mantos. All the girls want this new kind of draped and clingy body covering.


Easy rider Persian style.


The fruit section of the Baazar in Tabriz. You cannot imagine how wonderfully sweet it all tastes. I devoured kilos of apricots and cherries during my stay.


Amu Javad (M's uncle Javad) helps me to haggle for a qilim that I wanted to purchase. We probably paid more than it was actually worth. The seller looked ridiculously happy when we walked out of his shop.


The standard look of young Tehrani men of fashion: Dark sunglasses, jeans and black t-shirts. Iranian men are kheily -pronounced hailey- (very) good-looking. I should know, I caught myself one...


Cherries from the garden of my husband's grandmother's house. They will get picked and made into breakfast compotes that later get slathered onto bread with butter or paired with a soft, feta style cheese (panir).


Signs everywhere are in both English and Farsi.


Chesca: Since you asked for it specifically, here you have it, a photo of me with my hejab on. I'm melting from the heat behind my shades.