Returning...

Bye Tehran!


Coming back to London is odd. The strange familiarity, the feeling I may have changed, although I don’t know how yet, but that everything around me most definitely has not. I thought that I would find London very shiny, after living in khaki covered Iran, but to the contrary it has been incredibly grey. Rain has punctuated nearly all of the days I’ve been back. The streets feel grittier and dirtier than I remember and I feel even more aware of the number of alcoholics and beggars around my tube station. Shouts of ‘fucking wanker’ penetrate nearly every journey I take on public transport, someone or other annoyed by something or other, and making sure all around them know it. In Iran you have to be aware of your behavior in public, you’re not necessarily free to act however you want, wherever you want, not only because of law, but because of etiquette. I’m not sure that this is a bad thing, witnessing the aggression and coarse way my compatriots expressed themselves on the streets of the capitol. There is a certain code of behavior most people follow in Iran, most of the time. In Farsi there is a magical way of being extremely rude, while being incredibly polite. Transport and traffic also brings out the crudest of language, but that’s usually expressed in the confines of one’s own car, not at the bus stop.

Back in England I also feel confronted with flesh…breasts and legs are everywhere. It isn’t even hot, its 18 degrees, and raining, but the fact that it is August means people will dress in summer clothes. Is this the stoic Brit I see before me, in thigh-hugging denim shorts, uncomfortable looking sandals and a vest top, refusing to acknowledge that it IS freezing because it IS summer? Again, forced Islamic covered up-ness didn’t seem so bad, in the midst of orange peel thighs, ill-fitting bras and beer bellies.

Salaam London!

I have tried desperately not to convert everything back in to toman, and accept that being broke in London is horrible. Filling up the car at the petrol station with my mum I laugh as it come to £46, reminding her that in Iran it comes to £1.50. Oil is heavily subsidised, but still everyone complains about the prices.

I go to the local beauty salon, but don’t entrust my eyebrows to any of the girls there, even though they insist. Never have I seen an eyebrow shaped with as much skill and dexterity as I have in Iran and I’m unwilling to let jus anyone have a go on them!

But then, window shopping on my local high street I finally had my first I love London moment. Yes, most people in Wood Green do look like they think they are on MTV Base, but the busy-ness, the ease of everything, the shouts from market sellers offering flowers and fish, even the friendly chat of the God squad outside the local church, there was something enticing in the chaos around me. Baffled by all the choices available, I couldn’t deny it was pleasing to have them. We are all creatures of habit (aren’t we?), and by nature end up living fairly routine lives (don’t we?), but knowing my choices here are infinite is still a good feeling, and admittedly one I did not have in Iran.

Since then I’ve had many more of these moments. At the Notting Hill Carnival dancing in the streets feels good, as does smiling at anyone who catches my eye. I’m entertained by the thought of not seeing more than a fore-arm on the streets for the past 9 months, and now seeing the majority of the people around me letting it all hang out. It’s a funny old world isn’t it?

It's carnival time, gonna have a good whine...

I have bumped into Iranians everywhere I’ve been. They were always everywhere, but now I feel more eager to chat, to show off my Farsi and share news from Iran. On my first day back I went to my local pizzeria, where just like in Iran, I managed to get a taghvif (discount), simply because I was a dokhtare gol (a nice girl, just like a flower). A few days later the washing machine needs to be fixed, and in roll two more Iranians, I direct them upstairs in Farsi and they seem pleased, if a little surprised- ‘We thought you were South American!’, ‘But look at our carpets’ I joked, ‘they’re a good clue.’

Speaking to my mortgage advisor I was reminded about how little most people know about Iran ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard, but in the Western world we’re experiencing a credit crunch’. No, no, I hadn’t heard. A friend also told me when she’d told her mother that I was in Iran, she turned to her with a worried expression- ‘Well I hope she’s safe’. And finally, someone asks if my Arabic is better since I’ve been living in Iran. No, oddly enough it hasn’t really improved (in some ways not strictly true, in learning more Farsi I have learnt some Arabic, in learning Farsi words that have Arabic roots, but I don’t think that was what he was implying). It is of course not that surprising that most people have no clue about what Iran is actually like, only popping into the news when nuclear warfare is discussed, although there are now numerous attempts to show that Iran isn’t like THAT, but I guess you’d have to be interested to even find them (If you are interested: http://www.documentiran.com/ http://www.picturesofyouiran.com/ http://www.lifegoesonintehran.com/ or look at some of the blogs to the right). I also remember my own concerns before visiting; having heard about crackdowns I emailed Iranians in Iran asking how bad it really was, I worried about exactly what to pack and what might be confiscated at customs- all legitimate worries, but now that I’ve lived comfortably in Iran for nine months, I realize again how little I knew about how daily life is lived.

In returning to London I remember what I like about Iran and why I want to return, again. I don’t have to think everything there is better, or that everything here is worse, but that right now, it is where I want to be. Interestingly a lot of my friends live abroad, and seems even more are deciding to go. What has become so unsatisfying about Britain that we’ve all felt like leaving?