How many arches are there in Iran?

A friend from England just visited. We hung out in coffee shops in Tehran, bargained our way around Isfahan, and were awestruck in Shiraz. She studied art history and archeology and has a penchant for an Islamic arch or two. It made me wonder, how many arches are there in Iran? I doubt I will ever know the answer to my question, but here are some of the ones we saw....

White Palace, Sa'ad Abad, Tehran

Regent's Mosque, Shiraz

Jameh Mosque, Naghseh Jahan, Isfahan

Si o Se Pol, Isfahan

Sa'adi Mausoleum, Shiraz

Jolfaa, Isfahan

Restaurant Sonati, Naghsheh Jahan, Isfahan

Show me Shomal!

I have just returned from 3 days in Shomal, the north of Iran. Shomal means North and is a generic term, pretty much describing all of the regions around the Caspian sea, north of Tehran. To be more precise I went to Mazandaran province, to a house in the mountains between Chaalous and Ramsar. We drove through a constantly changing landscape of desert peaks, lush forests, emerald coloured lakes, the biggest dam and longest tunnel in the country, and finally along the sandy shoreline of the Caspian. I often ask people what colour they associate with Iran. I always pick khaki, an obvious choice, as the scenery I have seen here is always that colour, desert sands or dusty alleys. Khak (dust) that gets everywhere. Somehow the colours in Iran always seems faded, the green leaves on trees not quite vibrant enough, the blue lines painted along curbs washed out and drab, as if a layer of khak has covered the whole country and dulled everything down. But in Shomal the colours are alive. Green leaves of walnut, orange and mulberry trees. The turquoise blue of a salty sea I finally dipped my toes in. Deep purple blackberries picked at midnight from trees over our heads.



I had been told I would like Shomal because the scenery and weather is just like England- green and rainy. The ruggedness of my surroundings seemed far from British though, and indeed along the journey from Tehran and through the Alborz mountains various comments of where we could be were made; this is like Western Canada, or Northern California. Oh, that hill looks like it's covered in heather, just like Scotland. Oh and that stream and those rocks, it looks like the peak district. The fisherman over there in his baggy waders, hanging on to his net, for a minute I thought we were in the Caribbean. We stopped for ashe reshte against a foreboding backdrop, where the people selling soup wore cowboy hats and their skin was the same colour as the rocky mountains behind them. Ah, now it felt we had reached the frontier, of what, we were no quite sure.



Caribbean?

Canada?

California?

A frontiersman and his soup

I had also been told that Shomali's are the biggest wasters in all of Iran- something about the sea air means people are always drunk or high on something or other. I was in for a big weekend, so I thought. On arrival at the villa the fridge was opened only to discover that the 3 litres of aragh sagi (homemade alcohol) were not there. A few manic calls home and we discovered the maid, thinking it was water, had poured it away. A weekend in Shomal without booze? Unheard of. Two of our party went on a mission down the mountain and into town to find some. There are people who can find you a villa, girls and contraband so I was assured that it wouldn't be a problem. An hour later they returned with nothing more mind-altering than sausages, crisps and cake. We would look at this weekend as de-tox, away from the almost nightly whisky drinking I'd been indulging in Tehran (more on that later). Breathing in the sea air, waking up to an incredible view, hearing the moos of cows nearby...I didn't need an altered state to feel that life was all around me, and here it didn't seem covered in khakh, or dirt or the thick layer of pollution weighing down on Tehran. I could get used to shomali life, if lived there maybe I would where chador and tie it round my waist like the local women, maybe I would make mulberry jam, catch fish and every now and then send someone down the mountain to get me something that would make the colours around me even more alive.


A colourful shomali sky

Merry Noruz

It has been the new year in Iran for over a month, but I have been distracted and haven't posted for awhile. Here is my slighlty out of date story of my first proper Noruz (from start end) in Iran.

It is the new year. The past few weeks have involved a huge amount of preparations for this moment. It is now the 14th day, which means the13 days of national holiday are over. Today life resumes as normal. The Noruz break is one of those national holidays when you are never sure if things are open or not, if people are at work or not, like the 2 weeks of Christmas and New Year we have in England. Preparations for Noruz ususally take longer than the 13 days of holidays. In my household started in earnest 3 weeks ago. First, 2 days were spent doing khune tekooni, or spring cleaning. All the furniture was moved, all the walls were washed, everywhere was dusted and in the end the house sparkled. A few days later was the big samanu cooking event (see previous post) which meant we now had the first of our seveb things needed for the haft sin. My grandmother then spent two days ordering me to wash various china, move furniture around, and generally make the house ready for the fifty something family members who would drop in on us for eid didani (the first 13 days of the new year are spent visiting family and friends, starting with the oldest person first).

For Noruz a haft sin is made. Haft Sin means seven sin's (a letter from the alphabet) although more than seven objects (each with symbolic meaning) are put out on a table, and not all of them start with sin. Haft sin’s take on many shapes and sizes nowadays. Ours would be fairly simple, but there is a new art to haft sin making, and you can even go to classes to learn how to decorate the dishes or where to tie ribbons around your table. Over Noruz haft sin's are everywhere, not just in homes, but in offices, shops, schools....so I could compare the different styles at my chemist, cake shop etc. At a gallery in Tehran I saw a very arty haft sin, that meant you really had to search to see the seven sin's. We pushed a table intop the corner of the room, covered it with a table cloth, pulled a mirror of the wall and leant it on the corner of the table. I was then sent in search of candlesticks whil my grandmother pulled out seer (garlic), senjed, serke (vinegar) and sekkeh (coins). We added an apple and then she boiled eggs with red onions so that they became an off purple colour. My Ameh was making sabzeh (wheatgrass) for us and would bring it round just before the new year, so all that was left was the goldfish and sonbol (hyacinth). There is a risk they will both die, so I had been advised not to buy them until the last minute. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. Over night florists had put out tables covered in sabzeh and sonbol and tanks full of feeble looking goldfish. My dad and I proudly spoke of the fact our goldfish has lasted 2 whole Noruz’s. Everyone had warned me that the shops get ridiculously busy over eid, and so I saw the popluar shopping street near our house was five deep in people traffic. For the new year you are supposed to wear new clothes, so an excuse to get a new outfit, plus with all the mehmouni’s (parties) to go to, most women head out to buy a new roosari or two. So the house was pretty much ready as was the haft sin, I would buy a goldfish and sonbol on new years eve.

Traditional Haft Sin



Arty Haft Sin



Salon Haft Sin (with ribbons)


Chemist Haft Sin

The last Wednesday before new years is chahar shanbe suri, which is usually spent at a big garden jumping through fires on the previous evening. I went to a friends garden with my Ameh and her family. There was indeed a fire, but a pretty small one and logs around for everyone to sit on. I was scared about jumping through fire, I’ve neved done it, although I understand why you don’t burn, but still, it seemed dangerous. First there was a round of firecracking throwing, the small kind that make a loud bang, a puff of light and a lot of smoke. Then it was time for sandwiches, then car stereos were turned up and it was time for dancing round the fire, and running and jumping through it. Everyone started jumping without warning. My cousin grabbed my and and we jumped, really not a big deal, actually quite invigorating and warming. Jumping through the fire is supposed to be a form of cleansing, getting rid of the bad things of the past year, and getting ready to the good things in the year ahead. Driving home that night there was the smell of smoke in the air, and remnants of fires all over the streets. Shops were open and people were busy buying last minute shireeni and goldfish. It did sort of have a new years eve feel, people seemed excited and there was a sense that people had had fun that evening, something that is some times hard to find here.

On new years eve I dutifully went out and chose a healthy looking goldfish and a full hyacinth. Different family members dropped nuts and shireeny over during the day. My grandmother spent a long time mixing all the nuts together and filling up the huge bowl that would dominate the mehmun khune (drawing room) for the next 2 weeks. In the evening six cousins, one aunty and her husband came over and together with my dad and grandmother, we ate the traditional mahi va sabzi polo (fish filled with herbs and nuts and rice with fresh herbs), drank vodka and danced around the living room.

It became the new year at 9:15am the following morning. We didn't count it down, and we weren't even in the same room together, instead all of us occupied with normal morning activities like breakfast and washing. We then put on our finest and... waited. During Noruz it is traditional to visit the oldest family member first, which meant today, new years day, would see the whole family drop in at some point or another. So we waited. At 11am my cousin came over with his wife and two children. The chai (tea) had been brewing for awhile and I immediately jumped to attention, as the only able bodied female in the house, pouring tea, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. After about 40 minutes they left, I cleaned up and then.. we waited. We had lunch, we waited some more, we had naps, we waited some more. Finally at 5pm the doorbell rang again and would continue to ring relentlessly throughout the evening. From that point on 30 or more family members poured in at different points throughout the night. After all the waiting I had forgot about prepartion, and ran around pouring more chai, filling plates with fruit and nuts and repeadetly offering shireeni. I am not very experienced at Iranian style hosting, so I recruited young female cousins to carry round trays of chai, re-stock a depleting fruit bowl, and help me wash all the tea cups in time for the next thirsty guests. By the end of the night I was completely knackered, I hadn't really sat down, or actually spoken to most of the guests. But my grandmother had been telling all of my aunties how hard I had been working, what a lovely girl I was and so forth. It was as if I had passed some sort of initiation, I may still be a khareji (foreigner) but I can host and ta'arof as good as the locals!

Knotting the sabzeh

Over the next week the eid didani would start in earnest, each day spent at a different family member or friends house. I was escaping to Tehran which means I would miss most of it, although the day after new years we visited my oldest aunty for lunch and my oldest uncle for tea in the afternoon. I returned to Isfahan in time for Sizdah be dar (13th day out) which is traditionally spent outside in a park or private garden. Nearly every year the family pile over to my aunties house and garden outside of the city, and this year was no exception. The ususal eating and dancing enused, both inside and outside the house. By late afternoon, storm clouds were looming, so my cousin came round with the basket of sabzeh before it rained. Using only one hand each girl has to try to tie a knot in the stem of one of the buds. This will bring her good luck in the coming year, and of course, hopefully a husband too. I was allowed two go's and managed to do it the second time, but then protested I really didn't want a husband in the next year to which I got the response 'Ok, well if not this year, then next year'.

The Queen's English

My favourite students (Grandad in the middle with the hat)



Before coming to Iran I was adamant that I wouldn’t teach English. I didn’t want to spend my time doing a ‘boring’ job, or speaking English too often. Iran is not exactly inundated with TOEFL qualified students on their gap year, so being a native speaker meant I was hot property around town. Against all my better judgment, within a month I’d lined myself up three different jobs at three different language schools across town. The English language teaching community in Isfahan is fairly small, and I soon realized that various colleagues from various institutes all had some prior connection to each other. It also seemed that competition was rife, and I was soon tapped for information by my various bosses about the other institutes: what books to they teach from? How many students do they have? Do they do any special classes? I gave up all the information I had; they could fight it out between them.

The shaking minarets

At no point did I claim that I was real teacher, or an expert on grammar, and luckily my bosses listened to me, so I only taught free discussion/ conversation classes. Basically, I chose any topic I liked, allowed my students to do a little preparation for it, mainly by trawling the internet, and then (usually) a lively debate would ensue. It took my students a little while to get used to my accent, as they are all much more used to American ones (through films and TV shows, lots of people watch Dubai based TV channels available on satellite that broadcast un-dubbed American shows like Desperate Housewives and Friends), and it is indeed that accent of choice for anyone studying English at university. I also asked them to call me by my first name and not to stand up every time I entered the classroom, I wasn’t used to getting this much respect. Teaching all female classes was difficult as nearly all of them are always too shy to speak, except for one mouthy one who completely dominates the class and ends up interrupting when one of the other girls actually plucks up the courage to say anything. Classes of all boys are a lot more relaxed, but always go off topic as instead I am asked: Do you have a boyfriend? What is your favourite alcoholic drink? Do you get tired of wearing hijab? What do you do for fun in your country?

Pelicans and a white peacock at the bird sanctuary, Najnoon Park

My favourtie class was a group of very advanced, mixed gender and mixed generation students. One of them, known as granddad, always came to class armed with horoscopes or poems he’d found on the internet that he liked to quote when he felt the debate was getting too heated. Over the course of the past few months we’ve discussed racism and prejudices, compared educational and legal systems in England and Iran, talked about the environment and ecology, the positive and negative effects of tourism, our favourite books/ films/ music and the growing generation gap. In the lesson on crime and punishment I spent a long time explaining about date rape, which interested the younger students a lot but made the older ones look very uncomfortable. The unanimous response I had already expected was that date rape does not exist in Iran. (How can it? Dating/ unsanctioned relationships/ sex before marriage are all against the law, and as far as proving a husband has raped his wife, I might be wrong, but think you’d be laughed out of court).

Me as tour leader in a fetching body-warmer

As well as teaching I’ve also been leading bi-monthly tours, where we take the students to a restaurant, or a hotel or shopping and get them to do all the transactions in English. Most of them have never been abroad and as getting a visa is so hard, have no plans to. This is the only way they can use their English in a practical, real-life situation. I once had to lead them

around the Aremeian church, having learnt the history of the building half an hour before. I managed to bluff it pretty well and realized had it been a mosque I would have been harder, growing up in an Atheist household, in England and travelling around Western Europe meant my knowledge about churches and Christianity was far superior to my knowledge of Islam. For our last class my favourtie group arranged a day of touristy fun for me, visiting the shaking minarets, a bird sanctuary and a traditional restaurant. At our first stop, the minarets, there was a big group of Japanes tourists who seemed to take a particular shine to me, and lined up to have their picture with me. We all giggled quietly, none of us having the heart to tell them I wasn’t really a typical Iranian girl.

My new friend

The down side of being a native speaker in a language institute is the endless questions from students and teachers, and the dissapointed, almost disgusted looks I get when I don't know the answer. One teacher came to me with a list of postcodes asking me what citities they stood for, and then proceeded to ask about all the different methods of sendings letters and parcels in England. My British politeness failed me and I responded in sarcastic Farsi with ‘sorry I’m not a post man’. My students are all obssessed with learning idioms, so I’d come armed to classes with phrases such as ‘water of a duck’s back’ and ‘eye of the tiger’. They’d then want to know the root of the terms and I’d struggle; ‘Well, erm, separating the wheat from the chaff, well the wheat is the good part of the plant the famers would keep and, erm, the chaff is.. is .. the debris, yes, the debris that they would get rid of’. I’m also constanly asked advice on how they can improve, where again not being a teacher, I’m not really sure what to suggest. The biggest issue I see is the lack of exposure to natives, which means students are learning from teachers who speak with terrible accents. My advice; it is near impossible to sound like a native, but try at least to not sound like an Iranian : ‘Hhello, I am f-erom Ee-ran. I am leeving here e-six ye-ars. I go to e-school.’ (know it is familiar to some of you!)

Sa-ma-nu! Sa-ma-nu!

Every year my dad's cousin Nosrat cooks up a big pot of samanu and invites all the family over while she is cooking it. Samanu is a wheat pudding, made from wheat grain, water, hazelnuts and almonds (no added sugar). It is one of the things that are placed on the haft sin for Noruz, and so it is traditional that it is cooked around this time, just before the New Year. It is also believed to be a good omen. Samanu burns very easily, but takes a long time too cook, which means it has to be continually stirred until it is ready, usually taking at least 48 hours. This samanu party is the kind of traditional gathering that is hard to find nowadays, even in a city as traditional as Isfahan. So as friends of mine partied with ambassadors in Tehran, I was at a much more exclusive engagement.

Nosrat's house is the old fashioned kind, with a courtyard in the middle and rooms coming off opposite sides. For the samanu cooking the whole garden was covered with a huge chador (tent). We entered through the back garden, and straight into the heat emulating from the huge copper pot the samanu was cooking in, and the gas underneath it. The garden was full of about 30 women, and 5 men. Traditionally cooking samanu is something women do, probably because, well, cooking is something women do. It means that at a samanu party the ratio of women to men is always very unequal. Everyone had their roosari's on. Neither my cousin or I were sure why, but decided as the average age of the guests was 60, and the kind of ladies who don't take their roosari's off, the youngsters must have decided to keep them on in their company. So we did too. After a long round of hellos, with many comments directed at my Ameh "Is this your brother's daughter?", "The one with the foreign mother?","Mashallah!" (literally-May God preserve you, but an expression of praise) etc, a few gave me big smackers on my forehead, and then continued questioning my Aunt; "Does she speak Farsi?", "How long is she here for?", "Does she like Iran?'". Only one deemed to address me directly, but then commented to my Aunt and not me; "Oh her Farsi is good!". The huge wooden spoon was passed between us to stir the samanu and make a wish for the coming new year. There is also a special song/ prayer that is sung, but seemed no one could remember much of it. The joke is that girls wish for husbands, and are even teased for going to the samanu party for that reason. Clearly there is nothing else worth wishing for. Not to break tradition my Ameh took hold of the great spoon, rolled up her sleeves and as she turned the spoon announced how she was wishing for husbands for her daughters and me, to whom the older ladies responded with cries of Enshallah (god willing), and again a few big kisses were placed on my reddened forehead. It was one of those situations I often find myself in Iran, where everyone knows who I am and I don't have a clue who anyone else is. It's not just that they know who my dad is, they know me, they know I'm the younger daughter and they know my name. Luckily my Ameh was on hand to fill in the blanks about everyone as we plonked ourselves on a ledge next to the pot of bubbling samanu. The gossip was fairly usual; she can't have kids, she is trying to immigrate to America, her dad is a criminal. Tea, juice, ice cream and cakes were offered, until ghormeh sabzi was ready. We sat on the ledge eating, gossiping, listening, others inside the house, and others in another corner, everyone just spread lazily wherever there was room. Eventually we said a long round of goodbyes, and went home with full, warm bellies.

I wish I was a little bit taller

I wish I was a baller

I wish I had a rabbit in a hat

We were back the next evening, to an even fuller garden (at least 70) and accompanied by more of my aunties and cousins, although all the males in our family chose to stay away. We all carried buckets and pots to be filled with samanu and carted home the following morning. Overnight the colour of the samanu had deepened from a rich caramel colour to a dark chocolatey brown, with hazelnuts and almonds bobbing along the edge of the pot. The night unfolded much as the previous one had, with slight differences: we sat inside, we ate Ash-e Reshteh, we gossiped about different people. On leaving we were told to take a big handful of sweets and nuts. They're called moshkel goshaa (problen solving) sweets and nuts, while you suck on them your problems somehow melt away.

By the following morning the samanu was finally ready. We drove the 3 minutes to Nosrat's house, as we would be taking all the family's samanu home, and couldn't manage to carry it all. There were a few girls and Nosrat in the garden today, with rows and rows of pots filled with the chocolate coloured samanu arranged on the floor. The huge copper pot had been washed and discarded on its side, to be hidden in an attic until next year. No roosari's were worn today, revealing disheveled hair, and limbs heavy from a long night of stirring. A feeling of satisfaction hung in the air, a good deed done, hopefully proving auspicious for the year ahead.

On getting the samanu home I finally had a little taste. I'd tried it before, and wasn't keen, but that was the store bought variety… of course the fresh stuff is better right? Wrong, as suspected it was disgusting, the kind of thing you only eat once a year. Doesn't matter.. .....someone enjoyed it.

Mama Khanoum khayatee doost darad

My grandmother likes to sew

3 Months

I have been in Iran 3 months today. I feel it is timely to give myself a 3 month review, like a good boss should give you in a new job (no, I didn’t get one in my last job). Have I set out to do what I wanted? Have I learnt anything at all?

My Farsi is definitely improving. I can speak with a better accent and more fluency. I can use a few idioms here and there, and I can imitate an Isfahani accent (although have to try hard not to speak with one, I’m trying to learn proper Farsi, like the Tehranis speak, innit). My reading and writing is still slow, but it doesn’t make by brain ache like it used to. I can now say the following tongue-twisters:

Ghouri-ye gol ghermez (the teapot with the red flower on it)
Koshtam shepeshe shepesh koshe shesh pa ra ( I killed a louse that killed the six legged louse)

Ladies enjoying the view on Si-o Se Pol, Isfahan

I’ve learnt my way around my father’s city. I know where Jolfa ends and Sichan starts. I know the names of the bridges in town (Pol-e Felezi, Si-o-Se Pol, Pol-e Ferdowsi, Pol-e Khajoo). I am even beginning to fit Tehran together, a big puzzle with pieces from various visits through the years. It makes a lot more sense than it used to, as long as I know where Superstar Burger is I can find my way home.


I've had a few cooking lessons with some Aunties-Khoresht-e Bademjaan (lamb and aubergine stew), Khoresht-e Karafs (lamb and celery stew), Morgh-e Alooche (chicken with prunes) but so far not so much experimentation on my own. Living with and old lady means I am well looked after, as she is always thinking of my belly (I think she tells me to eat something on average about 7 times an hour, unless she is napping, but then it is likely to be the first thing she says when she wakes up), and all of her children are always thinking of hers, so food is either brought over most days, or a feast is cooked up while I am at work.

Ladies playing in the snow in Niavaran Park, Tehran

I’ve learnt what to do if stopped for un-Islamic behavior; ‘be cool man, be cool’. But, I can’t say I have adapted so much that I am sure I will be cool if I am stopped. That’s not true, I was stopped, but they spoke to the guy I was with who immediately said I was his wife when asked what our relationship was, and then they told him to tell me to pull my scarf forward, too much hair showing at the front. I stayed cool throughout, but apparently they were particularly polite. So will see how I react if there is a next time.

I can walk out into 6 lanes of oncoming traffic, erratic drivers behind most wheels, and can manage to get to the other side of the road without breaking a sweat.

I still find trips to the grocers, butchers, tailors, pizzeria, furniture shop, clothes shop, headscarf shop, coffee shop, sock shop, and anyone’s house exciting.

Cleaning up the snow in Tehran

I’ve grown much closer to my family. I can talk to them about things I never could before. I can understand the songs my grandmother sings to herself, and make my own ones up too. I don’t find questions about my parents divorce as frustrating as I used to, because I can explain myself better, and as the family know me better, they also understand my answer. I’ve realized during the short visits over the years I’ve understood people better than I thought, I remain close to the people I’ve always been close too, and there are still ones I don’t have so much to say to. I’ve listened to stories about my great-grandmother, a woman to be reckoned with, and looked at old photos over and over again. I think I have a better picture of how my family saw me and my sister all these years, we were the strangers, of course accepted with familial hospitality, but nonetheless we were gharib (distant). For us they are pretty much all the family we have ( 50 on this side, and only 2 on the other).

It only takes me two go’s to get my maghneh on for work in the morning, it used to take me 3 or more. My headscarf still falls off every 15 minutes or so, and I’m still not as stylish as most of the girls around me, even after my care package from London.

I’ve been reminded of how ethnocentric my view is. I can’t help but get irritated by the inherent lack of customer service in every transaction I make, or snigger at the disorganization at the beginning of the new term at work, or bristle when I am forced into a disorderly queue, and think ‘this isn’t how we do things where I come from’. These reactions aren’t exclusively reserved for life in Iran, it’s what happens when we travel, but maybe I feel more conscious of them when I am trying to embrace a culture as my own.

Cleaning up the snow in Isfahan

I’ve gotten used to being here without my sister, but still miss her immensely at times. There are moments I want to laugh/ scream/ cry and I know she would immediately understand the reasons why. Right now she is in a bikini on a Brazilian beach and I am in hijab on an Iranian street.

I still don’t think I could drive here, although I kind of want to try (blatantly a really, really bad idea and don’t know who would actually let me behind the wheel, I probably wouldn’t even be able to get out of my alley and on to a main road).

People have a magnificent way of asking a hundred personal questions but then not giving anything about themselves away. I’ve learnt how to politefully decline form answering.

I’ve been reminded again how lucky I am to have a British passport, that I can get on a plane as easily as getting on a bus. I don’t have to think twice about where I want to travel, just in case I am not allowed in. I am not prevented entry to countries because of the politics of my leader, which in no way represents me.

Fancy dessert in Boulevard restaurant, Tehran

I still haven’t decided when I should move to Tehran, if I even should, or if I should stay in Isfahan and come back for another extened stay in Tehran. It takes a while to get into a routine, to settle in, to make friends, which is what I am doing in Isfahan. Tehran doesn’t feel quite so far from home; it is big, bustling, dirty. It is more azaad (free). But did I come to Iran to be in the lap of its modernity? Isfahan is much more traditional, somehow more authentic. Then the Anthropologist in me is appalled that I even think this way; Tehran is still Iran, as authentic as anything I deem ‘preserved’ (don’t get me wrong Isfahan really isn’t so far behind Tehran). But then maybe I have a point; are the things I like about Tehran the things that make it like London? Fancy restaurants with menus only in English (clearly means it is very chic), shops with REAL clothes from Europe, REAL shampoo from Europe, REAL chocolate from Europe. Of course, I’ve mainly been exposed to life in North Tehran, sure this doesn’t all ring true in the rest of the city, I guess if I move there I will find out.

Not so fancy breakfast in the park in Isfahan

I still have a long way to go, not that I expect to arrive at a certain point. Sometimes it feels Iran is like an onion and I have to peel through all the crusty layers to get to the part you can use. Or maybe more like an artichoke, the leaves are still tasty (if a bit furry) but the heart is by far the best bit. Maybe this metaphor is completely pointless; onion, artichoke, either way I know Iran is not a banana, it doesn’t open up that easily.