"Grand Accident"

Midnight on the pier jutting into the Caspian Sea, H2 and his college friends haven't seen each other in a couple years, but it could have been yesterday. We teach each other dirty words in our native languages. His friends talk about engineering and starting up a business. Some naughty boys put a firecracker into a charity box and run away.

*

"Slovak investors urged to invest in rubber tree plantantions in Ethiopia."

*

The elderly chaikuneh owner in Qazvin seems tired, but no worse for wear.
"I hope America can be Iran's friend in the future," he says to me. "We are all God's creation."

*

Someone asks if its true that no Jews died in the September 11 attacks.

"Jews died", I reply. "Puerto Ricans died, Jamaicans died, Moslems, Jews, Christians, secular humanists died. Everyone died on September 11."

*

"Iranians hate bin Laden", H2 tells me over a course of dizi. "They blame him for turning the world against Moslems. And he's Saudi. I don't even think he's really Moslem. All politicians are the same."

And, of course, bin Laden is wealthy. If he really wanted to do something for 'his people', well, he could have done something for his people.

*

We set out for our last great trekking adventure together. We negotiate a ridiculously low price with the driver, but he has to stop and ask directions from other cabbies. They inform him he should be getting much more. We decide to find another car. Just as well - considering the trip we're about to take - the driver's jacket says, in English, "Grand Accident".

Our destination is less than 100 km from Qazvin, but it takes over two hours since, once reaching the mountains, its a long series of hairpin turns over one mountain range above the treeline, then descending into a valley before ascending another mountain range. One false move - no guardrails - and we'd plummet thousands of feet. The other driver certainly would have gotten us killed. Our new driver grew up in the village where we're headed. Its called Alamut, also known as Gazor Khan, also known as Dezha-ye Hashish-iyun, also known as the Castles of the Assassins.

I'll turn on the comments for this blog when I get back and maybe my brother Scott can provide some more details, but about 1000 years ago Hasan-e Sabbah lured young men into his remote mountain fortress where he would ply them with hashish (hence "hashish-iyun"), show them beautiful gardens with lovely maidens convincing them they were in paradise, and then send them back down the mountain to assissinate political and religious leaders. Its an arduous trip to the top of the stronghold, but the vistas are breathtaking. I don't see any hashish or maidens.

On the way back to Qazvin, our driver Ali - a man in his late 40s - asks if I have any Persian girlfriends.

>"Nope."

"I'll set you up with my mother!"

>"I don't want to upset your father."

"Its okay, I'll get him a new girlfriend, too."

>"Maybe if your mother looks like Jessica Simpson."

"She looks like Jimmy Carter!"

*

Ali keeps a picture of his young daughter taped to the inside of the driver's side door next to a memorial picture of his brother.

We stop at a village restaurant that doesn't have menus. Doesn't really matter since 95% of Iranian restaurants have 95% of the same menus. More kebabs. H2 and I have taken chicken out of our diets quite a while ago. The radio reports that bird flu has been found in the lagoon of Anzali, the same lagoon my hotel balcony overlooked the night before.

I've taken some pictures of Ali and he asks me to e-mail them to him at my earliest convenience. He puts his pinky fingers together and says "doost".

Along the way we pick up a woman with a flower embroidered into her scarf. The men continue to talk, she speaks nary a word.

*

Akbar takes us in his cab from our hotel to the bus depot in Qazvin. A man of deep serenity confident in the role God plays in his life, he shows us the scars he incurred during the Iran-Iraq war - his knee, his forehead, all over his body. He suffers from blood poisoning during a chemical bombing. He offers to put me up for the night if I decide to stay over again in Qazvin.

"Iranians love Americans like brothers", he says. "Americans, Iranians, Israelis, Armenians, Russians - Only God."

We arrive at the depot, but rather than getting tickets we arrange for a car to take us to Tehran. Akbar comes over to us: "I've provided the police with this car's number so that you will have complete immunity on your journey."

*

Bruno Kirby's Persian Doppleganger will take us, along with another couple, the short distance from Qazvin to Tehran (at about 140 kph). He looks like the last man you'd think of when it comes to electronic dance music, appearing to be in his late 40s or 50s, but like virtually every driver we've had, regardless of age, Persian techno, trance and breakbeats boom from his stereo.

Arriving in Tehran Bruno Kirby's Persian Doppleganger informs us that he hasn't slept in two days. Everyone pays and immediately gets out of the car.

*

"Doost" means "friend".

Genesis 2:8-14

Iranians enjoy pretty lights and welding. Everyone requiring corrective lenses wears stylish eyewear. I may be the only person in Iran with laces in his shoes - should have known I'd need to slip them off so often entering shrines and mosques. Still can't quite get used to seeing books lying face up with the spine on the right. The Little Dipper rises in the night sky.

I saw more foreigners in Ghana. Of course, its the low season for tourism and everyone tells me to come back in the summer. Drivers prefer the volume of their car stereos on '11'. They always apologize that their kids have all their Western tapes.

I know, I know, This Blog Is Worthless Without Pictures. Hey, that's why the Lord God made Google Image Search.

*

I'm going to write this entry from now to then for effect.

H2's friends from Anzali and Rasht have joined us - normally the two towns are steadfast enemies, H2 says, "like Iran and America". They greet each other with "Nuclear power is definitely our right". The wrestling World Cup is on every television in town. Iran invited US wrestlers to participate, but they (or probably some politician) declined. I tell them some American jokes, they want to hear different American accents.

This afternoon we made the trip to Masuleh, a tourist-destination village in the mountains south of the Caspian. Its shuttered up - it being low season - but the main attraction is the network of alleys and architecture whereby one house's roof is the next place's floor. A shy little girl runs away from us, but repeatedly smiles and pokes her head out of her family's residence.

Our driver has recently spent 8 years in South Korea, sending all the money he made back to his wife and kids in Iran. He plays a tape by Mohsen Chavoshi, a pop group that the government allows to sing about girls. The government cracks down on pop music less than it used to because so many of the major stars, like Andy, have moved to the US to produce their work and sell it back to kids in Iran.

We pass a village called Shaft and I take a picture of the sign.

Upon H2's father's recommendation, I got up around 5 this morning to watch the sunrise over the lagoon in Anzali.

*

Yesterday we came down from the snow-capped mountains from the alleged Biblical Land of Nod in northern Iran near Ardabil and past the jungles alongside the Caspian to arrive at the lagoon. Our driver, R, is an excellent practitioner - a lesser man would have gotten us killed on several occassions.

Down through the Hayran Valley Pass, we skirt the river separating Iran from Azerbaijan. R puts two fingers to his head and says if I were to put my foot across the barbed wire fence 10 feet from us I'd be shot. On the other side of that fence, women are not obligated to veil.

R, an older gentleman, plays a tape of the pre-Revolution stylings of Delkash through the Pass. H2 knows the words, too. Another traditional Iranian tape features Iraj Bastami, who died in the tragic Bam earthquake of December 2003 that destroyed one of the country's premier ancient treasures and killed tens of thousands.

R takes us through a 'scenic' detour of Astara - the Iranian side. The Caspian is in sight. We stop by a shrine, located next to it is another martyr's cemetary (see below). The men running things invite us for tea.

*

Its good to know the locals. We started our journey in Ardabil. R has proudly led H2 and I around the local mosque - a magnificent piece of work that spawned the Safavid kings. One of its towers geometrically spells "Allah" in continuous design.

We're running a little behind and I tell H2 to let R know we can stop to eat along the way. H2 informs me that people in Ardabil are highly nationalistic and would never consider eating at a place outside of town, so R takes us to his favorite kebabi. Nine kebabs, three drinks: $6. I swear that we passed a guy in a sweet, sweet Vikings jacket near the bazaar.

I extended my visa to cover an oversight - two petitions, a bank transfer and a lot of patience were necessary to complete the process in two hours. The three-star soldier behind the glass tells us he's working on his Master's in 'psychology of speech'. He apologizes for his poor English, which is actually immaculate.

*

So I heard Dick Cheney shot a man. I'm tempted to add "just to watch him die", but even IRINN reports that it was an accident.

At least half of the network's anchors and reporters are women - none of them showing a single strand of hair. The head covering offers a brilliant disguise for the IFB. Perhaps I'll suggest Mary wear one when I get back. An inset box provides the news in sign language for the hearing impaired. The weather forecast is set to the Muzak version of Phil Collins' "Take A Look At Me Now".

The Fate of the World scrolls by on the ticker...

"Belgian researchers: Muslims are majority of victims of violence done in the name of Islam"...

"Study suggests children raised in orphanages stunted physically, emotionally and intellectually but good foster care can help children grow again"...

"US Media: Cheney's secrecy over shooting of Whittington has afflicted American people"...

"US Media: Dick Cheney did not care to inform Whittington's family"...

"US Media: Cheney seems uncommitted to American people"...

*

I doubt anyone has been in our Ardabil hotel in quite a while. The water out of the faucet turns several shades of lead. The manager kept us at the front desk with a series of questions like "Where does the most famous Iranian football player come from?", "Where can you find the best water in the world?", "What region has Iran's best sites?" - all of which are answered with "Ardabil". Ardabil is probably the coldest tourist destination in the country.

All of the bus drivers have to stop at regular police intervals. They'll be fined for speeding if they arrive too early. Tonight's bus driver swears as he returns to the bus at one stop. They'll often pull over for ten minutes before entering a town.

*

We came to Ardabil from Tabriz, where the temperature had plummeted below freezing and the snow was falling when we arrived after 11 hours on the bus - 3 of which were spent tied up in the gridlock of Tehrani traffic after an oil tanker had flipped.

Everyone I've spoken to claims to have "bad memories" of Tabriz, including H2, who spent two years there at school. He can't believe that I'm excited about the visit. Our ultimate destination is a Cappadoccia-style village called Kandovan, but even that is secondary to my real purpose.

The manager of our hotel offers to take us. Iranians have strong stereotypes about people in particular towns - the 'promiscuous' women of Rasht, the 'homosexuals' of Qazvin, the 'sharks' of Esfahan. The manager and H2 exchange jokes the entire way - "there was a man from Osku (between Tabriz and Kandovan) who told his wife he saved 500 tomans by running behind the bus all the way home. 'You fool', his wife replied, 'you could have saved 2000 by running behind a cab!'".

Maybe their joking is a bad omen. After three attempts to negotiate the mountain pass to Kandovan - through Osku - the manager's poor little engine won't make it. We head into Osku with the snow coming down hard to find a better vehicle. A local says he'll take us. The manager asks the man how long he's had his license. "Two months", the guy says. We pile into his 1957 Land Rover.

*

And the LORD God planted a garden in Eden, in the east; and there he put the man whom he had formed. And out of the ground the LORD God made to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food, the tree of life also in the midst of the garden, and the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

A river flowed out of Eden to water the garden, and there it divided and became four rivers. The name of the first is Pishon; it is the one which flows around the whole land of Havilah, where there is gold; and the gold of that land is good; bdellium and onyx stone are there. The name of the second river is Gihon; it is the one which flows around the whole land of Cush. And the name of the third river is Hiddekel, which flows east of Assyria. And the fourth river is the Euphrates. (Genesis 2: 8-14)

British archaelogist David Rohl has risked academic scorn in his book "Legend" by advancing the argument that not only does the Garden of Eden exist, it can be located outside Tabriz. Today, Eden is nearly snowed in.

We arrive in Kandovan to see the fairy-chimney houses. One woman lets us into her home, though she won't let us photograph her. Some older kids are bullying younger ones on the streets. Kandovan rests on the side of Mount Sahand - Rohl says this is the Mountain of God.

We stay a short while before returning in the 57 Land Rover to Osku, picking up elderly Azeri men along the way. They're ancient people in an ancient land, speaking an ancient language. The sun comes out.

*

Back in the manager's car, we stop by a local haunt for lunch. Three orders of dizi, three "cokes", three cups of tea: $6.
Gasoline: less than 40 cents a gallon
Movie ticket: 50 cents
CD: 50 cents to 2 dollars
Shaving cream: 50 cents
Cigaretters: 60-80 cents (Winston or Kent)
ticket to Persepolis: 50 cents
Mini pizza: $1.10
Airfare from Shiraz to Tehran: $30 per person

*

I notice that Krissy Wendell, Natalie Darwitz and Jenny Potter are repeatedly lighting the lamp for Team USA in Turin. Kelly Stephens appears to be doing her part by spending several minutes per period in the penalty box. It appears the squad is headed for another showdown against the chicks with sticks from Canada. Go Gophers!

*

Prior to boarding the bus to Tabriz we spent a layover day in Tehran. H2 took me to the martyr's garden, Behesht-e Sahra, Iran's equivalent to Arlington National. 200,000 of the men killed in the Iran-Iraq war are buried here, many of them with family photos accompanying their resting place. "He was 17", H2 says, listing their ages. We speak with one man washing off the gravestone of his former English teacher.

Nearby is the shrine containing the tomb of Ayatollah Khomeini. The men standing in front of us at the tomb wear jackets emblazoned: "Peaceful nuclear power is definitely our right".

On the way back to town, we stop by H2's sister and brother-in-law's apartment for lunch. She's a student of fine arts at the university. Her husband is in video sales, but also makes violins, is a master of pickling and collects African art. He spent two months in Tanzania trading for the works he displays in his home. H2's sister shows me their wedding book. Her husband stands proudly in the middle of the room and announces to anyone who can hear him, "My wife is very beautiful."

Have I mentioned how remarkably hospitable and generous Iranians are? We eat until we're full.

*

Its 2am and we've just arrived in Tehran from the airport when the cabbie laughs and asks me, "Are you a friend of Bush?" He's the second cab driver we've had tonight whose radio is tuned to Radio America.

H2's family has invited me to stay at their home.

*

At the airport in Shiraz I see more mullahs than I've seen the rest of the time. The military is in full force. A group of women - who wait at least half an hour - hold flowers and a banner welcoming the nation's star karate champion back home. When he arrives he briefly waves and walks by them briskly. Crushing.

One popular treat at the airport is a cup of corn. Not popcorn, good ol' kernels of corn in butter.

Earlier that evening, on the streets of Shiraz, a man walked behind us offering "whiskey, vodka, whiskey, vodka". (We decline - a story came out last year of a party where two dozen people were killed by the alcohol served, accidently fermented with battery acid.)

*

The cabbie this night is a well-mannered older gentleman who supplements his income as a school administrator by driving nights. Beyonce is playing on Radio America. Iranians are natural mechanics, necessary to keep their aging Paykans working. "Have you ever seen such a vehicle in America?", he asks me.

He wants to know if Americans have to pay for college. I give him a ballpark figure for Stanford. H2's jaw hits the floor. The older gentleman points out the difference in income levels between our countries.

The driver asks how long it takes to get from my home to Iran. I have four consecutive flights that will last 17 hours with an additional 8 hours in layovers. He asks, rhetorically since I don't answer, "Why do Americans come half way around the world to kill Iraqis?"

He promises me that America will attack Iran.

"Good job!"

At 3am, H2 was awakened with an urgent message from a close friend.

"Bebaxshid! Sorry to disturb you, I'm sure you were sleeping, but I have something important to tell you:"

"Nuclear power is clearly our right!"

H2 laughs for half an hour.

*

Love is in the air. Iranians enjoy Valentine's Day. Couples read poetry to each other in Eram Garden. They share tea and hubble bubble at the chaikuneh near the Tomb of Hafez. Four couples sit next to us at restaurant on their special evening out. Finding out I'm American, they ask if they can have their picture taken with me.

Iranians call the restaurant "The Bathroom". Its a 350 year old hammam featuring some of the finest food in Shiraz. Its my first taste of dizi, a stew-like meal with its own consumption process - pour off the broth, mash up the chicken, beans and chick peas and eat with bread. Its delicious and leaden.

A woman on the street stops me and says "I love you! Are you single?"

Back at the Hafez chaikuneh, our server is quite the cutup, "Which part of London are you living in? The United States?" He tells us bad jokes and demands that I guess his salary.

Across from us, a young architect finds out I'm American and shows me the Metallica logo he keeps on his cell phone. I'm surprised to find out he's never heard of Judas Priest. He sticks his index finger and pinky in the air. "Nothing Else Matters!"

*

Burly Man steps into the small hotel elevator with us and looks at me.

"German?" - a common guess, along with French, since most Iranians don't expect to see visitors from my country.

>"Amrika."

His eyes light up and he shakes my hand. "Good job! Finally America comes to Iran."

"Trove of Pollacks"

Some teenage girls are throwing coins into the reflecting pool at the tomb of the great Persian poet Sa'adi, hoping to find husbands. They all laugh when one of the girls misses and runs away shrieking. Someone has thrown in paper currency.

As we enjoy the special brand of ice cream only found in Shiraz down in the teahouse, the girls come over to us and ask where I'm from. "Amrika."

"Oh! Brad Pitt!"

On the way back our cabbie drives with the headlights OFF, then misses the turn to our hotel and backs up the entire length of the street into oncoming traffic. Lest you think this is uncommon, our cabbie the next night does the same thing, driving in reverse on the busiest avenue in this city of 1.5 million.

*

I'm addicted to the ticker. IRINN is the Iranian version of CNN - its pretty much straight news delivered with the same level of propoganda that you'd find on CNN. I'll let you decide what that is.

It features the ubiquitous ticker - not one, but two - the English version moving left to right, in Farsi below moving from right to left. Most of the scrawl in English is dedicated to the latest news about the cartoon row, sports and scientific breakthroughs. Any and every headline concerning bird flu around the world is mentioned. Its stance on the nuclear program is that the West is unjustly trying to keep the Islamic Republic from simply conducting scientific research.

Olympic scores scroll by, including women's "hokey" - its okay to talk about women's hockey in Iran because all the players have their heads covered.

My favorite headline thus far: "Trove of Pollacks found in New York may be fake".

*

I'm riding my bike along the bike path and have to stop when Tiger Woods and two cohorts are blocking the way. I don't have anything against him, he's seems like a decent enough fellow, but his friends are kind of arrogant as well as inconsiderate. I'm about to ask why he thinks there are fewer African Americans playing professional golf now than at any time in the last 30-40 years when he and his colleagues disappear. I look for a cop, not to sue - I don't care about his fame or his money - I'm just a prick when it comes to blocking the bike path. I ask the cop if there are cameras anywhere that will prove my version of events and she says she doesn't know before driving away on an APB. I walk to my boyhood home in southern Minnesota.

Steven Spielberg walks across the driveway promising to explain everything. He says I've unwittingly been involved in the filming of a new verite-style advertisement and that if I just sign the release form I'll be handsomely compensated. I'm not sure I want to sign it. An old, beat-up 50s Ford pulls up and Paul Newman invites me to get in.

He's very cordial, apologizes and says they're just in a hurry to get the ad on the air. I don't really care about any of that anymore. "Mr. Newman, I would be remiss if I didn't tell you that my mother is a huge fan of yours and if I was to pick one film from each decade that portrayed the life and times of America, I'd choose 'HUD' for the pre-Vietnam era." He seems genuinely moved. I'm trying to remember Melvyn Douglas' line towards the end of the movie, Paul Newman mumbles something but its not the line I'm thinking of. He shakes my hand and lets me out at Dysthe's garage. I'm going to walk home past Norgaard's old place near the elementary school, but the neighborhood is chained off.

I wake up.

*

We've hired a driver to take us around the circuit that makes up the heart of the first Persian empire. I've misspoke several times to several people when I say that Persepolis was its capitol; of course, Pasargadae was.

There's a dusty little town lying on the outskirts of Pasargad. As we near the end of the tree-lined boulevard, the first site is unmistakable: the Tomb of Cyrus the Great. Yes, there is scaffolding, but its still impressive. Cyrus has been inside for over 2500 years. Even as Alexander was busy burning everything else down, he demanded that the Tomb be repaired.

There are few remnants of Pasargad left, but imagination can take you far. Like the Greeks and other ancient civilizations, the Persians knew how to pick their spots, the site tucked inside the surrounding mountain ranges. Unlike other ancient civilizations, the Achaemenids didn't use slave labor to build their cities - everybody got paid.

Before moving on, our driver pulls out his portable tea set from the trunk of his car and pours each of us a cup. He asks if I'm single or married. I'd explain that most women think of me as little more than a curiousity to be observed at arm's length, but my Farsi isn't that good.

Its a gorgeous drive through the mountains to Naqsh-e Rostam & Naqsh-e Rajab, allegedly the tombs of Darius I, Artaxerxes I, Xerxes I and Darius II, built into the side of the rock. Sassanian stone reliefs have been carved into the mountain right underneath the tombs.

From there, its only 4 km to what was once the center of the known universe - Persepolis. The palace and ceremonial ground was started by Darius as an annual gathering place for his 28 subject nations. It was used only once a year around the time of the Persian New Year (No Ruz), the spring equinox. For the rest of the year it was probably deserted.

I'll spare you my amateur dissertation on Achaemenid history that you can easily Google and just say that Persepolis is indeed grandiose and even played a part in Persian history as recently as 35 years ago.

In 1971, the Shah spent an exhorbitant amount of money to commemorate the 2500th anniversary of the Persian monarchy. The festivities were lavish - too lavish his opponents claimed - and was attended by dignitaries from around the world. One problem: he forgot to invite Iranians.

In many ways, it was the beginning of the end. The people, many of whom lived lives with meager resources, saw where the Shah's priorities lie. By the end of the decade, the Shah was deposed, the Persian monarchy came to an end and the Islamic Republic - which celebrated its 27th anniversary last Saturday - was born.

The US still had a presence in Tehran after the Revolution. It was only after the Shah entered the US for medical treatment that young revolutionaries stormed the Embassy, took the hostages and the two countries 'official' love affair ended. Our governments refuse to speak to this day.

Shortly after the war, Saddam Hussein saw an opportunity to attack his weakened neighbor. Most Americans have probably seen the famous photo of Donald Rumsfeld shaking Saddam's hand early in the 1980s. You may have heard the joke, "We know Saddam has WMD - Rummy kept the receipt!" Chemical weapons were used during the Iran-Iraq war which lasted most of the 80s.

Its estimated that a million Iranians died, an entire generation of men wiped out.

After the war, the Islamic Republic encouraged the nation to repopulate. Of the 70,000,000 people living in Iran today, 70% are under the age of 30.

*

"Little by little the look of the country changes because of the men we admire. You're just going to have to make up your own mind one day about what's right and wrong."

- Melvyn Douglas as Homer Bannon, HUD (1963)

"The killing winds"

We have to stop along the road from Esfahan to Yazd because the desert winds whip across the plateau at clips of hundreds of kilometers an hour. The driver can't see. H2 asks if we have "the killing winds" in the US.

Yazd is the second oldest mud brick city in the world. The preferred mode of transportation is motorcycle. Its night and we're waiting for a taxi to take us to our hotel. Two men on a moto stop by and give us fresh cucumbers as part of the last night of Ashura ceremonies. There is a candlelight service in the public square.

Iran is a destination for nosejobs, which cost anywhere from $800-1500. There must be a good doctor in Yazd because I see at least half a dozen people with bandaged noses.

H2 has recognized my habit for asking questions I already know the answer to.

*

Zoroastrianism was the first religion on earth that worshipped one God. Most Zoroastrians now live in India; their stronghold in Iran is Yazd. "Good thoughts, good words, good deeds" was the motto of Ahura Mazda, its deity. Its been said that it would be the major religion of world today if Persepolis hadn't been burned down 2500 years ago by Alexander the Macedonian (he's not considered so Great around here).

The Zoroastrians have kept a fire burning in Yazd for 1500 years. The Towers of Silence lie outside the city limits. They're built atop two desert mountaintops where the Zoroastrians would bring their dead. Teens on motorcycles populate the area today, roaring through every path they can find. When I reach the summit, a man picnicking with his family comes to me and gives me an orange and kiwi. He's classically Iranian, offering what he has to others first.

Inside the towers, a magi (priest) would sit with the deceased until vultures came. Whichever eye they poked out first would determine the afterlife of this person. This was apparently still in practice until about 40-50 years ago.

Nowadays, there's a cemetary down below. Written on many of the gravestones are Ahura Mazda's edict of good thoughts, words and deeds. One man has engraved "welcome to my spot". Further down a young family burns incense over two graves. They tell us their beloved were engaged to be married before a car crash took their lives at age 23.

*

"God Damn the Mother and Father of Anyone Who Leaves Their Trash Here", proclaims graffitti scrawled on a wall in the alleys of the old city. H2 says God must be very busy.

The old part of town is all twisting alleys, light and shadow. Its designed in such a way to maximize and cool down the winds as they enter the town. Another of Yazd's great ancient engineering is the badgir - wind towers that allow the air enter from any of four sides, then funnel it down over a pool of water so that its cool and comfortable by the time it reaches the ground floor.

H2 and I enter the alleys at night for maximum effect. Something is happening. Motorcycles rip by us and around a corner we encounter young boys dressed in regal and traditional garb. Chanting comes from a makeshift mosque nearby where the boys will perform the martyrdom of Imam Hossein. We're invited in and I immediately take my shoes off. H2 pulls me aside and says its not a good idea. He's right, not because its inappropriate for me to be there, but my presence has excited the boys and the older gentlemen in attendance are perturbed by the distraction. We head back into the maze of alleys.

*

"Down on your knees". A woman who works at our hotel is practicing her English and this is one of the phrases she's written down for her lesson. H2 says this proves most Iranian women are feminists. (I studied feminist film theory for about three years at university and normally I would engage him in a discourse about feminism actually having more to do with a structural analysis of the means of production and dissemination, but we're in a hurry to catch our bus).

The previous night over tea and hubble bubble, I asked him if the law was changed tomorrow and women no longer had to wear head covering, what percentage would dispense with it. He says about 30%.

There's actually a very vibrant women's movement in Iran. In places like Tehran, women seem almost to be challenging authorities to arrest them. Typically, a cop would simply say, "please, ma'am, use your scarf." Women make up over 60% of university students, but a much smaller fraction of the workforce, meaning Iran has a vast untapped resource. In the bank where we exchanged money in Esfahan, at least half of the desk jobs were employed by women. But in the small businesses that line the streets you rarely see women working.

A lot of people might not want to hear this, but they'll just have to clench their teeth and swallow hard: millions and millions of women in this world choose to be Moslem. When Karen Hughes made her visit to the Middle East last year on a goodwill tour, there was one moment when she was away from the US administration's famously choreographed and controlled appearances. The women who approached her made it clear in no uncertain terms that despite their struggles, they did not appreciate the way the West portrays Moslem women.

There's a running joke in Iran when women are asked if they can vote, if they can work, if they can drive, if they can go to school, if they can walk alone. "What do you think this is?", they reply, "Saudia Arabia?"

{ed: Saudia Arabia, where women can't do any of the things Iranian women can do, that was home to the majority of people who terrorized my country on September 11, 2001, and where H2 alleges that Wahabbis have permission to murder Shia, is, of course, an ally of the United States.}

Shirin Ebadi, a lawyer in Tehran known for taking some of the country's toughest cases, won the Nobel Peace Prize a couple years ago.

*

We're in the town of Kharanaq for a quick visit. Archaelogists think there's been a settlement here for 4000 years. Only about 200 people live there now and most of them are crowding the road for a parade celebrating the anniversary of the Islamic Revolution in the late 70s. H2 tells me they're chanting "Down with USA".

Hi!

*

After a visit to Chak Chak, a fire temple in the beautiful desert mountains outside Yazd, famous for the Zoroastrian princess who disappeared here during the Arab invasion 1300 years ago, where a man has been tending the temple for 60 years, we catch our bus to Shiraz.

The bloom is off the rose. Its raining and the drive takes 8 hours instead of 6. A baby is crying for most of it. The driver keeps taking cell phone calls and uses what H2 calls bad words. (Still, nothing compares to bribing your way onto a West African bus only to be packed body to body in the midday heat without air conditioning.)

OMG, the inconvenience! : D

Midway we make a stop for evening prayers. All the men get off but one. Since we're coming from Yazd, I figure he's Zoroastrian. It occurs to me that most of these men would not normally go to prayer, but the pressure not to be The Guy Who Didn't Get Off The Bus For Prayers is considerable.

It turns out, H2 tells me, that hardly any of them went to pray at this stop. They were just stretching their legs.

*

I'm having a recurring dream that I fly back to the States for no apparent reason.

In tonight's dream, I'm sitting in a cafe drinking beer with Dan Bergin who has just informed me that he's become a member of the WTO. (This will come as quite a surprise to those who know Dan, as well as Dan himself, I'm sure!) I step outside the cafe to see a woman I don't know performing a striptease. I fly back to Iran.

*

On the evening of September 11, 2001, Tehran held the only candlelight vigil in all of the Middle East and Central Asia.

"So brave."

There were three incidents the other day that could be classified as "highly coincidental". I'll leave it at that.

Cost of a four-course meal in a 5-star restaurant for two people: $14. I think I've shaken more hands in the past week than I have in the past year. The incredibly kind elderly woman who works at the hotel has offered to wash our clothes. Perhaps she has used Iran's leading laundry detergent, which goes by the name of "Barf".

We're driving around Esfahan on the way to check out Khaju Bridge. The next day starts two of the holiest days in Shia Islam, the last two days of Ashura. The first will commemorate the tribulations of Imam Hossein's friend, Abbass; the second, the martyrdom of Imam Hossein.

"Its a bad time to be in Iran," the cabbie says, me waiting for the shoe to drop, "because everything will be closed tomorrow." Like virtually every cab driver we've used, he asks where I'm from.

H2 says to me in an aside, "You're lucky to be born in the USA and not Iran, Iraq or Afghanistan."

*

Its true. The next day I awake to the empty streets of a city populated by nearly 2,000,000 people. Everything is closed. Its difficult to hail a cab, but we manage to get a gregarious bear of a man to take us to the Zoroastrian fire temple outside of town. Along the way, we pass by large groups assembling, preparing for Ashura ceremonies. Free drinks and food are passed out on the street and sidewalks. The driver comments that I look like Bill Clinton.

H2 explains that many men stop shaving during Ashura. My kind of town.

Along the way, we stop to see a procession beginning. The driver pulls me out of the car with my camera and takes me to the scene and tells me to start shooting. Banners are raised and men with chains are lightly whipping themselves. Some have begun crying, nearly all Shia will at some point over the next 48 hours. Then a crowd forms around me and wishes me to stop taping. I'm crushed that I may have offended them, but they assure me its perfectly fine to record the action, but it has to be away from where I am because its a police station.

There will be much more to take in later and we move along to the fire temple. Women in full hejab are ascending the mountain. The vista is breathtaking and we can see various processionals manuevering throughout Esfahan.

In the cab back to town, H2 gets a message from M, our young university friend, inviting us to meet her and her family at Imam Square, where they will lead us to some neighborhood ceremonies. Seemingly out of nowhere, our bear-ish driver proclaims, "George W. Bush! He has good behavior!" Iranians' single greatest concern in life is behavior - proper handling of affairs will lead to universal acceptance and open doors, unruly or untoward varieties will get you marginalized. Small, unsolicited random samples show that many Iranians seem split on the subject of the current US president. We pick up some free tea at a roadside stand and one of the men tells me he deserves to work today on behalf of Imam Hossein.

Its about this time that my trip transcends into some sort of dreamscape. The driver says we can see ceremonies throughout the city, especially in parts where the poor live. Lambs are led to slaughter.

We meet M, her mother and sister at Imam Square. They give us more gifts, including a lovely rice pudding treat with spice sprinkled on top spelling out "Oh! Hossein!"

We walk. I ask M what she is feeling on this special day. She happily says she will cry for Hossein for being "so brave. So brave." We stop by a tomb. I take my shoes off and enter.

This day is mainly dedicated to Abbass, the man who went to fetch water for Hossein during his time of trial in Karbala. There are thousands of tents set up in the city, millions across the country. H2 explains that groups from different mosques travel the streets from tent to tent, each providing its own singer who performs sad songs for Abbass and Hossein. They cry for water, as Abbass did before the Sunni enemies captured him, cut off both of his arms and tied him to his horse to ride back to Hossein's camp. A man at the neighborhood we're in holds up a baby to one of the banners, signifying Abbass holding up a baby, asking for just enough water for the infant. The enemy killed the baby with bow and arrow. H2 surmises that Sunni and Shia will never get along and that Sunni courts in Iraq routinely sentenced Shia to death in that country.

Hundreds of people have lined the streets and filled the tent near a temporary mosque. I'm the only foreigner. I have little reason to be as nervous as I am, holding my camera. Little by little we move closer to the crowd. M and her family stay close. A woman beside us takes off the Abbass headband from her infant and pins it to me arm. M's brother in law shows up and offers to take my camera into the ceremony. He's close to the action - men with chains, singers weeping for Abbass, colorful banners hoisted high. Curious onlookers press close to me, knowing I'm American, rarely if ever seen at an event such as this. M's brother in law returns my camera and leads me right into the action. A man, his hand over his heart, appears before me offering a cup of tea. I'm touched. Invitations for food and company come at me from all directions. The man with the tea takes the saucer, but accidently drops it and as I bend down to pick up the pieces, half a dozen men stop me and do it themselves. The man takes me and H2 by the hand and leads us straight into the area of greatest crowd density. Hundreds of men are clamoring around a gate, waiting for the food that's being prepared inside. Its body-to-body as he wedges us by these men and through the gate, into a small courtyard.

Inside, a line of women wait for food, but the man wants us to see more. He leads us down a flight of stairs; still further, he brings us directly into the sweltering kitchen where dozens of men work tirelessly preparing plates full of food. M had given us orange juice outside and we offer it to the kitchen workers, who form an assembly line heaping rice and lentil/lamb sauce. A middle-aged man speaks English to me, welcoming me and telling me he studied at Michigan State. They invite me to continue recording, then bring us over to a stove where we're served some food. Every time I turn around, someone if offering me something. The conditions would probably not pass muster with the health department, but I'm told Imam Hossein will not allow me to get sick from what I'm eating. Activity is all whirlwind and my eyes are wide open.

We head out of the kitchen and everyone welcomes me, shaking my hand. We push past the crowd at the gate, still body-to-body, more invitations. We return to M and her family. She was concerned about where we went, text messaging H2 as we were in the kitchen and scolds him for not returning her query. They are returning to their home for rest. H2 reminds me not to shake hands with the women. M waves to us as they disappear into the crowd.

As H2 and I walk back to the hotel in a light rain, I'm reminded of the pervasive influence of the western media, with its propensity to condense what I've seen into 1:10 packages to be construed as 'Islamic chaos' to the uninitiated. We share the rice pudding with some people at another makeshift mosque set up for the day, they offer us tea. We stop by the to see our friends at the Foreign Police station and I show them the armband.

We're exhausted, but the ceremonies continue in earnest the following day. We've been invited to a special program that starts before dawn. Its only as I'm about the fall asleep that I realize my next waking moments will take me into what most Americans might deem their worst nightmare.

*

Its 4:45 am. H2 knocks on my door. He's alerted our silly clerk with a snap of his fingers and by the time I'm dressed, tea and eggs are served. H2 has been up until 2 making arrangements with our Arab Iranian friend, J - who we met at the hotel a few days earlier. J has told H2 that he would be so proud if I attended their ceremony.

I confer once more with H2 about my appearance at this event. "Yeah, yeah." We finish our tea. He says, "Okay, let's go."

Its still dark and the streets are deserted until we get closer to the ceremony. Banners are hung with knives dripping with blood. We get out of the cab to find J and his group. The event has been going on for over 200 years, J does it as his father has. J explains that its something like a miracle - despite what he's about to do, he will feel no pain. He and his group wish only that they could have been among Imam Hossein's 72 followers at the time of his death. He says this is their way of giving up their bodies for their beloved leader. This event is called ghameh zani - 'night beating'.

I want to be clear: everyone knows I'm American. H2 says I may be the only American to witness this firsthand, maybe the only foreigner. I can't say, it matters little. What I'm about to describe - if I could only do it justice - is not condoned by the Ayatollahs, in fact, they wish people would stop doing it. The vast majority of Iranians feel the same way. One of the group explains to me that he knows people judge them - probably harshly - for their actions. The point is - they don't care what people think. This is their way of showing their allegiance to Imam Hossein, one of the main men who shapes their lives. Its the most important thing they will do all year.

J takes us into a house full of men dressed in white cloth. We go into a room where about 15-20 men are gathered - mostly minority Arab Iranians - and the door closes. They indicate that I can begin recording. The swords come out.

Truly a 'night of long knives', they wipe their instuments down with alcohol. Boys younger than 14 excitedly sit around me - it will be their first participation in ghameh zani. J is in another room preparing and H2 and I are alone with these men we've never met before. One man wants to know how he can learn to speak English. I tell him that many Mexicans who come to America learn through TV and movies. I also suggest that many airline magazines publish articles in both the native and English languages. We're served some cocoa. One man jokingly pretends to beat me with his sword. Others pick up the barrel drums and begin to proceed out to the street where the event will take place. A picture of Imam Ali hangs in the room, watching over these ecstatic and religiously charged individuals. They adorn me in cloth to keep the blood from my clothes. We head out to the street.

The participants prepare by patting the crowns of their heads with the broad side of their knives. Like the previous day, many groups will parade through the streets - because J's group is one that did the most to coordinate the occassion, they will go last. They're steely, focused. I shake J's hand and wish him good luck. The boys are giddy.

I can already see what will happen, since many of the groups have already started. Chanting slogans for Iman Hossein - this day commemorates his death - men pass by me streaming in blood from the tops of their heads. One guy holding a red-soaked cloth on his crown says, in excellent English, "You're from America?"

>"Yeah."

"Where do you stay?"

>"Minnesota."

"Oh, yeah? I have a sister in Coon Rapids."

The leader of J's group is in rapture, striking the sharpened blade against the top of his head, making the incisions. Another man positions members in front of him, drawing blood in a firm and swift motion to their crowns. Each member of the group takes part, even the youngest. The mens' tears of sorrow mix with the flowing blood. Some of the members grab me and lead me to the middle of the group to get better shots. Blood splatters on the pavement. The streets are lined with onlookers. H2 goes to J and dabs some of his blood onto his finger, wiping it on our cloth so that we can make a wish. J shakes our hands, kisses us and returns to his group.

*

On the way back I explain to H2 the meaning of 'badass'.

We're at the hotel. H2 tells the owner and his friend what we've witnessed. The friend bursts out laughing - "You took *him*?!", referring to me. The owner confesses he's never seen it before. The wonderful elderly cleaning lady smiles and says to us, "Don't use those swords."

The owner says that before the Revolution, 30,000 Americans lived in Esfahan. They cried as they left.

*

We see our 'silly' clerk one last time. He's only 16, is quite friendly and highly entertaining. The clerk, who's dropped out of school because he "doesn't like to read a book", will leave his job at the hotel to be a carpet seller for his cousin in Kerman. At the hotel, he works from 5:30 am to 2:30 am every day and sleeps for three hours on the floor in front of the desk. At the carpet shop, his income will be around $300 a month, up from the $50/month he earns at the hotel. He arose this morning to serve us literally at the snap of H2's finger.

"Do you even know who Bart Simpson is?"

There are Jewish members of the Iranian Parliament. Read that again.

We pass by a "Down with Israel" stencil and I turn to H2 and tell him, "You know, I have a lot of Jewish friends in America."

He says what appears to be a standard line in Iran, "We don't have a problem with Jews, we have a problem with Israel."

Jews, like everything and everyone else, have a long history in Iran. Its said that the second largest Jewish population in the Middle East after Israel is in Iran. Its also said those numbers are dwindling. Before my trip, I was advised not to seek out the synagogues I know exist.

*

One of the hotel clerks tells us he's also a driver and will take us around today. He says it will be $8-9. H2 negotiates, then turns to me.

"I have helped him to decide on a better price."

*

Vank Cathedral is an Armenian Christian church in a neighborhood of Esfahan. Beautiful frescoes painted 350 years ago remain vibrant, telling stories of the Old Testament, St. Gregory's torture and the life of Christ. Photos are not allowed, but the man in charge allows me to use my video camera. An Iranian who lives in San Jose is there, along with his son who has just completed his studies at MIT. The father says he tries to get back to Iran every couple years. Its his son's third visit.

Young M and her friend F join us again. I'm twice their age, but they just like hanging out with an American. They're very sweet religious girls with colorful scarves, wearing winter jackets over their chadors, despite the beautiful weather. They have brought us gifts - a pistachio cake and a drawing M made herself of Bart Simpson. We tour the Vank museum which features, under a microscope, a verse from Proverbs written on a single strand of human hair. There's an exhibit dedicated to the Armenian genocide. Though they live in Esfahan, M and F have never seen the interior of the cathedral. I explain the pictures of the life of Jesus as best I can.

Shia Moslems believe that at the End Times, their 12th and last Imam - who disappeared into a cave and was never seen again - will return with Jesus to lead the world to righteousness and salvation.

M and F have to leave and I give them a postcard and a stuffed Clifford the Big Red Dog doll. We're in a public square, so we're not allowed to shake hands as they bid us adieu.

*

We cross paths with a carpet tout who insists that he loves Condoleeza Rice and wants to marry her.

*

Doesn't seem to matter where you go in this world, as soon as you get to a site you want to see, there will be scaffolding. Such is the case at Chehel Sotun, a reception palace near Imam Square. Next door, we visit the Natural History Museum and a center for Islamic Arts.

From there we go to Hasht Behesht, located in a well-manicured park, but I'm mostly interested in a group of boys playing football. They start showing off for me, asking me where I'm from. "Tell Bush not invade Iran!", they laugh, kicking the ball around.

They finish their game and join us on the pavement, continuing to horse around. They want me to tell them American jokes and bait me about who I like better - Esteghlal or Persepolis.

Then the soldier arrives.

He's dressed in full fatigues, has a serious look on his face and starts interrogating everyone there, including and especially H2, who he asks to prove that he's a tour guide. H2 produces his license, but the soldier wants to know why our hotel has not complied with a new law in Esfahan requiring it to register foreign guests with the National Foreign Police office. H2 doesn't know. The soldier wants to know my nationality and if I'm a journalist. More negotiation. The soldier hands H2 back his license and disperses the kids. He turns to me and speaks in English.

"You're an American?"

>"Yes."

"I know American... literature. Beat Generation. Kerouac. Ginsburg."

*

All men in Iran must complete compulsory military service.

This soldier is a really nice guy. He apologizes and explains that its his duty to look out for foreigners and wanted to make sure the kids weren't harassing me and that H2 was on the level. H2 explains that the three stars on the soldier's uniform indicate he has a master's degree. I tell H2 that I'm not sure anyone in the *American* military has read Kerouac and Ginsburg. The soldier shakes my hand and wishes me a great trip in Iran.

"Why am I sitting here and I don't have a dollar?"

Had a nice pizza at a place H2 knows.

So we've crossed the wonderful Si-o-Seh Bridge and stop by the famous chaikuneh underneath it to have some tea and smoke the hubble bubble. Its established early that there's an American on the premises.

One of the guys who works there is giving us a lot of attention. He knows about five English words and want to use them all. He's Baktrian and uses an accent that H2 has a hard time understanding. He keeps coming back and forth to our table.

Each time, H2 gets a little more annoyed. He thinks that giving him a tip will convince the guy to leave us alone. H2 stops short and instead thinks maybe he'll tell him I'm from China.

The guy leaves and comes back. H2 finally tells him I'm from the Maldives. The guy wants H2 to tell him what "Let me" means. H2 tells him and the guy turns to me and says "let me" and joins us again.

His badgering is persistent. Finally he blurts out, "Why I am sitting here and I don't have a dollar?" I have to write that down in my book. He asks H2 what I'm writing and H2 replies I'm copying down his 'poetry'. We crack up and he leaves.

He comes back again and I say, "Befarmayid." ("Here you are.") The guy says to H2, referring to me, "I suppose he's Persian, too."

We leave him a tip, thanking him for his poetry.

"Will you show The Game?"

Another beautiful sunny day in Iran.

I've lost track of the number of individuals who have told me they love Americans. Its somewhere in the dozens. Haven't forgotten the number who say they hate Americans, because that number, thus far, is zero.

The Nets-Suns NBA matchup was on Iranian TV the other night. The NBA is big over here, though they show the games after the fact so they can cut out the shots of the cheerleaders.

Of course, I'm trying to find The Game. H2 and I eat at the most expensive hotel in Iran - the legendary Abbasi in Esfahan. I figure if anyone would carry the Steelers-Seahawks tilt, it would be here.

They've never heard of the Super Bowl.

*

After negotiating down the price of our hotel (not the Abbasi) to less than $30 per night for both of us to have double rooms, the clerk comes around the counter and starts asking H2 a battery of questions. H2 looks stunned, searching for words. Their conversation ends and as we head up to our rooms, H2 says, "This is a silly man. He wanted to know how he can sleep with a girl on the first date."

Every hotel room in Iran is equipped with a sign pointing toward Mecca.

*

My legs are soar and we sleep in this morning. Rolling into the hotel restaurant for breakfast, we find that the silly clerk is now the chef. More questions about how to bed a girl. H2, who has told me he thinks this man looks like a monkey and has no chance, advises him to use condoms. The guy asks why H2 is speaking to me in English and not my native language of American. He returns to the kitchen.

"There's a Persian saying: born like a donkey, die like a cow", H2 says in describing this character.

Some young Iranians show up for breakfast. They're Arabs - a small minority in Iran - and although H2 and I already have lit cigarettes (yeah, I know), one of them offers us his Marlboros anyway. He asks where I'm from. Upon answering, his face lights up. He tells us he has a friend that loves Americans so much, they call him American Mustafa. To commemorate Ashura, he and his pals plan on participating in a ritual that involves striking their heads with a sword until they begin to bleed, then cutting their hair off with the sword. The Ayatollah has officially said no one needs to do it and, in fact, shouldn't but these guys want to show everyone that they love Imam Hossein more than anything. They gush about how they love America.

Breakfast is taking too long to arrive. "Maybe the silly man is mating with a hen to produce the eggs", H2 quips. The woman who has worked at the hotel for several decades comes out to apologize, saying the guy is new to the kitchen.

*

The first order of business is to exchange money. The bank won't do it yet because the price of the dollar hasn't been set for the day, so we head out to the street and haggle with a local who ends up giving us a good deal. His commission on $100 is a buck, he's so satisfied that he says he will exchange with us again at no charge.

A little girl is staring at me. When I spot her, she covers herself in her mother's chador and peaks out from time to time.

*

Esfahan is the jewel in the Iranian crown. Imam Square is the second largest public square in the world (after Tianamen in China), bordered on four sides by the Sheik Lotfallah mosque - used by the wives of Shah Abbas the Great, Imam Mosque, Ali Qapu Palace and the grand bazaar. The grounds have a large pool and used to be used for polo matches. Shah Abbas was apparently quite a player himself and would often take a place in the action. Soon after arrival we cross paths with a group of school girls who let me videotape them. As we're walking away, one of them holds out her arms and yells to me, "I LOVE YOU!" H2 laughs as she says something in Persian. He tells me she has said, "Really!"

M and her friend who we met on their field trip to Fin Garden in Kashan hook up with us as we tour the Sheik Lotfallah mosque. Shah Abbas' wives would pray in the basement of the mosque because they were not allowed to be seen in public. We head across the square for some bastani - Iranian ice cream - and talk about little things in our lives. M and her friend must return to class and depart.

Meanwhile, dozens of young schoolgirls dressed in light blue chadors with lily white scarfs have descended upon the square and busy themselves with their picnics and a game of tag. They're shy as I videotape their activity, but a couple of them will say "salam" to me and run away.

I have yet to see a whiny child in this land. Persians are famous for doting on their kids as though they continue a long line of princes and princesses. The thought of an adult harming a child in any way would not even register in their consciousness. If one were to describe the sort of child abuse that occurs in, say, America, they probably wouldn't understand what you were talking about. Of course it still happens, - in small villages you might find families employing their kids to make carpets because of their small hands - and you might be able to Google Image Search the public beating and execution of the man who was convicted of assaulting 22 kids in Iran last year. On the whole, these are the most well-behaved children I've ever encountered.

H2 and I visit the palace and Imam Mosque; while undeniably regal, the courtyard is covered in a tent for preparations to honor Imam Hossein's funeral. As we're leaving we see two couples praying. I ask H2 if its okay to videotape them, and he says yes but not from the front. We get around them and contrary to my feeling that I'm doing something inappropriate, they ask to have their picture taken with me when they find out I'm American.

We cross the square to the bazaar, seeing the stenciled "Down with Israel" and "Down with USA" on the cinder blocks. Horse drawn carriages take tourists around the grounds. At the opening of the bazaar, we again meet the Arabs from our hotel who approach us with gifts of bottled water. They've been joined by a young friend who tells me with as much sincerity a person can possess that he really loves Americans. They take off in front of us to find the swords they'll use in their Ashura ritual. H2 and I wander the bazaar.

In one stall a man is printing cloth with dye. At another, a metal practitioner asks me to pound a little on a plate he's designing. Persians have had thousands of years to develop their social sophistication which is based on 'ta'aroof', literally translated to 'ritual politeness'. This population is the most gracious, generous and refined that I have ever met.

As we're leaving the bazaar, I ask H2 if they would treat me differently if he wasn't by my side. He looks at me quizically, as though he doesn't understand the question. "No. They *really* like you."

Do you want to hear a story?

H2 greets me in the morning. "CNN has said this morning," pausing just long enough for me to consider any number of scenarios involving offensive cartoons or uranium enrichment, "that there will be good weather throughout the entire country."

Of course, there is serious news today: Iranian broadcasts have said that Persepolis FC will be fined $2000 for the unruly behavior of its fans that I witnessed the other day. Additionally, the partisans will not be allowed to attend the next two matches, meaning the team will play their following home games in an empty stadium.

*

Its true. What they say. About the people.

H2 and I board a common city bus to take us to our first destination. Two women in full hejab sit across from us, exchanging glances and whispers. COST: No charge. As H2 tries to pay, he finds that the driver will only accept tickets. H2 negotiates with a rider who possesses them, who smiles and nods but will not accept our money.

We visit the archealogical site of Sialk, dating anywhere from 6-8000 years ago. Its basically a large mound with some skeletons, also bits of ancient pottery lying on the ground; they don't mind if you pick them up and examine them, as long as you don't take them home. COST: No charge. Its the low season and the old men who have worked there for 30 years don't feel like dealing with tickets.

We head back to the main road to find a ride. We pass by a young man with a pickup who offers to take us to our next stop - another of the traditional Qajari houses. He asks H2 about my nationality. After H2 answers, the driver says "best wishes to him and all Americans." He asks H2 to ask me if I've ever been so squeezed into a vehicle in the States. "Yes, on the farm", I reply and he has a good laugh. He asks if we want to hear a story. (That's why I'm here!) He knew of an old woman who had an old cow. This cow would not give milk to anyone but the woman. When the woman died, the cow never gave milk again. He drops us off at Abbassian House. COST: No charge. Just another nice guy in Iran.

We enter the Abbassian House. H2 goes to buy the tickets (actually ticket, since H2, as a licensed guide, doesn't have to pay to enter any site in Iran). COST: No charge. He asks H2 if I'm a foreigner, H2 replies in the affirmative, and the man says, "Be my guest."

There are about 4 or 5 of these houses, similar to the one we saw last night - at no charge after hours with a guided tour. They're similar in style: symmetrical, fountains, stained glass, mirrors, gardens, age-old indoor plumbing, supreme engineering. We visit two others and along the way run into an Italian who is making his second trip to Iran.

Kashan is a city of about 200,000. There are few tall buildings. Under the portection of the mountain range, the city sprawls out as it would after 8000 years, built along a fault line. There's a mosque in Kashan coupled with a madreseh (school). Its known for training basijis - a religiously conservative group which claims the new Iranian president as a member. I mention to H2 that they really hate Americans. He laughs and says, "Yeah, they really do."

A man with his four year old son sitting in front of him are riding their motorcycle down the street. That wouldn't be so surprising, except that they're doing it straight into oncoming traffic. No one blinks an eye. I'd venture that better than 5% of Iranians drive at night without headlights. I'm not kidding.

We're having some trouble getting a ride back to the hotel. At last an older gentleman picks us up and takes a short way. COST: No charge. He tells H2 he's not even a cabbie, he just likes Americans. He says he refuses to watch Iranian news, only CNN.

*

H2 has had the same girlfriend for over a year. He keeps a picture of her in his cellphone, she's quite beautiful. He describes her as perfect in every way - except one. "I am the horse and she is the rider." He loves her a great deal but cannot bear her controlling ways. She hates his job.

*

I've been debating as to whether I should post about the next stop in our itinerary, a town supported by UNESCO that I've wanted to go out of the way to see for a long time. I'll go ahead and tell you that its a small village in the mountains called Abyeneh. That's not really a big deal, but any intelligence operative with half a brain knows that means we passed Natanz along the way. Google "Natanz", famous for one thing in particular. For the record, I didn't see anything but very pretty mountains.

We've negotiated only an hour-long visit with our driver. Many of the homes are built on top of one another against the side of the mountain. We meet an old woman who takes us into her home and shows us pictures of her grandchildren, all of whom live far away. With tears in her eyes, she tells us she really misses her husband who passed away some time ago. She's all alone now.

Like so many small towns around the world, Abyeneh cannot hold its young people when they reach adulthood. Its population is small and elderly. Some of the old folks fear that when they die, the town will be deserted.

*

We get back on the main road to tonight's destination.

H2 says to me in the car, "I can tell you're excited."

>"Yes, I am. You know, 99% of Americans have never heard of Esfahan."

With furrowed brow H2 exclaims, "You're kidding."

>"No, I'm not. And the 1% that has are Persian."

"Ah! I have to tell this to the driver."

"Iranian good?"

Its true. What they say. About the traffic.

I'm not sure I'm in possession of the words to adequately describe it. "Free-for-all" doesn't really do it justice. Everyone has a car and there's basically no law. Doesn't mean they're bad drivers - far from it.

Tehran is a city of over 12,000,000 people. In order to get some sort of handle on the traffic flow, cars that end with even number license plates are restricted from certain parts of the city at certain times, same for cars with odd numbers. Simple solution: buy another car.

*

My guide won't start until Friday, so I'm largely on my own in Tehran my first day. H has recommended the Glass and Ceramics Museum near my hotel; a wise choice, one of the finest museum buildings I've ever seen, and I've seen a lot of museums.

They let me use my video camera and go out of their way to turn on the beautiful chandelier hanging from the second story. Persian glassware preserved for thousands of years is on display. I linger on the front steps after I'm done and three of the museums directors join me, though they speak little English.

I sense they know the answer when one of them asks, "From?"

>"Amrika."

"Oh! Iranian good?"

>"Bale, bale."

"American good. Bush no."

>"bush nistam."

They all laugh.

*

"Is it obvious that I'm American?", I ask H & A as we're wandering around Mt. Darand later that evening.

"Yes." Later, we get some bastani - delicious Iranian ice cream made with saffron.

I was waiting in the hotel lobby for them to pick me up when I had my first classic Persian encounter. Two men - burly and barrel-chested - are hanging out. Nourali is an Azeri from NW Iran, Ali from Esfahan. Their smiles fill the room and their hearts burst from their chests. They're very excited to find out I'm from the States.

Nourali comes and sits next to me. My Farsi isn't good and neither is his English, but we manage to make a piecemeal conversation. He tells me about his hometown, near the Iraqi and Turkish borders. He loves America. He tells me of his business - exporting apples and importing bananas. We talk about the area he lives in, one that I would very much like to visit. Without hesitation, he gives me his phone numbers and e-mail address.

He's approaching middle age and has seen a great deal of change in his country. Knowing his province was heavily hit during the Iran-Iraq war of the 1980s that killed anywhere from 500,000 to 1,000,000 people - wiping out a generation of Iranian males - we discuss his memories. With each question, his answers seem to slip him deeper into something like a trance. He talks about the daily bombing of his city. He closes his eyes and says "chemical". His hands clench and soon he switches entirely to Azeri-Farsi, but its clear he's talking about thousands of dead friends and neighbors. His eyes open and before exhaling, he returns to English long enough to say:

"Saddam is... animal."

H & A arrive for our evening out.

*

Just as they've told me he would, the young man who will serve as my guide for the duration of my trip shows up at my hotel at 9am the next morning. H2 is 25 and wants to make it clear that he is my guide, not my protector - which is not to say he won't protect me, just that I will make the decisions about where we will go and what we will do, that I can be alone when I want and that he will do everything possible to ensure I get the utmost satisfaction during my stay. His genial and polite nature fits every description I've read about the Persian character. I figured our first day would be spent doing traditional touristy things like visiting the National Museum, maybe the Carpet Museum.

Yeah, right. He's brought his car and hooks up his car stereo. I mention I've brought some music from America and he's overcome. I pull out a CD and tell him I'd like him to have it. He immediately puts it into the player and as the opening strains of Birken's 2003 live set at Human Condition kick in, we're off.

He takes me to Tochal, a popular destination in the mountains. Its Friday and a holiday, so the traffic is clogged and his gearbox is failing. He tells me there's a football match that afternoon and whatever 'traditional' plans I had for the day are out the window. We go to his parent's apartment in western Tehran where he lives. His mother has made me a home-cooked meal - my first (of what will certainly be many) Iranian kebab. Its delicious and I'm afraid it will spoil all other kebabs for me. His older sister is also there; she and her husband studied in the US for a year. I have a hard time believing I'm worthy of their effortless hospitality. H2 and I head off to the stadium.

H2 explains some of the Ashura remembrance that is in full swing, commemorating the martyrdom of the Shia Islam's Third Imam, Hossein. He says he will tell me the story of Shia's 12 imams little by little during our trip.

Football clubs Persepolis and Estaghlal both play in Tehran and share Azadi stadium. That's where the commonalities end. Their rivalry is on par with the Vikings-Packers and their annual derby fills the arena's 100,000 seats. Today, H2's team - Persepolis - will face last year's league champs Fulad, a team from Ahvaz, a city in southern Iran that has seen repeated bombings in the last year - activity the Iranian government blames on Arabs being coerced by the British.

We arrive at Azadi. This is pretty much the prime time scenario, innit?, the moment we've all been waiting for: me and 40,000 ramped-up Iranian men surrounded by dozens of soldiers armed with semi-automatic weapons, the images of Ayatollahs Khomeini and Khameini looking down from above the stadium.

I've told H2 to get the best seats he could find - they cost a buck apiece. We're under the awning at midfield. The players are warming up. H2 points out the participants who are on the national team, about four from each side. As each of the Persepolis starters are announced, the partisans cheer "Lion!"; during Fulad's turn, the crowd yells something akin to "A**hole!" H2 explains the pre-game ritual. Normally, there is music piped in over the PA, but since its Ashura, a performer sings sad songs dedicated to Hossein. Throughout the day, H2 and I have discussed Iranian culture and its outside world perception. Its not the first time I'll hear someone say "We know - we *know* - the rest of the world hates us".

The singer wails into the mic as H2 describes the songs and the life of Hossein. Members of the crowd being to stand. Hossein was trapped in the Arab desert with his followers about 1300 years ago, after the Sunni and Shia split that has influenced Islam to this day. Sunnis have never recognized Hossein as an imam, Shia feel passionate about him because he was one of the most oppressed of their leaders. Most of the crowd is now standing. H2 explains that Hossein and his followers were near Karbala when they were surrounded by thousands of their enemies. The crowd begins beating their chests with their fists to show their allegiance to their imam. Late at night in their encampment, Hossein told his followers he would extinguish all the lights and that anyone who wanted to leave could do so. The chest beating at the stadium starts to sync as the sad songs continue. When Hossein turned the lights back on, there were only 72 of his followers left. They were all killed the next day. "Those followers were true Moslems", H2 says, "not like nowadays." The crowd is enflamed. "Being Moslem doesn't mean you can't have fun. It doesn't mean you can't have a girlfriend." The singer is in rapture. "Iranians hate terrorists. That's not real Islam." The crowds self-flagellation is in perfect cadence as they sing along to the sad songs. Below the din, H2 is gently holding my arm, looking me straight in the eye, almost pleading, "Real Islam is for peace. Real Islam is for love."

The performer sings the Qu'ran. The match begins.

*

The partisans' vitriol toward the opposing goalie is unabated. It grows more obscene as the match progresses, crescendoing into maternal insinuation of a sexual nature. A cop shows up and tells the crowd to stop saying such nasty things. The crowd turns back to the match and repeats their chant. The cop comes down into the crowd and stares at the offenders. They switch up and begin suggesting that the goalie "should dance". When Persepolis' star scores, they begin yelling that "Cozumian has f***ed you!"

Though they control the action throughout, Persepolis falls 3-2 due to a marginal call that leads to a penalty kick in the final 5 minutes. Now the 40,000 return to their cars depressed. H2 and I cross the freeway - yes, the freeway - to hail a cab.

As luck would have it, H2's father knows a great deal about travelling in Iran and helps us map out our itinerary over tea, pistachio treats and, of course, fruit back at the family apartment. His father tells me not to buy anything in Esfahan, "They're sharks. You could steal something from their store, sell it back to them and you'd still be cheated." H2's brother-in-law shows up with their kids, precocious and shy and curious to see an American in their midst. H2 and I make plans to begin our adventure the next morning at 8. He drives me back to my hotel.

*

Nourali is hanging out with a couple of the night clerks. A server brings H2 and I some tea. I ask if I should pay, and H2 says - even though I haven't spoken a word with this server - "No, he likes you." H2 heads home and Nourali wants to talk. He's very candid.

In the middle of our discussion, one of the clerks comes over with another man and says, "My friend would like to ask you a question." His friend is an airline pilot who wants very much to visit America, which is virtually impossible for an Iranian given the present global political situation. Perhaps his uncle in the US can send him a letter of invitation, though even he realizes its probably hopeless, and his countenance turns grim.

Nourali says he will go to his room to write me a letter in Farsi that I might have a Persian friend translate when I return home. The other clerk disappears and I'm alone with the thin bespectacled clerk who announced earlier in the evening that he has lost his sense among his emotions. He would like to talk with me.

"I love a girl." The clerk's English is fragmented, though he communicates that Iranians do not understand the Nietzchian ideal of love. He would also like to visit America, but "we know America hates us." He feels trapped. I can't make it out, but there is a great obstacle to his love for this woman. I'm not sure what has happened, but its clear something has happened, traumatic enough that he missed work two nights ago, something no Iranian in his position can do. He goes around the counter and produces a calculator. He multiplies two numbers and multiplies that by another. Then another and adds one more to come up with 846. "This is how many days I have loved her." Some combination of religious law and family intervention has made it impossible for them to be together. His desperation is quiet but palpable. He's afraid God doesn't love him.

Day Two ends. I sit in my room with the lights off.

*

If everything that happened on Day Three had taken place over the course of the entire trip, I would have considered myself very fortunate.

H2 arrives at 8, we exchange money and rent a Paykan (an old Iranian auto that is no longer in production) to take us to Qom. At regular intervals in the sides of mountains along the highway, the government uses white stones to spell out prayers, sayings from the Qu'ran and aphorisms like "You should learn to behave like Imam Ali." Its only broken up by a secular football fan who has interjected "Esteghlal is better than Persepolis."

Qom is the second holiest city in Iran after Mashad. Ayatollah Khomeini kept a residence here. Ayatollah Sistani, now living in Iraq, has an office here. Thinking it conservative atmosphere might make me a target for derision, I never really considered a visit. Thankfully I'm a fool and H2 has convinced me to put this on the itinerary.

Respect for the hejab in Qom is absolute - chador, scarf, everything - compared to Tehran where many women barely have their head covered, which would certainly lead to punishment in a place like Qom. We're here to visit a great Shrine. Non-Moslems aren't always allowed and can never enter the mosque on the premises. H2 brings our bags to a security station and speaks with its supervisor, who asks where I'm from. "Amrika". He asks another question and upon H2's answer, lights up. H2 takes my hand and we enter the shrine. "I'm sorry", H2 says, "I told him you were Moslem."

H2's father has arranged for us a meeting with a director of the shrine. We take off our shoes outside his office and wait patiently for him to finish conducting a worldwide chat of Shia adherents. He sits down and asks, "You're Christian, aren't you?" I nod. "Okay, is good."

Not only does he give us approval to tour the grounds, he allows me to video tape what I see - a rarity for any foreigner, even a registered journalist, and with an armed guard for protection. My camera doesn't stop rolling for 15 minutes.

We find a car to take us to Kashan. The driver knows where the government has put the traffic cameras, so as not to be stopped when he's going 200 kph.

After checking into the hotel, we head to the glorious Fin Gardens. During our visit we run into a group of Esfahani college students making a field trip to see where the beloved former prime minister Amir Kabir was assassinated in the 19th century. Some young girls want to practice their English with me.

H2 and I grab a bus, Teddy Murphy's Persian doppleganger among its riders, and head across town to the legendary Qajari traditional houses. They close at dark and its dark. The site supervisor shows up and graciously leads us on a personalized tour after hours, going into great detail about the incredible engineering of this remarkable homey palaces. He refuses to accept our money and, like many before him, wishes me a good trip in Iran.

This is Day Three.

"What is your occupation?"

The plane touched down around 3:15am. All the female passengers promptly veiled.

The woman at Passport Control is the perfect visage of the Islamic Republic, covered in black from head to toe with only space for her face and hands, not a single strand of hair showing. Austere, inscrutable, though as I approach her expression vaguely suggests "how did this American get in?" I hand her my passport which includes the elusive Iranian visa.

She sounds out my name. "What is your occupation?"

At every instance that I've explained that I make documentaries helping organizations fight hunger and poverty in America, the officials seem to take great delight in the fact that there is hunger and poverty in America. She writes some things down and gives me back my passport.

H. and his charming wife A. meet me outside and they can easily discern my nervous excitement. The Tehrani streets are deserted in the dead of night as we make our way to my intended hotel, only to find it closed. We spend the next two hours trying to find some accomodation. Along the way, we drive down the main thoroughfare past the US Den of Espionage. A quarter century ago, this building housed the American Embassy. The walls are now covered with anti-American murals, including the famous image of the Statue of Liberty whose face has been replaced with a skull.

At length, we finally find a hotel that has a vacancy and will accept the foreign traveller so late in the night. I haven't gotten through the door before A. has launched into negotiation with the owner, trying to convince him to let me stay for free this first night. He's bemused by her quite apparent skill, though he knows where he will draw the line. As H. interprets for me, the owner has made it clear that "he's an American, he can pay." I bid H & A adieu with plans for dinner the following evening.

In my room, I'm fixed on the television - 11 channels, 7 of which are test patterns, two are prayer programs and 2 broadcast the same talk show concerning the Islamic remembrance of Ashura, which has just started tonight and lasts 10 days. One of its hallmarks are groups of men parading the streets whipping themselves with chains until they bleed. I fall asleep.

I'm awake and am off to exchange money and find the internet cafe where I'm writing this. In order to accomplish these tasks, I successfully navigate the Tehrani deathsport known as crossing the street.

Like so many non-Western countries, the currency denominations are limited, so that $100 turns into over 900,000 rials, all in 10000 rial notes - a huge brick of cash. The internet cafe is right next door. In the adjoining room a group of boys is busily gaming. One of them blows another away and with great gusto announces "MASH'ALLAH" (God has willed it).

I finish writing this and am back on the street.