"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."
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."
posted by s. at 6:01 AM
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