Appendices

Appendix A
Notes for travellers:
Obtaining a visa, especially for Americans, requires as much
patience and flexibility as one can muster. On my second attempt,
it took about six months. To get the visa, you’ll visit an embassy
or consulate with an authorization code issued by the Iranian
Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Without this code, you have nothing.
Remember that its a huge pain in the ass for a visa facilitator in
Iran to get an American into the country at the present time. Just
because you’ve been given Dates X through Y doesn’t mean
those are the days you’ll be in the country. Its a shell game, at
least for Americans, but, quid pro quo, unless on scholarship, its
impossible for Iranians to come to the US.

Current to this writing Americans, while able to set their itinerary,
can only enter the Islamic Republic with a guide. Working
through an agency, a guide/agency payment will be made up front
using correspondence banks with approval from either US
Departments of State or Treasury. The tourist is responsible for
all the guide's accomodation, food and transportation during the
length of the visit. Prices of guides vary anywhere from $20 -
$200/day, some with car. The guide will most likely be contracted
through the agency. A good guide will daily save you through
random negotiation time, money and convenience. I had a great
guide, mash’allah, motshakeram.

Israeli stamps in your passport will mean denial of Iranian visa.
Foreign women are expected to wear long sleeves and a scarf, but
not a full hejab or chador (unless they so desire, it can be winter
there). Single women may need permission from local authorities
and/or a male family member to get rooms in hotels, especially if
you’re under 40. Men should also wear long sleeves and refrain
from shorts. Shoes much bigger than the feet that wear them are,
like so many places, quite popular in Iran.

The national currency is the rial. Presently a US dollar converts to
about 9100 rials. Here’s the catch: the notes are marked “rial”
and prices are typically written in rials, but everyone talks about
“tomans”, which is a factor of ten rials. 9000 rials = 900 tomans.
Know this.

US dollars are widely accepted in hotels. Money can be changed
on the street for a rate equitable if not slightly better than a bank
or exchange outlet. You will at various times have large wads of
cash on your person. Iranians know this. See: Safety (below,
Appendix G).

Alcohol is forbidden (re: available on the black market). If you’re
looking for a Girls Gone Wild experience, you’re in the wrong
place. An estimated 80% of Western Europe’s heroin addiction
arrives through Iran via Afghanistan performing a perfect act of
jihad - “let them kill themselves”; still, drug offenses will land you
in jail, maybe hung by the neck in public.

The two-word description for ‘Nightclubs’ in Lonely Planet sums
it best: “Dream on.”

Be sure to bring proper electrical converters and toilet paper.
From what can casually be gathered, abortion is a scientific act in
Iran. Iranians can acquire a temporary marriage, lasting as little as
an hour. When necessary, drawing water from the pitcher in a
hotel room’s refrigerator never led to a problem.

Iranians are obsessed with good behavior. If you’re polite and
show common courtesy, you’ll be fine in Iran. Even if you can’t,
you’ll probably be fine. Thankfully for everyone, Moslems in
general are laid back and hospitable, while most American
tourists travelling in Iran want to be there, study social protocol
beforehand and act accordingly, so Iranians have a pleasant
opinion of us.

Appendix B
playlist, one selection per day
Boards of Canada: Beware the Friendly Stranger
Boards of Canada: Gyroscope
Bob Dylan: Dirt Road Blues
Lee 'Scratch' Perry: Vibrator
The Dandy Warhols: Heroin Is So Passe
Heitor Villa Lobos: Ciclo Brasiliero (perf: Roberta Rust)
Ekova: Starlight in Daden
Judge Jules: Kosheen - Hide U
Symmetry: Silent Witness & Break - Again and Again
Thomas Tallis: Salvator mundi (perf: the Tallis Scholars)
Bunny Lee: Joshua Word Horn Version
Snap!: Rhythm is a Dancer
Husker Du: Do You Remember?
Public Enemy: Shut Em Down
Dizzy Gillespie: Bang, Bang
The Dandy Warhols: Minnesoter
Iggy Pop: I Wanna Be Your Dog
The KLF featuring Tammy Wynette: Justified & Ancient
Orchestra Baobab: Ray m'bele
Travis: As You Are
Richie Hawtin: Closer to the Edit, Tracks 14-17
Cassandra Wilson: Blue Skies
Lightning Head vs Kocani Orkestar: Usti, Usti, Baba
Josquin des Pres: Missa l'homme (perf: The Tallis Scholars)
Boards of Canada: Diving Station
K*Swing: Super Pet - Pet (Evil 9 mix)
K*Swing: Stich Up - Proper Filthy Naughty
Oliver Klein: Rheinkraft
Elvis Costello & The Attractions: The Beat
Peaches: Keine Melodien

And, of course, Paul Birken’s live set at Human Condition,
January 2003, left somewhere in Iran... I wonder where?

Appendix C
Hotels
Prices are approximate. Everything is negotiated in tomans.

Water from the showers (and bathtubs) is drawn off via floor
drain, meaning that your bathroom floor may be flooded. Most
tourist restaurants and hotel rooms have western toilets, but
expect squats everywhere else.

Each of these places has breakfast (flatbread, cheese, honey/jam,
tea, perhaps over-medium eggs, sometimes olives), sometimes
included depending on what was negotiated.

Parasto Hotel (Tehran): $25/night, western toilet, internet access,
solid fundamentals for non-First World accomodation.

Amir Kabir Hotel (Kashan): $30/night in low season, western
toilet, internet, close to Fin Gardens, CNN, good restaurant
featuring “bear” (non-alcoholic ‘beer’) and “freighed chicken”,
though its known for its traditional “fesenjun” - chicken in
pomegranate & walnut sauce.

Aria Hotel (Esfahan): great deal in a great location, less than $30
for both of us - reasonable negotiation (unlike next door) -
delightful cleaning lady who will wash your clothes (twice when
they're really dirty), bathtub, odd-ish balconies overlooking the
main thoroughfare - so much of Iran is retro because its old. The
owner speaks English.

Malek-o Tojjar (Yazd): atmospheric traditional hotel hidden
inside the bazaar through a labrinthe of lanterned alleys opening
into a courtyard whose tent-ed roof still features Pahlavi lions
sewn into the canvas, about $30-35/night for both of us (low
season prices), internet access, good restaurant, {room didn't
have a sign pointing toward Mecca}, very popular
chaikuneh/hubble bubble spot in the evening (women smoke the
water pipe, I saw a four year old enjoying the galyan), rooms a
little smelly but olfactorily adaptable, young & friendly staff who
speak some English and can hook you up with a driver to Chak
Chak, western toilet/clean bathroom; worth the months I spent
dreaming about the place.

Eram Hotel (Shiraz): located in heart of the city, about $45 for
both of us, BBC, western toilet/clean bathrooms, the local Super
League Football Club stays here before its games, walking
distance to the bazaar, internet access at the hotel or across the
street.

Morvarid Hotel (Tabriz): The Hotel Sina turned down the easiest
money they would have made all year, because we didn’t end up
staying overnight in Tabriz. Next door at the Morvarid it was $20
for both of us.

Shurabil Hotel (Ardabil): lovely location on a small lake with
dramatic mountain background, doubt anyone had been there in a
while - it was the dead of winter - but the guys running the place
are very friendly, their kids quite precocious and eager to practice
English, naturally took a bit for the large rooms to warm up in the
cold weather, $20-25 dollars for both of us.

Iran Hotel (Anzali): balconies overlooking Caspian lagoon -
especially pretty at sunrise, could use fresh carpet, internet access
a good distance away managed by a woman who played the same
Reza Sadeghi song over and over - mash’allah it was a nice song
- some pizza places nearby; large bathroom, $30-35 for both of
us.

Iran Hotel (Qazvin): one of the best deals in Iran, central city
location, $20 for both of us, clean rooms with IKEA-type
accessories. I thought my neighbors were having sex, but it was
just the pidgeons cooing on the bathroom window sill.

Golestan Hotel (Tehran): $26/night for me, odd flickering
flourescent in my room but it didn't keep me up, clean and
comfortable, good deal in decent location near dozens of office
furniture stores, friendly staff. Saw Barcelona take down Chelsea.

Appendix D
Transportation:
Drivers went between cities for about $20-30 dollars. In-city taxis
were less than 50 cents to a dollar or more. Day drivers to places
like Persepolis, Chak Chak, Abyeneh, Masuleh, Alamut run from
$15-$30. Bus tickets, depending on the quality of the bus, range
from $2-6 per ticket. Airfare from Shiraz to Tehran on Iran Air
was about $30 a person. Two first class/sleeper car train tickets -
had we used them - from Tehran to Tabriz cost $30. Bus drivers
adorn their vehicles with translucent stickers proclaiming “Only
God”, “Best Quality” and “WeLcome to my bus”. Every driver’s
dashboard carries a stuffed animal.

You will invariably encounter drivers who initially turn down
payments that represent a significant portion of their monthly
income. They’ll accept eventually, but its your responsibility to
insist.

Appendix E
Food and bathrooms:
Meat and rice. Doogh is a yogurt drink. Pizzas are eaten with
ketchup (except by me) on top of the cheese and meat. For the
rice and kebab crowd, spoons scoop up more than forks, one of
the reasons your Iranian friend will almost certainly be done
eating before you. Oranges are lemons. Sweet-teeth richly
satisfied from an abundance of confection and fruit.

Iranians know they eat too fast, but H2 says they don’t really care
about their health. Its a “Go with God” attitude. If you’re
travelling in a taxi at 200 kph, intersect a killing wind and your
number comes up, so be it. Don’t worry so much. H2 continues
to study engineering because “Iranians never know what their
future holds”.

Service in restaurants may not be what Americans are used to.
Remember where you are. Iran, like many places, can be dusty
and trash strewn. There are squat toilets. H2’s father told me of
an American who exited an ‘Old World’ facility with the seat of
his pants drenched, repeating, “You Persians are really smart.”
After some prodding, he added, “You must be smart to use one
of those things without getting wet.” Apparently, he sat down in
it.

Converserly, there’s the story of a Persian guy who comes out of
a Western commode perplexed, the floor covered. He, allegedly,
got up on the seat and used it like a squat.

Appendix F
Random:
Iran is three hours and *thirty minutes* from Grenwich Mean
Time.

Persians are not Arabs and they’re not Turks and they’ll tell you
so. Neither are they terribly casual about telling you what’s
wrong with Arabs and Turks. Women who can afford them
sometimes wear colored contact lenses to take the ‘darkness’ out
of their eyes. Iranian men consider themselves black.

90% of the conversations transcibed here were conducted in
English on my end and Farsi on my counterpart’s, with H2
translating. Sorry for the dream sequences, its so rare that I
remember my dreams I have to write them down when I do.

The comments are on, have at it. Feel free to remain anonymous - if it isn’t
obvious, I’ve done so to protect the identities of anyone
responsible for me should I have gotten myself into trouble. My
paranoia couldn’t sustain any pitched level once I was there,
however. Should you post, please keep it clean and refrain from
needlessly confrontational dispatches. Befarmayid.

Appendix G
Safety for Americans:
Well, you live in a dangerous country, so a trip to Iran is probably
going to be pretty relaxing. Before I left there was a story about
gangs who tied up homeless people and beat them to death with
baseball bats. The perpetrators were not Hezbollah, nor Hamas.
They were teenage Floridians.

A couple years ago the US State Department re-issued its Travel
Warning concerning Iran. The next day the Iranian Foreign
Minister released a press statement saying “Americans are safer in
Iran than they are in America.”

Your friends will say, “Tell them you’re Canadian.” There are a
lot of reasons why this is wrong {google “canadian iranian
photojournalist”}. It seems to me the best thing you can tell an
Iranian is that you’re American. In ten thousand years, the
Persians have been on top several times, they know what its like
and appreciate the American position.

I don’t say this to be anti-gun - I had my first gun permit when I
was 12 - but outside an elite game-hunting class its illegal for a
private citizen to own a gun in Iran. True, American gun rights
advocates would say the makeup of the Iranian government is
precisely the reason they should possess, its also true that there is
little or no gun violence in Iran.

Of course, you assume some risk no matter where you travel. It
requires research into customs and history - thankfully, its
fascinating stuff. Travellers should take care, however; tourist
kidnappings have happened in southeastern Sistan & Baluchistan
province, not because of politics or religion, but drug running.

*

In at least two of our hotels signs were hung with a quote from
Imam Ali to the effect: “Any traveller in a Moslem land that loses
his property should have that property replaced by the
authorities.” This was IN THE HOTEL.

Besides a handful of carpet dealers and five-star hotels, your
Western credit cards are worthless in Iran. American banks are
sanctioned from doing business with Iranian banks. That means
every traveller who arrives in Iran must do so with all the money
s/he plans to spend in cold, hard cash on their person. Iranians
know this.

Petty and violent crime against tourists is virtually unheard of in Iran.

"That's why they buy it."

Back in Tehran, we spot two women driving without scarves,
basically a big ‘eff you’ to anyone who sees them.

In the hotel, the woman working the kitchen leans over the counter
to ask, “Mister, Iran good?”

*

The Persians have probably had a good laugh at my expense -
‘ghameh zani’ translates to ‘knife’ beating.

*

Unsure of how the Samara Shia shrine bombing is playing in the
west, its big news in Iran.

Its appalling. “Bebaxshid”.

“Why?”, H2 asks me, “its not your fault.”

The Ayatollahs have called for restraint. The politicians call it a
failure of the “arrogant occupation”. The all-sports channel breaks
into its programming to announce that for the next seven nights, the
network will show sad movies. The clerk changes the channel.

President Ahmadinejad is giving a morning oratory. One channel -
IRINN - carries the broadcast. He competes with an exercise
program; a kids show featuring cartoons, puppets and bunnies;
educational lessons; memorial footage of the shrine in Samara; and
old school TV drama ala “Streets of San Francisco”.

The ticker maintains...

“Experts: NHS Breast Cancer screening program saves 1400 lives a
year”...

“New guidelines: hospital patients should be routinely screened for
malnutrition and offered specialty nutritional support”...

“Study: Sharks may be more vulnerable to fishing industry than
previously thought”...

*

I don't know if you've ever been to the Tehran bazaar.

“Be sure to look up in your English translator a word spelled
‘c-h-a-o-s’,” I suggest to H2. “You’ll use it more than ‘augur’.”
Maybe its the train of pushcarts pummelling us, perhaps the blue
Saipa pickups driving in the enclosed alley, probably the Fire Engine
called into the bazaar to extinguish some fireworks.

The previous night we watched “Training Day” on satellite TV. I
tried my best to explain its enunciation of the American vernacular;
the dialect of the street being difficult for H2 to pick up. He has
second thoughts about visiting America after witnessing the level of
portrayed violence and corruption.

The next day his neice is watching “Coneheads”. I ask her if she
likes it. She scrunches up her nose.

“Not really.”

Its harder to veer away from the gauntlet brought down by George
C. Scott’s opening monologue in “Patton”, in the presence of H2’s
father, who spent part of the 70s in the US -

“Now I want you to remember that no bastard ever won a war by
dying for his country. He won it by making the other poor dumb
bastard die for his country.”

“A lot of people didn’t know how to take this movie when it came
out. Did you see this movie?” (“Take”?)

“Americans traditionally love to fight. All real Americans love the
sting of battle.”

Swallow hard. “It was sort of a precursor to the 1970s anti-hero
many Americans identified with.” (“Is that even true? Anti-hero?”)

“Americans have never lost and never will lose a war.”

“It came out during Vietnam. Its an old movie.”

*

Red cards in the first five minutes, fisticuffs at halftime, general
disappointment among the partisans, Persepolis FC continued to
founder. Then a new coach from Europe arrived and they won. Still,
its a season H2 would rather forget.

We're hanging out in a Tehrani park chaikuneh, watching the
Iran-Taiwan Asian Cup match, a game well-handled by the Iranians,
4-0, who are without their stars playing in Europe. Iran's national
team is ranked 22nd worldwide and open up the World Cup against
the 6th-ranked Mexican squad. Iran's nationals are having a difficult
time scheduling friendlies against other countries in preparation for
the June event in Germany. H2 blames Bush, saying the US has told
its allies not to play Iran. The Iranian team has a history of rallying
together when odds are against them, as it has previously in the
World Cup, and when Saddam invaded the newly formed nation in
the early 80s.

The parrot inside the chaikuneh talks, but instead of saying "Hello",
"Good day" or "How are you?", it cracks "salam", "ruz bexheir" and
"cha-touri".

A random guy walking in front of us toward the bazaar is wearing a
"Fayatteville Jaycees" windbreaker. He would be no less ironic in
Minneapolis. Along the way I've occassionally seen sports adorned
in FUBU. I ask H2 if “those consumers know that its a popular,
successful black-owned fashion line in America whose slogan is ‘for
us, by us’?”

"Yeah, they know," H2 answers, "that's why they buy it."

*

We while away a couple hours at the well-maintained ground of
Sa’d Abad, the Shah’s former residence. It was here that the young
Pahlavi met with the CIA as it planned the first coup in the
organization’s existence, bringing down the 1953 government of
democratically-elected, oil-nationalizing Mohammad Mossadegh,
Time Magazine’s Man of the Year during the previous calendar.

*

People remember Googoosh with fondness. Satellite TV beams into
Iran from the Arab States, Tehran-geles, Tehran-to, Europe. Videos
from pre-revolution stars (“she died of drug overdose”) are mixed in
with the steadfast Persian pop scene, replete with production values
purchased in Southern California. Tehran tried to crack down a
couple years ago on unauthorized satellite reception. Resilient
citizens removed the mechanics from the husk of their
window-frame air conditioner, using it instead to hide their satellite
dish.

Its a few hours before departing for the airport and arrangements
through a mutual friend have serendipitously allowed for tea with an
American woman working as a journalist in Tehran. She says she
doesn’t exactly feel oppressed, but clearly there are different laws
for women. Despite having a press card which should give her
carte blanche, she still has problems getting a hotel room as a single
woman. She admits a sizable number of women like the feeling of
protection under which they are cloaked. The government doesn’t
censor what she writes as long as she’s balanced. Womens’ issues
and obesity among young people are fair pegs for feature stories.

African American men raised in nearside US neighborhoods play
professional basketball in Iran.

*

I ask H2’s sister if her family has any travel plans. Perfectly
befuddled she redirects, “Where can we go? We’re Iranian.”

Iranians are free to leave the country. No nation will have them.

Across the Gulf, Dubai is a popular destination to get your drink on
once a man has completed his compulsory 20-month military service.
Following their stint, men are considered active for 5 years; H2 can
still be called up over the next two.

He says he’ll tell people he’s Spanish if he travels so they won’t hate
him for being Iranian.

*

“If we could export mullahs, we’d be rich!”, a taxi drivers says. He
says I’ve come to Iran to improve the relationship between our
countries.

Roughly two-thirds of the Iranian population was born after the
Revolution. They listen to Metallica, access the internet and play
games over a LAN. Some blame the country’s economic woes - oil
rich, well educated, wha? - on the ‘old culture’.

*

SPOILER: potentially offensive material ahead:

There’s a joke in Iran about a conservative, religious executive for a
nation we’ve all heard of that speaks simply and firmly to his
supporters who follow him because they feel he has conviction -
quick, who am I talking about? Ahmadinejad? Bush? The Pope?

The joke goes that this guy was born with his brains in his stomach
and the first time he took a shit he flushed them down the toilet.

The joke is not about the Pope.

In one of my Uglier American moments earlier in the trip, I began
talking back to the TV in H2’s presence. The BBC reported that 12
people had died as a result of ‘cartoon violence’.

Knowing the answer would certainly be 12, I asked “How many of
the victims were Moslem?”

Protesters burn US and Israeli flags, though neither country had a
publication on the front burner of the issue, to my knowledge.

“Do the protesters know that in America, Moslems can worship as
they see fit as long as they’re not inciting violence?”

Moslem counter protesters have taken the streets of London, calling
for a stop to the violence.

“That’s what we need, the moderates to condemn the extremists, in
all religions.”

Ritually polite, H2 said nothing.

*

A few years ago I was in a London nightclub, one of the few
authentically music-forward clubs in Picadilly. Within the half hour
of my arrival I had spoken to no one but the bartender. I was in the
restroom and a local asks me where I’m from.

> “The States.”

“Oh. No one likes you.”

Americans knock themselves out to visit such places; where the
dollar is weak, tourists are targets and you might be insulted to your
face. When they arrive, many indulge in exactly the same behavior
they exhibit in the US - going to bars and nightclubs and getting
wasted.

These same people might jump out of their skin when holiday in Iran
is suggested. With smarmy indignation they’ll knowingly proffer,
“Don’t you watch the news? Don’t you know what’s going on over
there?”

> “No, I don’t know what’s going on over there. Please tell me.”

Visit a country where the dollar is strong, goods and services
inexpensive, tourism safe and full of cultural antiquity at an
everlasting crossroads; perhaps, ironically, the one place that’s left
where Americans are welcomed with open arms - heaven forbid
anyone would want to go there!

Think of the dominant images you have of Iran. What are they?
Where did they come from? Let’s say Tehran has 14,000,000
people. The next time you see 10,000 of them protesting in the
street, remember that 13,990,000 are *not* protesting in the street.

I saw a poll this week reporting something like 70% of Americans
rank Iran as the United States’ ‘worst enemy’. Before you go and
vote for anyone who will drop a bomb on Iran, please know in your
heart that the exact inverse - if not greater - is true in Iran. Most of
them have no problem with us. Most of them love us and don’t want
us to kill them.

*

Making a hurried final pass through the “Male Entrance” to my
concourse, H2 and I both later regretted we couldn’t properly
express our sadness after - step by step, mile by mile - spending a
month of continuous time in each other’s company. We hope its
because we’ll see each other again, insh’allah. We’ve covered over
4000 km, ate every meal together, watched football in each other’s
hotel rooms. I met his college buddies and he asked for advice
concerning his girlfriend. He’d patiently wait for me when I was at
an internet cafe. He negotiated all our accomodation and
transportation, saving me roughly the equivalent of what I was
paying him. He and his family repeatedly invited me into their home,
serving an endless array of fruit and tea. His mother cooked dizi for
my final dinner.

“I’m ready when you are ready”, he’d say.

*

The flight out of Tehran is half an hour late, then an hour, then
finally five minutes.

Mehrabad Airport, onboard Turkish Airlines, 4:30 am. The veils
come off.

Twenty-six hours pass on four consecutive flights with layovers in
three cities. HAHAHAHAHAHA. Air France offers an episode of
“The Love Boat”, guest starring Don Knotts - peace be upon him -
as an unlikely amorous interest.

“Shock” is a strong word; I’m culturally confused. I know where I
am, but indulge an urge to go to the chaikuneh. At the 331 Club, a
woman shows off her authentic Girls Gone Wild beads - typically
reserved for exhibitionists who show their breasts - claiming, “I
didn’t even have to do anything for them!” One man scolds
another for not knowing how to properly negotiate their cheap thrill.

Talisker on the rocks. Bells Ale - (along with Derek Jeter) the pride
of Kalamazoo, Michigan - on tap. The club’s biweekly
nouveau-old-tyme burlesque event featuring half naked Eastern
European women is over, but the drummer from the show returns to
add live percussion to a song coming over the speakers. “I Am
The Walrus” makes perfect sense. All the kids wear ink.

Sunday Night Service For Saturday Night Sinners, the regulars greet
a prodigal with enthusiasm. The congregation sings “Beautiful
Savior” and takes communion. Many tell me of their prayers for safe
passage. mash’allah.

*

Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord a quiet, desperate
Tehrani hotel clerk - measuring his affliction day by day, numbering
over 870 in duration - experiences without religious or familial
restriction true love. Amen.

*

When I returned from Ghana I had the overwhelming sensation, “I
can’t wait to get to Africa”, like it would be the first time despite the
fact I had just been there. The same thing is happening now.

I have a new appreciation for crosswalks. Women’s hair is radiant. I
look for H2, but he’s not here.

khoda hafez.

"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.