“This is Abbas!” a man said over the phone.
I was surprised to hear the phone of my hotel rang. Who could call me at 9pm?
I didn’t speak for a few seconds. Then I realized it was Kazem, the guide from the travel agency who took me to Persepolis the day before. He likes to be called Abas.
“Did you already forget about me?” he said.
“Of course not!” I said.
Kazem wanted to know if I had visited all the sites he had recommended me to visit, and if I was OK.
“Wow, you went to the mausoleum,” he seemed impressed that me- a non Muslim- had managed to get in.
“It seemed the girls at the entrance were debating if they should allow me in or not,” I pointed out to Kazem.
“You wore the chador. It was OK,” he said. “Do you have any questions about the places you saw today?” he added.
Even before I could ask anything, he mentioned a few historic facts and details about the sights I visited without him.
“The only thing you didn’t explain to me was how Iran became Shiite Muslims,” I said to him.
“Oh! That gives me an excuse to come to see you tomorrow. What are you doing in the morning?” he asked.
“I am having tea at 8am with an Iranian American friend, but should be back to the hotel at 9:30am,” I replied.
“Where are you having tea?” he asked.
“I think we will try the Vakil Hamman, a traditional tea house in the bazaar recommended by the travel guide,” I said.
“I don’t recommend it. It is not hygienic. I don’t want you to get sick!” he said in a fatherly way, but he knew deep down that his “Venezuelan” daughter would do as she wished. “I will take you to the airport. Is 10:30 a.m. OK?” asked Kazem.
“Perfect! I see you at the lobby at 10:30am,” I said.
I went to bed thinking of how much I have seen and learned in the past ten days, but also dreaming of home…
“Miss, man waiting for you, down,” said the waiter while I was having breakfast at the dining room. Again, I was the only female guest surrounded by male Iranian guests.
“Thank you,” I said, coming down to the stairs.
Reza, the American-Iranian, sat on the couch of the reception, reading the newspaper.
“Hi, anything interesting?” I asked him in reference to the news.
“How are you?” he said. He either didn’t listen to what I said or ignore my question.
The tea house of the bazaar was closed so we walked to another shop near the Citadel.
He asked me what has impressed me more about Iran.
I told him the Islamic architecture.
“I also have to confess you that I am fascinated by Iranian fashion, especially male fashion,” I told him.
“How come?” he seemed intrigued by my random fascination.
“Well, I don’t think I have been in a place where men like to wear such tight pants!” I said.
Reza started laughing out loud.
“Really?” he kept on laughing and people around us stared at us.
“I am serious! You will see,” I laughed too!
“Iranians are not used to see people laughing out loud. They don’t know why we laugh, but let’s give them something to talk about,” he said, still laughing.
We stopped at a small shop that also served tea.
“I brought you some sweet lemon so you can try it,” he peeled the lemon carefully and gave me some to try. It was indeed pure sweet.
I asked Reza about Iran’s politics. He lived here during the Shah days, and he travels to Iran often. I thought he would have an opinion. Iran is a young nation and with the recent events, if he thought dramatic changes toward freedom could materialize soon.
“I am not a scholar, so whatever I said it is not important. I don’t know because I don’t live here, but I hope so. People want freedom. A professor of the university could answer you that question better,” said Reza politely.
I wondered if he truly didn’t have an opinion or if he didn’t want to say say.
I don’t longer live in Venezuela, and I am not a scholar of Venezuelan politics, yet I have my opinions about it.
We went back to the streets, looking for the “tight pants”.
“You see,” I pointed out at a young man with tight pants that were so tight that made him walk funny.
“Oh my God, you are right! I didn’t realize that!” he said. “You see, Iranians care a lot about their appearances. Some people have said to me that I look like a peasant because I wear baggy clothes, not fashionable. I live in America, so I don’t care really,” he said. “Iranians admire America for its technology, but in terms of fashion, they look up to Europeans,” he explained.
We walked back to the hotel, noticing more young men on their way to work walking with confidence in their tight pants.
“It was nice to meet you Daniela. We will be in touch,” said Reza. He gave me a quick hug. We were inside the hotel and no one was watching. It was OK.
I rushed to the room, packed my backpack, checked out and sat in the reception area of the lobby. Kazem would arrive at any moment.
“Good morning! Here you are!” said Kazem.
We shook hands. He sat with me.
“I am sorry, I am out of breath. Parking is impossible in front of the hotel. I parked far away, and walked fast because I knew you were waiting for me. My heart is pounding. It is not good,” he said.
“You didn’t have to rush Kazem,” I said to him.
He had a bypass. After his heart operation, he wasn’t able to fly anymore. He missed his days as a pilot. He had showed me at his home some photos of him in uniform with US military planes in Texas, where he received training.
“I used to smoke a lot,” he said.
We talked more about Iranian history, and the places I visited on my own.
“What’s your boyfriend’s name?” he asked.
“Brian,” I replied.
“He is very lucky. You are a very independent girl. Very curious. I noticed you want to learn. I have had other tourists, but you really listen. I always spend a week or several days with tourists. I only spend one day with you, but you are special. I won’t forget you,” he put his right hand in his heart. He seemed sad about my departure.
“I wish you happiness, I see you will have a good future Maria. You know I love the name Maria, right?” he said.
“Yes, I know. I also know you love the number seven and Persian,” I joked. I wanted to cheer him up.
“I love Iran so much. I don’t know what I would be if I weren’t Persian,” he said. “Please when you come back to Iran, don’t book a hotel. You can stay with Nasrim and me. You are friend. This is not ta’arof” Kazem smiled. “The taxi is here,” he said.
Kazem had said the night before he would drive me to the airport, but if he had asked for a taxi to take me to the terminal it was because he was not feeling well due to his heart issues. I appreciated it he had come to see me before leaving Iran.
We walked outside the hotel. Kazem opened the door of the taxi for me.
“Do you have Rials? The ride is 7$,” Kazem said.
“Yes, I have,” I replied.
He opened his wallet and gave the money to the driver.
“It is taken care. Don’t worry. Have a good flight and come back to Iran!” Kazem shook my hand again. “Please don’t forget to send the photos,” he added.
The taxi left.
On the ride to the airport, I thought of all what I have experienced and all the people I have met. I got nostalgic. I think of what I thought of Iran prior my trip, and what I thought of it now. Traveling is without any doubt the best source of education. It brings understanding and tolerance. I felt lucky to have the kind of nomad life I have with experiences that enrich my life in a way books or diplomas could never do it.
“Here Madam. Have a nice trip. Merci,” said the driver at our arrival at the domestic terminal of Shiraz airport.
“Merci,” I replied.
Not matter where you are from, Iranians often use the French word “Merci” to thank tourists.
I checked in with Iranian Air and passed through security. The female security.
“Stop,” said the woman checking the bags with X-Rays.
She took my bag and passed it again through X-Rays. She asked for my passport. She looked at it carefully, especially stared at my Mongolian visa. Then, she looked at the cover.
“Venezuela,” she said. “OK, go,” she seemed hesitant even if I didn’t have anything suspicious in my bag. I wondered if she had let me go if I had a US or British passport.
It was time to board the flight to Tehran.
I was on the line and the man in front of me turned and talked to me in Farsi. Realizing I was a foreigner, he tried to speak some English.
“You like Iran? Iranian food? You want juice?” the man asked and pointed at a “juice herbs bar”
“No, thank you,” I replied politely.
It didn’t matter. He rushed to the juice bar and brought me a glass of “herb juice”
“Really good, right?” he said.
I sipped and swallowed with difficulty the medicine tasting water.
“Good,” I lied and smiled. I didn’t want to be rude to the kind man.
It turned out we were seating next to each other on the plane. His name was Ali.
He made a phone call and passed the phone to me.
It was a girl with perfect English with British accent. It was her daughter. She said her dad didn’t speak much English but if I needed anything, she would be happy to help.
I gave the phone back to him. He kept on mentioning England, and “big house”. Those were the only words I understood and nodded. He started showing me some photos of his 16-years-old daughter. In the first photo, her daughter appeared with her big hair uncovered, very heavy black eyeliner and heavy mascara. Her lips were bright red. She wore fake blue contact lents. Her pose were very suggestive.
“She is very pretty,” I said to him. She indeed looked very pretty despite the drag queen make up.
He got all excited and showed me more photos, which were sexier and sexier. The girl was on bed wearing short pink shorts showing her black g-string. The photos got racier and racier with more skin, cleavage and underwear showing0. He seemed proud of her daughter’s photos. I was embarrassed. The 16-years-old looked as a prostitute! He said “Manchester” so I knew the photos were taken there. I wondered if that was truly his daughter or if he was a pimp. They were some other photos of sexy girls on the phone. Maybe the big house he talked about in England was a brothel? I didn’t dare to ask. I was afraid I was going to see a naked picture of the girl at any moment! Finally he finished showing me all the photos.
He asked me if I was married or had a boyfriend. I rushed into my bag and turned on my cell. I showed Ali the photo of Brian as if someone Brian’s photo could protect me from a potential pimp.
I excused myself and pretended to fall asleep.
Less than two hours later, we were already landing in Tehran.
Ali insisted in helping me, but I was a bit suspicious of his intention so I politely tried to kept some distance, but he followed me to the taxi counter and then to the carousel.
I waited for my backpack . I noticed that a handsome Iranian guy -probably my age- looked discretely at me. He was about 6′ feet tall and fit. He had dark long flocks, almond eyes and fine features. I looked at him, smiled and looked down. He did the same. We couldn’t flirt. He dressed like a westerner, and was respectful. Other guy -if he had noticed I was staring at him- could have stare back at me. But he didn’t make a move. When my backpack came out, and I walked to grab it. He looked at me, smiled and asked me which one was mine to get it for me, but Ali pushed people and took my backpack first. I was disappointed at Ali’s extreme courtesy, as it had killed the only change that the handsome guy and I could talk, and I could figure out who he was.
I thanked Ali, and also thanked and smiled at the handsome guy in distance. He smiled back.
I walked out of the terminal with my taxi receipt and I was assigned a taxi woman. The Khomeini International Airport was almost an hour drive from the domestic airport. Wearing big sunglasses and white gloves, the woman taxi drove wildly in the highway, going over 120 kilometers per hour.
Despite her mad driving, I made it to the airport safely.
The airport looked so different today. When I arrived in Tehran ten days ago, it looked dark and scary. My first impression was probably filtered by my initials concerns about traveling to Iran. Now it looked like any other modern airport in the world…
My adventure is coming to an end. Soon I will be back home!
