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Gratitude

I woke up early today and as my darling was still sleeping all curled up in our giant bed I made my way to the roof of our building.
It's on the slope of the mountain base, and is five floors, vaulted ceilings in each house, so it's very tall and quite a view.
On one side I've got Tochal, the mountain - it's top covered with snow making soft cloudy whisps as the wind picks it up (and yes, I am close enough to see...it's amazing) and on the other there is the vast and mostly flat expanse of Tehran.
I sat in the sun and just marveled at my being here, in Iran - so far from anywhere I'd ever imagined I'd be, even as a travel addict.
It's something for which I am grateful, honored even, as it doesn't seem they're letting American nationals in the country very readily these days.
This is a beautiful place - with amazing natural surroundings. From nearly every road in Tehran the mountain is visible - even at night when you can just make out the lights of the hill stations and restraunts that line the lower slopes.

H loves to drive, it seems to be a favorite of most guys here - driving fast along the mountain roads that twist and turn slowly up the side, and in five minutes we've left our neighborhood for these roads lined with evergreens and smaller, leafy trees.
Sometimes we stop along the way to have tea and snacks at one of the traditional places along the road - sitting or laying on beds covered with cozy Persian carpets and massive pillows with an ornate glass hookah full of hot strawberry or lemon tobacco, and then make our way back down the road to home.

Every single drive, every new flavor, every conversation (and new vocabulary word) is an experience for which I am so thankful.

Tiaras Are Not Against the Law, They Are Encouraged

The past two days we've been shopping for my wedding dress - this means taking a taxi into downtown Tehran as they've a system here to deal with what used to be impossible traffic requiring only permit-holding cars to enter the area - it's a good system and traffic flows pretty easily through the streets.
We drove past what used to be the United States Consulate...the only vestige of what was once there: a neatly spray painted sign "Down with USA." It was interesting to see...the first time I'd been exposed to a public display chastising the U.S. government. It's now my landmark for getting around that part of downtown Tehran - when we hit that particular corner I know exactly where we are in relation to the seamstress who will craft my 'lebas e aroos' (wedding clothes).

We ended up on the third floor of a small shop in the bazaar belonging to a seamstress - a woman famous in Iran for her sewing skills, particularly when it comes to wedding dresses, and I found photos from a French catalog to base the design on.
Basically, in the end, I designed my own wedding dress and I couldn't be happier with the result thus far.
The woman is clearly an expert and, with Hamid's translation services, understood exactly what I wanted.
We will go back Thursday for a fitting and to select the tiara I'll wear with the dress...yes, a full-on princessy tiara. They are common here as a bridal accessory and when Hamid's mother exclaimed that I absolutely MUST have one (after I'd nixed their plans for makeup and a veil) I gave in. I actually love the idea of wearing a little crown - and I don't think anyone who knows me will be surprised in the least.

But I am surprised, almost daily, by the sheer modernity in Tehran - in everything from technology, to furniture, to clothes, even in something as subtle as their civil engineering Tehran boasts the best-of-everything from all over the world. I realize a portion of the population doesn't have access to the finer things for financial reasons, but this is true in any country - even (gasp!) in the U.S. It's certainly not the way the media has painted it though - as I've not seen twenty people to a house or neighborhoods without electricty.

For the most part Tehran is pretty much like any smaller American city - granted, there are laws I've to get used to - the scarf thing is a source of almost constant frustration as I find myself fiddling with it just trying to keep it on my head - I don't know how the girls do it here - they make it look so easy. It's not.
And we can't kiss in public, can't wrap our arms around eachother - which is admittedly tortuous after being so free to be close in any circumstance the last year and a half (although they actually do arrest couples in India once in a while for kissing.)
So we come home and fall all over ourselves trying to make up for the lack of contact.

Speaking of which, we just got home and I really, really miss my husband...

Ok, I Confess...

Some things are difficult...like answering the phone.

My Persian is pretty minimal, and considering that I can't read the language in order to learn it, I've to listen and pick up what I already know in conjunction with new words - gauging the context to try to understand.
H, always an angel, consistently translates more complex conversations for me but when he's unavailable I'm left to my own devices.
The phone rings almost constantly since we've arrived. H's one and a half year absence seems to have left a veritable hole in the lives of many friends and family, and they call from morning til night: "Salam, chetori? To khubi? H kojas?"
I suppose I could just let the phone ring...but then, I'd not get to practice my language skills, which H's thirteen year old brother assures me is at least that of a five year old whenever I make fun of myself.

So, I just answered the phone - a friend of H's calling, Ali Someone (there are so many Ali's, my goodness!) and he asks how I am and I'm quite practiced at this little exercise so it goes well and I even manage to ask how he is in return. Then I try to tell him H is 'ballah' (up)...he asks me if I speak German.
Nope, not unless you count the bad words.
I ask "Parlez-vous Français?"
No dice.
I'm not even going to try in Kannada or Hindi.
So he does his best to recite his phone number in English and bids me khodafez.

In the meantime, H's darling mother is searching for a Persian primer for me....something along the lines of first grade should do just fine.

What Not to Wear

I realize I should be waxing on about how distinctly different things are here in Tehran; how I'm backwards with culture shock and trying to get used to everything...but it's just not like that.
I'm in a massive house, fourth floor of five, with an elevator and all the modern appliances and fixtures I've ever had in any western home. Our car is something I can't recall the name of, but it looks and drives like a Lexus. The computers in the house are all brand new and our internet connection is fast, and wireless (granted, we've to negotiate a few filters). But the one thing I've to put some effort toward to work into my daily life is wearing a scarf and mac when I go out.
While we were on the airplane from Bombay I found that the one pashmina I'd packed was simply too hot along with the coat I'd worn but wasn't allowed to take off at my seat, so I excused myself a few times and locked myself in the bathroom so I could shed the layers that were making the flight so miserable.
Sometimes, adaptation means finding a way to ditch the system, even if it's just for a second.

Once we'd arrived in Tehran I realized that rather than wearing an actual coat or long jacket over their clothes, most girls opt for something along the lines of a fitted shirtdress, perhaps with a tank top hidden underneath.
To wear the shirtdress too tight is unacceptable and I'm not one to enjoy swimming in my clothes - fortunately there seems to be quite a bit of leeway in terms of fit and I've found a few pieces that are very comfortable and look fabulous with jeans and boots.
My skirts hide out in the closet or are worn only at home, but I don't really mind as the house is so very big and always seems to be opening it's doors to visitors anxious to see Hamid and his American bride, so I've plenty of opportunity to wear whatever I like.

Of course, this comes from the perspective of a tourist, someone who has the freedom to experience these things knowing full well that they aren't a life sentence - but most of the girls I've met seem to accept that this is just the way it is and find other ways to express themselves (ie: heavy makeup and other, more private rebellions, in the younger generations) but generally the girls find ways to wear the scarf (they are slipping farther and farther back on the head these days) that suit them.
I find myself admiring the silks and chiffons in different designs as I would other girls' hairstyles.

Now when we go out it's a simple matter of which shoes, which bag, and which scarf to wear.

Current Locae: Tehran, Iran

Whoever keeps Iran on the list of third-world nations is absolutely out of his mind.

Tehran is gorgeous - none of the associations I've been trained to make (ie: Iran is just a part of 'The Middle East'/'Axis of Evil'/one vast desert full of angry people with guns) hold any weight...not that they ever did, but to actually see it, the shadows of these socialized notions just wash away as we drive down pristine tree-lined streets on the way to what will be my home for the next few months.

We drive down expressways and through neighborhoods that remind me of Seattle: leafy green trees, clean white light, crisp, sunny air.

I cannot imagine what on earth it is anyone was so concerned about, being afraid of Iran. This place looks like home to me - but that's just me, untrained eye, you know....I guess if you knew what to look for then it might all be very menacing: the flowersellers in the road with bright red and yellow tulips, the cheeseburger and kebab joints with their neon lights and delicious smells, the coffee bars full of swank couples smoking cigarettes, the shoe stores designed to look like art galleries, the manicured and well-maintained parks.

I just don't see it - the image that's been painted for me lately. I'm here, looking into Iran from the middle and it looks pretty normal to me.
Sorry to burst your bubble there George....

Paise Illa

Bombay is the usual mix of wealth and poverty with Dior and Louis Vuitton showrooms housed along the same roads populated by kilometers and kilometers of patchwork slums and their thousands of respective tenants, and their babies, and their livestock.
There is definitely more to say about Bombay (the unendurable heat and humidity, the gorgeous old British aristocratic architecture, and our inability to communicate as English is far less common there as it seems to be everywhere else in India) but it is all overshadowed by the exhilaration I feel over page 15 of my passport - which now holds an entry visa to The Islamic Republic of Iran.
In five hours I will be on the plane.

Here goes nothing.....

Bombay, India

Are We There Yet?

I've packed, unpacked, packed, unpacked...packed...unpacked...and packed again.
It's a process, when it comes to trips I can-hardly-wait-for.
When I went to Spain I was packed four weeks before it was time to go, Mexico: three weeks, Morocco: two weeks, Singapore: two weeks. You get the idea.
Pre-India it was more like two months - but I was subletting my apartment and wanted to hide all the good stuff I wasn't taking along (she wore my stiletto knee high boots while I was gone anyway, but that's another story). In preparing for Iran I've had this strange obsession - trying everything on over and over again trying to decide if I need it, want it, can't live without it, packing and unpacking to try to fit yet another pair of shoes and the skirts I've ogled while shopping for gifts these past weeks that Hamid insists on buying for me.

I've been in India so damn long - two and a half years - I don't even really know how to get dressed anymore and I'm admittedly thrilled at the prospect of trying to figure it out again.

The issue is, because we've to stop in Bombay for a few days to pick up and validate my visa to Iran we're initially on a domestic flight from Bangalore. Domestic flights are notably lame as they allow only one third the baggage weight of international flights, at best, and so not only am I packing and unpacking trying to fit everything, but there's also the weeding-out process to be done. Fortunately Kingfisher Air (yes, the beer company now has an airline, go figure) charges only Rs.60 per over-weight kilo.

I've successfully removed ten items and one pair of shoes over the past two weeks. Not much considering what was stuffed in the massive suitcase to begin with. But it makes me feel like I'm actually accomplishing something, inching that much closer to arriving. In this respect I realize I've completely lost my mind when it comes to being in 'the now' but we've been waiting for what feels like an eternity and it's finally coming to fruition.

And so I sit, ready to go, like a little kid staring out the window, waiting; our tiny house filled to watch-where-you're-going with baggage - and I can see the washing machine is full of laundry needing to be done right away because surely there are things in there I need - and I guess it's going to be yet one more round of unpack/pack.

Me, Me, Me!

I don't know what all y'all are doing on myspace these days...I'm over it.
Not so much into the social networking thing.

But while awake yet again at four in the morning and searching for something else entirely I ran across Audiostreet, sort of the musical equivalent of what myspace wishes it could be.
And while randomly sampling music on the site I found a band now at the top of my list of third-new-best-friends (as Hamid and Miss Jess are permanently situated at the first and second spots respectively).
Check out Me and their most fabulous track "Hello".

Please don't link to the mp3s directly on my site. You are welcome to link to this page via the permalink below.

Serenity or Lack Thereof

Finding the Equilibrium

Perhaps I was too melodramatic yesterday in my reaction to the request that I write carefully for the next few months...but it was an honest reaction - immediate and highly charged. A natural instinct.
However - when in Rome, no?

The argument illustrated for me that while I take my everyday liberties for granted it is also second nature to defend them, even vehemently, when they feel the least bit imposed upon. But, I accept that I cannot possibly know what reality will exist for me in Iran, particularly as a westerner, and in the end I am more than willing to work to fit myself into that reality, however strange or uncomfortable it may seem.

I have such mixed emotions about being American right now; ashamed of my government's choices, broken hearted over their lies, and not wanting to be associated with so much destructive behavior - yet at the same time so very American in my insistence of self and all that comes with that in the western social structure.
The solution is that I must think as an Iranian, live as an Iranian. I will have an Iranian identity card and passport, and for all intents and purposes will be functionally Persian. Whatever equilibrium I need to find between my natural tendency for developing and expressing strong opinion and the social norms and acceptable limits of my next locae will likely manifest organically.
I will figure it out.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sudden thunderstorm as the stiflingly hot air of the last few weeks cools immediately by at least ten degrees, and I know that in less than an hour there will be no electricity. Rainstorms are the natural enemy of the Indian grid. What defense is there when the power lines are strung about precariously from palm tree to fencepost, and so on?
But I've grown used to these things, and simply reach for the candles...as any creature of adaptation would.

Blacklisted

Sometimes when we argue it feels like war - and with the news headlines what they are these days it's too easy to make the association.
There is a battle between Iran and America going on in a tiny apartment in India.
A battle over censorship; my husband doesn't want me to write about anything even remotely politically charged, at all, while we are there. No history of Iran, no reality of what it's like to be a woman there, nothing.
My immediate reaction is defensive, and a feeling of complete frustration.

It's impossible to file the section for 'can not write about' into my reality. It doesn't mesh with anything I know to be true - as an American this is something that just doesn't happen. It's like trying to force a puzzle piece.

I am travelling to the country I most want to write about, to put the experience of it all, from my own perspective, to paper - and I'm basically being told 'No.'

I wonder to myself what topics are allowable, and realize that if I accept this gag order, if for no other reason than to put an end to the battle, I won't be able to write about much. My experience there will be inextricably fused with the self I bring into it - but apparently there are some aspects of self not tolerated in Iran, and therefore in my expression of the experience of being there.
My strong opinions, my depth perception....none of it is allowed. I am essentially told to remain silent....because if I'm to write about being in Iran without opinion or genuine perception then what's the point to write at all?

I find it incredibly disappointing to be told I must find a way to write that doesn't honor the feelings and opinions I am sure to experience while I am there, but there seem to be underlying fears of repercussion in this issue.

It just doesn't seem possible to me that my writing would offend anyone, including the government of Iran.
I am as anti-Bush as I've ever been, never voted for the guy in the first place, I am sympathetic to Iran as a nation maltreated by the rest of the world, like the fat kid in class always is, regardless of how rich or intelligent he may be.
There is no part of me that wants to judge their laws, their customs, or their faith - to which I converted - but I do want to write about it, whatever it is.

I find it hard to believe that anyone reading what I think about anything might be so offended as to take me to prison, or take my husband or his family to prison. Some of my longest pieces are harshly anti-Bush yet no one is calling for my arrest or even threatening to censor me.
It's so twisted - a situation like that - where what I write must come through a careful wash first. I really can't imagine having to think so much about what I want to write before I write it. I've always been more stream-of-consciousness - not only with a pen but in my life in general.

It's the first time I'm really coming face to face with what it's like to be in Iran and I'm already in a space where I can't even write about it. And I'm not even there yet.

Seven Days

Another night I cannot sleep...it's 4 a.m.
Someone's rooster is announcing morning and in one hour I will begin to hear the sounds of India waking up - men coughing up masala from the night before, and the coconut peddler (or maybe he won't come, if he misses Raj Kumar).

I go outside to our tiny balcony to see if I can figure out where the neighbors keep their creature but we are surrounded by apartment buildings; it must be on a balcony of it's own somewhere, I suppose.
But it isn't the rooster keeping me awake, it's my socially gifted anxiety.

I've been to some unusual places on this planet - but none that were at odds with my country, none that had been so villified as the gravitational center to The Axis of Evil - enemy number one - the negative media darling...
But in the end, there isn't anywhere I wouldn't go - the old promise to myself holds true: "Always accept an invitation."

There are seven days between me and Tehran, and I can feel it.

Liar, Liar

"Intelligence gathered by this and other governments leaves no doubt that the Iraq regime continues to possess and conceal some of the most lethal weapons ever devised."


George Bush March 18, 2003

Poor Raj

We woke up today to total silence outside...Bangalore is a ghost town all of a sudden.
There is no traffic, nobody walking down the road, no peddlers...not even any cows or water buffalo wandering around.

We wondered if perhaps it was a holiday we'd not been aware of, as often tends to be the case - but no, literally everything is closed without warning due to yesterday's passing away of aged Bollywood star, Raj Kumar.

I honestly can't say that I know who he is, which makes it even harder for me to comprehend the shutting down of everyday life on the announcement of his death, but that's the way they do things here.
Movie stars are worshipped like gods, complete with their own statues and icons - and impromptu holidays.

Ironically, the pharmacies and bars are open - so you can still get narcotics (valium is OTC here), and a beer - clearly there needs to be some reprioritizing around here.

P.S. 11.02 p.m.

So much for the ghost-town theory...
I'm getting emails and calls asking if we're 'OK.'
Yes, yes...no need to worry, we weren't part of the mad rush to view Poor Raj and have thusly avoided being shot by police among the rioters who are burning autos in reverence of their fallen hero.

The Karnataka government has declared an official two day mourning period, which I suppose means that everything is going to be closed again tomorrow.

Leaving On A Jet Plane

What is a website without a blog anymore?
And what is a blog without posts?

Oh, I've been lazy - and crazy busy working on my most recent web design project, attempting a redesign of this site and not getting very far for lack of time, packing and unpacking in an effort at deciding what of my 200kg wardrobe is going to fit into the