Prayer's Like A Stiff Drink

Back to memories of Iran.

We had taken a roadtrip up to a city near the Caspian sea, the whole area has been dubbed "Shomal," which means North in Farsi, and is the haven for most Iranians who want away from the moral police to partake in mild acts of debauchery. But, of course, in an Islamic Republic one can never fully escape Big Brother's grasp.

Having entered the cabin we were to stay at, we dropped our luggage in our rooms and immediately slipped on swimming trunks. For the women, this proved to be a complicated procedure since a women can be admonished for baring a sliver of forearm; but, they managed. Driving to the beach we were differentiated once again, and one may wonder how a beach could be separated between the sexes. On nearing the beach I saw it, the great wall, a twenty-foot high, quarter mile long tarp that stretched from the beginning of the sand, across the beach, and into the ocean.

The day at the beach eventually came to an end and we headed back. In any house I stayed out I had a compulsion to look at every nook and cranny the house had to offer, and this was possible because of my young age. I remember leaving a doleful conversation the adults were carrying along and began to walk through the house, opening door after door, and on the opening of one of the doors I saw the most peculiar sight.

One of the couples that were with us on this trip of ours was in their room, and, of course, this isn't far from ordinary. The woman, with eyes closed and in a deep trance, was on her knees praying and muttering the proper Arabic. I slowly walked up to the man, whose back was to me and was halfway in his closet. I came up to his side and peered in, he jumped slightly and there in his hand was a bottle of liquor and a shot glass. He quickly shoved it in the back of his closet, covered it with newspaper, glanced nervously at his wife and back to me, held his hand up to his lips and said, "shhhh."

Memory ends.