I've been away from an internet connection for about a week and a half, so I have way too much to write about for one blog.
We went on a little trip to Esfehan and Shiraz and tried to see both cities in ten days, and nearly accomplished our goal. The trip was worth it, but the stress of the trip had made itself manifest in the shape of fist-sized blisters, gashes, rashes and aches, and that's just what happened to my sister's feet.
Whoever landscaped Esfehan was keeping in mind the comfort of tourists. Mr. Landscaper took the majority of landmarks and placed them in a little area. Meydan-e Imam (Imam's Square) - which was once called Shah's Square, but, for some uknown reason, was given a name change - has The Shah's Mosque, Esfehaan's biggest bazaar, another notable mosque, the list goes on.
The moral police were up and about more than usual in Imam Square because a three-day event was taking place in the mosque where thousands of Muslims gather round, read the Qur'an, fast, listen to someone preach, etc. The name in Farsi is itikaaf, but it's basically Islam's version of Woodstock, minus the music, mud, LSD and orgies. Well, my sister was stopped once again because her hijab wasn't being worn properly, but being a bit more experienced than the last time, we both acted really confused and started speaking quick English. The women just pointed at my sister's hijab, my sister fixed it and we were off. In actuality, my sister nearly wet herself. When we went to go into the mosque my mother and sister were quickly shooed away. But I, who prosper in this phallocentric country, told someone outside the Mosque that I had came all the way from America to see the inside, and seeing that I was interested lent me his backstage pass and I got a sneak peek.
The inside of the mosque was spectacular. Not only was it sublime in stature and size, it was also filled to the brim with people. Four thousand devout Muslims had gathered together for [insert reason here]. The man who let me in, afterwards, told me that each person has his own philosophy for why he participates. His was to get closer to God. A politician couldn't have answered better.
Well, soccer moms have their tupperware parties, and then there is this. In the end, a social gathering is just a social gathering. I can read, fast and pray at home.
Seeing Esfehan's people interact with eachother gave me a whole new perspective on my father, who was born there. Esfehani's are stubborn, argumentative and stingy. If it takes a village to raise a child, my dad didn't fall too far from his tree, but, fortunately, far enough to be tolerable. My dad understands Esfehan though, and he told me something someone had told him. "If you were to grab Esfehan, flip it around and dump out all its people, you'd have heaven in your hands."
All of Esfehan's attributes can be seen in the bazaar. The vendors in Esfehan's bazaar are ten times more likely to rip you off than the bazaar in Tehran. I was buying a souvenier for a friend and I asked a nine-year old kid who worked there what the price was. He said a dollar. I asked again and he said two dollars, and when I started bartering he said I'd heard wrong. A nine-year old kid. They grow so fast, don't they? I ended up giving a dollar and walking off.
The women we stayed with during the few days we were in Esfahan was a distant relative of mine, but she was something else. At first glance I'd realized she was in mourning because of the large shades underneath her eyes. (My mother had also informed me.) She had recently lost both her mother and her brother, her mother died at an appropriate age, but the brother was still too young for his death to be justifiable. Before the mother had passed her foot had caught against a leg of a table in the kitchen and she fell and hurt herself. At first diagnosis the doctor had told her she was fine and gave her vicodin, but a few weeks later she learned that she had actually broken her hip. Her mother eventually died, and the experience left such a strong psychological imprint that she sold all her furniture. Everyone said that her apartnment was like a mosque, and it was.
She was zany. She wore little hand-made, thatched slippers and spent a half-hour in the mornings doing stretches and aerobic excercies that would make the Fonz look goofy. She had a stash of money stored in the bank, but refused to spend a penny of it. And she left a knife in the back of almost everyone she met. But her personality was counterintuitively likeable. She was hilarious, but she left me wondering.
I also saw my grandmother for the first time in who knows how many years. Since I had grown and she had shrunk, the size difference shocked me a bit. But she was spicy, when she saw me she kissed me, called me a son of a gun, and told me to sit as she went to get me, my mother and my sister a drink. She walked slow, her back naturally hunched fourty-five degrees, her left eye drooped a little, she was telling me her life story and half-way in the middle of it she laid on the ground and fell asleep. She had reached that age where in conversation she either laughed or just blankly stared. And while she talked to me she kept saying, "I used to do so much." It seems like the people who have regrets in the end are those who are always wanting to experience more. I hope I'll have regrets in my dying days.
Next Stop: Aliabad/Shiraz
