An American Boy In Tehran

Yesterday morning was our first official day in Iran. Woken up at an early hour by the chitter-chatter of the family, I woke up and made it to the living area despite the head rush cataract that was blinding me. I was reminded to say good-morning to everyone awake and was led to the kitchen for breakfast.

At six o'clock that morning the breadwinner of the household, my uncle, had walked down to the local noonvay, to get a fresh batch of bread, the scent of which made my mouth water with the first whiff. Breakfast supplies were set out, butter, goat cheese, an Iranian take on Nutella, and an Iranian breakfast spread called halva. A bite of bread and spread quaffed with a sip of hot tea is a delicious duo.

My cousins, my sister and I eventually headed out aimlessly with the vague request of "show[ing] us Tehran," and they drove (and as I've already mentioned, a half-hour on the streets of Tehran is enough to make anybody appreciate every living moment of their lives. How nonchalantly I saw a women, purse in hand, not a tincture of emotion - fear, if anything - on her face, walking like Frogger through the death derby.) us to Darband.

Darband was an awe-inspiring site. A series of shops, coffee houses, restaurants and hooka bars have been built pressed against a small mountain that begins to create the vast Alborz mountain range that stretches across Iran. Hundreds of men and women walk through small alley ways made by the wall of the mountain and a river runnning to the right. We went to an outdoor hooka bar, smoked Orange-flavored hooka, sipped tea, had a fig each, and kept eachother laughing by sharing slang and tongue-twisters in both English and Farsi.

Upon leaving, after each sharing a carton of blackberries, the six of us crammed ourselves in the small car, and a trio of young Persian girls chided us with a, "Poor kids, there car has no room." After a request from my cousins, I responded with a, "Poor kids, they have no car." Such verbal jousting is completely ordinary in the streets of Tehran. Unfortunately, or fortunately, the California accent bends and distorts my Farsi making it very obvious that I'm American. So, I got a smile.

We left Darband and headed back home for some sustenance.