MAY 21, 2015: IRAN - Persians love to….

.

…picnic.

At night we go off to join them in a hilly park, buy ice cream, and falafel and join the crowds spreading out on blankets, revving up portable stoves, lounging on the grass. Hawkers offer model cars, candy floss, ice cream, munchies. Hikers, all encrusted with gear, pass by, heading up the mountain into the stars. Black glasses huge, a rock star wannabe is shaking his bodacious booty and singing in the back of a pickup as it slowly drives by. We applaud.

Over falafels and ice cream we discover that Hossein has become a friend.

Earlier in the day, we washed the car in the warm water of a shallow lake watched by a serious little boy holding down the driver’s seat of his father’s car. Later, we continued our Search for Samosas and found them in a tiny, spotless, spanking new shop run by a pair of affable, big-smiled young guys. They were so good, we went back for more. Three guys already in the shop gave us their order and spread out to wait for the next batch. On the street a family walks by, all smiles and gives us a giggle-fueled thumbs up. A twenty-something guy keeps passing us to say hello, offering the sum total of his English, a welcome. We dub him our ‘hello friend’.

Iranians are totally, disarmingly sweet.

MAY 20, 2015: IRAN - The Persian word for garden is....

....paradis, a place of beauty and peace. Persian paradises were famous for their 'unearthly'beauty. So you can see how the word entered the European languages to mean our heaven, the  Garden of Paradise. The love of gardens translates to cities filled with tree-lined streets, beautiful flowers along the roads. Roses are a favorite especially an exuberantly red beauty gilded with brilliant yellow and fragrant...as a rose should be.

We stock up on provision for Hossein’s Mobile Grocery: junk food. Corn chips. Peanuts 'picnic' cookies with coconut or banana, saffron ice cream.  Our Hossein is a junk food junkie.

Ah, the bakery. The local bread is much better warm...but what else is new?

We’re involved in a bumper bash accident, not our fault.  A man takes us across the street to get water from a spring and to find a shady spot. Ours is on a ledge under an arcade, front row sears for the drama across the road. He offers us coca cola and tea. Classy people.

The actions across the street need no translation: crowd bends to check damage in car 1, much head shaking. Everyone moves to car two, ditto. Everyone adjourns to the shade. The police arrive. Even though the other driver turned in and hit us ..and the other driver admits that at first...when the policeman rules in his favor ( local favoring local we guess since the other driver is clearly at fault) he asks for repair money ( I have two kids at home, yada yada yada.) Negotiations (and the futility of contesting the police decision on the other guy's turf) lead to a cash settlement of 3 million Rials, about $100. We raid our wallets.

Now for our car. Of course someone at the police station has a brother who is a repairman so off we go.  Again we have front row seats. One mechanic....and several' sidewalk supervisors'....remove and comment upon the bits and pieces of the poor injured Renault. The scene could be anywhere men bond over fixing cars. We, of course haven't a clue.

The guys are trilingual: Persian, Turkish, and Kurdish...and apologize for not speaking English. We feel very small!

Jacks and torches appear. We are part of the show. Den takes and hands out photos. Smiles follow in a language we all understand. These guys are a hoot, good-spirited, clearly friends. So they serve us tea amidst the car parts.

Classy people!

MAY 19, 2015: IRAN - Kandovan There are only 3 places in the world....

....where people have hollowed out mountains to make houses.There's one in Peru, one in Turkish Cappadocia ( where we just spent 5 days). The third is here in Kandovan, Iran and it's the only one where people still live in the cave houses.

Cool in summer, warm in winter, cave living is a tourist-seductive practical adaptation to Iran's climate. Ever adaptable the Azeri people of Kandovan have added hanging electrical wires, brick extensions, stovepipes, sliding modern glass doors and windows to their caves. I see a.sink in one and an electric stove outside another. Many of  these additions are jeopardizing a plan to have the village designated by UNESCO as a World Heritage site, an avenue to cultural preservation. The electrical wires will soon disappear underground. More tourists will come. And, then?

Most of Kandovan life is still behind closed doors. I want to watch weavers make the carpets the village is  famous for, but settle for fondling the finished products, public proof of private skill. 

Some women have opened shops. Six foot four Hossein ducks to enter a cool cave room lined with local weavings, dried herbs and 'forest fruits'. The toddler who watches us scoop slightly dried wild plums into a plastic bag scolds us ( or so we are told)  for taking her mother's things. She has not yet picked up her mother's entrepreneurial spirit. Mama keeps adding plums, smiling and dumping until she gets the sale she wants. We shrug. And pay a dollar for a hefty bag. Later, on the road, the wrinkled but still fleshy red plums are eye-crunchingly tart after the satiny sweetness of fresh dates.

The plums are not our only souvenirs of far northern  Iran. In our backpacks are two pieces of cloth hand colored using an ancient process much like batik, but using.thin tar instead of wax. Hossein had heard about the only place left  in Iran that makes the cloth in traditional patterns. The last of many people we asked for directions led us to the place, smiled, and welcomed us to Iran. Enjoy the pictures.

Later in the day, I return to She Who Must Be Obeyed for Moon Shot Number Three. I know the drill. No finger wagging needed this time. I detect just a hint of a smile. She delivers with accuracy. NASA would be proud.