.
…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.
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