Desperate Measures

IF Report (Last Five Days in Siargao)

I got back to Manila last night.  I can't say my last five days in Siargao were any better than the week before.  I pretty much disregarded the Paleo parameters and ate whatever I wanted and drank whenever I wanted.

Monday - I was in Surigao and, technically, I could have been fasting - my first meal was at 3 PM and dinner was from about 7 to 9 PM.  My first beer, however, was at 1:30 PM and the last one was at around 11 PM.  I'm not sure what the IF people have to say about beer.

Exercise:  None.

Tuesday - On the ferry from Surigao to Siargao, I ate a truckload of junk food.  Which I consumed before we even left port!  So, of course, I had to buy more junk during the four-hour long journey.  And then I still had dinner back at the house.  No beer though.

Exercise:  Swimming.

Wednesday - Lunch only.  At a children's party that involved a lot of fried chicken, sweet spaghetti, ice cream and cake.  And four Red Horses.

(Got period.  One week before schedule.  Not sure what is up with that but that would explain the excessive obsession with food.  I have an appointment with the gynecologist for next Wednesday.)

Exercise:  Swimming.  Not fun when inebriated.

Thursday - Lunch only.  Non-Paleo once again.  Sans saffron, I taught the girls how to make a wicked potato tahdig - and it was good!

Had this in Iran and have been wanting to make it ever since.  (Internet file photo.)

Exercise:  Swimming.

Friday - I was flying out of Siargao and Nicolas was flying in, so we met very briefly at the airport where he gave me a dress he bought for me in Bali (- very nice!) and, as I requested, pain au chocolat from Tymad!  YUMMMMMMMMY!!!  I shared them with Susan, who was also on her way back to Manila en route to Oz, and yogi, Clayton Horton.

And then my flight back to Manila was delayed and I indulged my craving for a ham and cheese sandwich and pasta at the airport.  With all the shit I'd been eating, I thought my system had been properly dirtied up to still be sensitive to anything.  Wrong.  I was in the bathroom almost immediately, feeling quite ill.  I'm not sure what caused it, but I've pretty much had enough of this overfeeding.

Exercise:  None.

I'm back in Manila and the scale says I'm at 53.5 kilos.  Sigh...  Going to TRY to go back to eating only during the evenings.

I'm still not sure if I am staying in Manila or not.  Now that the rainy season is upon Siargao, I had no intention of returning until next year.  But I spent most of yesterday being unhappily stuck in traffic in Cebu and Manila and, now, spending the rainy season in Siargao doesn't sound too bad.

We'll see...  I have a few things to get done this week, including sorting out my visa to Australia.  When I get it all done, I might just be back in Siargao to sit out the nightmare that comes with holiday shopping.

Persian Tales: Beyond The Tour - Tehran (Part 2)

Rezvan wanted to know how I knew her niece, Monir.  It was hard to explain the different social networks and how I hadn't really met Monir until that day, but that she was a friend of someone whom I had never met but was part of the same social network that Monir wasn't a part of until I invited her...  I told Rezvan that I knew Monir from the internet and that was enough.

But Monir and I had been in contact before I got to Iran and, when she found out that my tour didn't cover the extra day in Tehran, she offered for me to stay with her at her uncle's flat.  I eagerly accepted.

The night before we were supposed to meet, I got a late night SMS from Monir.  She said that she might be late in picking me up.  Since it was a Thursday night (the equivalent of our Friday night), I figured that, like me, she was at a party.

I found out the next day that she was at a party for Couch Surfers in Iran, and that we were off to go hiking with her new Couch Surfer friends.

I liked how loose it all felt.  Most everyone had just met at the party the night before.  One of them, Eli, wasn't even at the party and just showed up that day, invited by someone in the group.  Seeing as they had only met Monir the night before, everyone must have adjusted their schedules to join us on our hike that day.

Left to right:  New friends Eli, Mahtab, Monir, Sajjad (he and Mahtab are a couple), me, Mahdi, and Vahid.

We went through Jamshidieh Park to climb what I can only guess is Kolakchal Mountain.

With almost everything closed on their one-day weekend, the popular thing to do in Tehran seems to be to seek out a mountain.

To spend time outdoors.

To picnic and fire up the qalyan.

 For some outdoor wooing.

  To get away from smoggy Tehran.

Yes, even women in chadors do it.

On the way up, I heard two girls speaking to each other in English.  I said hello to them and then, later, found them waiting for me with shy smiles on the trail.  We got to talking and, soon, they became part of the group, readily welcomed by the Couch Surfers.

Atena is studying Foreign Languages and is a diplomat's daughter.

Horiye was in a chador and refused to be photographed, volunteering to become the group's official photographer instead.  She and Atena are childhood friends, and both are devout Muslims.  (Atena wears the hijab even when she is abroad on her own.)

  Picnicking on the mountain.  We all shared whatever we brought.  Most everyone brought tea.  I was the only one without a cup, so someone MacGyvered a cup for me out of a water bottle.  (Photo by Horiye.)

We made our descent after the picnic, and Eli, Horiye and Atena abandoned whatever afternoon plans they had and jumped into Monir's car to join us for the rest of the afternoon.  The girls treated me to a tour of the Sa'd Abad Museum Complex, the royal summer home of the last Shah of Iran.

The dining hall:  The last party here was held in honor of King Hussein and President Carter.

Catty Lonely Planet write-up:  "The tiger pelt..., among other things, reveals the shah as a man of dubious taste though, in fairness, pelts were more in vogue in the 1950s."  Meooooowwwwrrr!

Farah Pahlavi bought this desk at an auction.  It's former owner was Marie Antoinette.  Oh, the irony.

The palace gardens, as seen from an upstairs window.

At the Art of Nations Museum inside the Mellat Palace in the Sa'd Abad Complex with Atena, Horiye and Eli.

After the museum, Hiroye and Atena left to say their prayers and I hung out with Eli and Monir and treated them, first to coffee at the Tehran Grand Hotel (which wasn't very grand), and then to dinner at Paradiso Restaurant, where we had the house specialty, bademjan polo (more meat and rice).

After dinner, even if she was clearly tired, Eli wailed, "Oh no!" as we neared the subway, where we were dropping her off.  She was sad to leave me and made me take her number and promise to call her if I needed anything.  "But you're working," I protested.  "I don't think my boss will fire me if I leave for one day," she replied.

It's a good thing I didn't need to call her as Rezvan, Monir's aunt, babysat me the next day.  Monir went back to school (and her dorm), while Rezvan and I took a rainy stroll around her neighborhood.

Rezvan lives with her daughter on Pasdaran St. in Darous, northeastern Tehran.  Monir shares the flat with them when she isn't in school.  Their family is originally from Tabriz.

We stopped at a bakery where I bought a bag of local sweets to eat at the airport.  Then we stopped by to see what was going on at an art gallery, which also housed a hip library-cum-cafe.  There was an exhibit of children's drawings, and some young female art students were busy setting up another exhibit and asked us to return in an hour.  We found a women's gym, also at the complex, so we took a peek inside where, away from men's eyes, women could remove their hijab and play raquetball and do tai chi.

The library/cafe.

One of the children's drawings on exhibit.

A park near the art gallery.

Outside, we continued our stroll through a park and bought flowers for Zahra, whom I was having lunch with.  Then we dropped in at a local swimming pool, where we were given a tour of the women's pool area.  No photos, of course, but it looked like it would have been a great place to hang out and talk to women, but since I didn't have a bathing suit and had a lunch date to keep, we didn't stay long and said goodbye to the women at the pool.

Picking flowers for Zahra.

We did the groceries before heading back to the apartment, where I shared some fruit with Rezvan before hugging her goodbye.

Then I was off in a cab with all my luggage for the upscale northern neighborhood of Shemiran, where Zahra lives.

Kasra gives me a tour of the new apartment they had just moved into.  Zahra is still in the process of furnishing it.

Zahra went to the office in the morning but took the afternoon off for me.  "I missed you, you know," she greeted me at the door.

She offered me a cigarette but I declined.  When I gave her my lighter, she disappeared to her room for a while and then emerged with a bracelet from Shiraz for me.  (I definitely won that trade.  I told her I'd give her more lighters in the future.)

And Yara still won't go to sleep.  Check out Zahra's pink hair!

During the course of the afternoon, delivery men turned up, as did the building administrators who were looking into repair work and, each time, Zahra put on her hijab and manteau, and the nanny would put on her chador.  (I never would have guessed that the hip, young woman in the kitchen was a religious conservative!)  Of course, they never alerted me to these things, so I was always bare-headed when the men came in which, on hindsight, would explain why they always kept their eyes averted.  (Stupid foreigner me!)

Zahra whipped up a quick pasta for lunch.  But she also made some potato tahdig and I loved her all the more for it because, after that party in Tehran with all that glorious food, potato tahdig is now my favorite Persian food.  Here's a recipe on how to make potato tahdig and rice.  Zahra says you can do it with pasta and with bread too.  Carb overload!  You have to love it! 

Before my flight, Zahra called on her favorite taxi driver to bring me to the airport.  To my surprise, a woman in a chador showed up at the door.  She had tea and biscuits with us before I had to go.

Roya could barely speak English but we managed to communicate on the ride to the airport.  She told me she "cut" from her husband because he was hooked on drugs (she made the motion of inserting a needle in her arm), and that she has a 13-year old boy with him.

When we ran out of things we could enact to each other, she asked if I could sing.  "Only in the shower," was my reply.  In the silence that followed, she started  to sing under her breath.  "Please sing louder, I requested.  She smiled happily, then turned it up.  Roya had a haunting, aching voice.  It gave me goosebumps, this woman in a chador, singing so beautifully, while we sped away from the city into the night.

Roya sings.

Even though the guide books say that it is not customary to hug or kiss in public, I gave Roya several hugs before I left and said goodbye to Iran.

Persian Tales: Beyond The Tour - Tehran (Part 1)

Take a wild guess.

Our "morning flight to Tehran" was canceled and we took a public bus instead, because:

• a.  The flights to Tehran were either too early or too late in the afternoon.
• b.  There weren't enough seats for all of us on the plane.
• c.  The travel agency hadn't bothered making prior reservations for us on any of the flights back to Tehran.

I was given reasons (a) and (b) for taking the bus.

Who the hell were they trying to kid?!  I used to run resorts and book flights for our guests.  Hell, I used to run an airline.  Wait, what am I saying?  I am part of an airline!  And even without all that, I've been traveling long enough and booking my own flights to know when an agency is dicking me around.

We talked to Gareth who talked to Mustafa and, in the end, there wasn't anything we could do about it.

So the bus it was.  Granted, it was the most luxurious bus I had ever been on - IT WAS STILL SIX FRICKIN' HOURS ON THE BLOODY BUS.

We arrived in Tehran at 4 PM and the plan was to herd us onto another bus and, in place of the Golestan Palace and the Tehran City Gardens, we would see the Mausoleum of Ayatollah Khomeini, the Martyr's Cemetery, the Azadi Tower, and the US Embassy.

The last thing I wanted to do was to get on another bus, especially so close to rush-hour, having been advised on how notoriously bad Tehran traffic can be.  (Sure enough, when I spoke to Anna over breakfast the next day, she said that they had spent most of their time on the bus.)

Oscar and Chad invited me to skip the tour and join them at a party that night, and I, in turn, invited them to store their luggage in my hotel room before they had to fly out to Moscow.

As soon as the bus pulled into the terminal in Tehran, we grabbed our bags, said goodbye to the tour group and hopped in a cab for Parasto Hotel.

After freshening up, we walked around Tehran.  We strolled past the British Embassy, which closed after protestors (against economic sanctions on Iran) stormed the building last year.  There were armed guards outside, who were very friendly though, and signs for "no photos".  But we could plainly see the smashed up windows of the embassy from the street.

On offer at a roadside stall.  See anything familiar?

In the absence of liquor, we bought some energy drinks (Hype!) from a roadside stall to keep us going and, later, found a big supermarket which we absolutely had to check out.

I love supermarkets!

I guess economic sanctions don't apply to Big Business.

Garlic and pepper shampoo from France, anyone?

That night, we were entertained in the home of an artist before proceeding to the party.

Visiting a middle-class neighborhood in Tehran.  Definitely more than a few steps up from our Parasto 'hood.

It was a bienvenida (welcome-home) party for someone who had just gotten back from the States and, although the party was dry, it was amazing to witness the Iranian joie de vivre.  They joked, laughed and danced on tables.  A party like that anywhere else would have been impossible without alcohol.

Iranians, apparently, eat very late.  Lunch for them is around 2 PM and dinner, especially at parties, is around 11 PM.  Oscar, Chad and I hadn't eaten much the whole day, having been on the road most of the time, but the spread that followed was well worth the wait.

This was just some of it.  More food was served but I was too hungry to take any more photos.

I thought everyone was exaggerating when they told me that our host's mother had to be the best cook in all of Iran.  I had had some pretty amazing food during my stay and I didn't think it could get any better.  I was wrong.  I thought I'd died and gone to food heaven.  I couldn't believe it when the guys had to pull me away from the buffet table to catch their flight.  I had only had three servings and more food was still being brought out!  I should have asked them to leave me there.

I am totally hooked on Persian food now.

And I am proud to say that I only ordered kebabs twice during the entire trip.  Once, at a chelo kebab place in Tehran, because I had to order chelo kebab at least once and, another time, at one of those tourist bus places, when I ordered fish and needed a back-up second dish.  Even then, the first time, I had a beef kebab and, the second time, I had chicken.  So, no, I never had the same thing twice.

***

(Out of respect for our friends' privacy, I will not be posting any photos taken of them during the party on Desperate Measures or on the blog's public Facebook page.)

Persian Tales: A Revolutionary Act?

It was on the itinerary from the start:

April 11 - Night time talk from a participant in the 1979 Revolution.

When I sent off the itinerary to an Iranian friend of mine, he commented, "A talk with a bearded bastard who participated in the revolution?  Gai, is this being organized by the mullahs?"

I asked if attending the talk would be a problem and he answered, "Well, you should avoid it.  It seems they are looking forward to repeating their usual B.S., even to tourists."

From then on, I had it in mind to escape the talks but, apparently, if there was one thing on the itinerary that was mandatory, that was it.  Chad and Oscar, who had slipped away again, were summoned to attend.

We started out at the home of Habib's future in-laws.

Handsome Habib works at the reception of Safir Hotel, where we were staying in Esfahan.

We were supposed to have a cooking lesson, but the kitchen was tiny and Pari, Habib's mother-in-law, didn't speak any English so Mustafa just went through the motions of shouting out the steps of making gheymeh, and then gave up and sat in the living room where he proceeded to give lectures on Islam and various laws they had concerning homosexuality and what not.

Pari, preparing gheymeh.

I skipped the lectures and stayed in the kitchen with the women.

First, I helped chopped vegetables, which I really hate doing.

Grating carrots, while Kimiya was washing dishes.

So I traded places with Kimiya, Habib's fiancee, and took over washing dishes, which I don't mind, while she prepared the salad.  But because there were so many dishes to wash, whenever Kimiya would add another spoon or dish to the pile of dirty dishes, she'd give me a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek.

Soon Zahra, Habib's aunt-in-law, arrived.  She spoke some English and we managed an easy banter in the kitchen and I ended up having a great time hanging out with the women.  They were all very sweet and appreciative of my help and effort to communicate with them.

And dinner turned out to be amazing.  Apart from gheymeh, we also had ghormeh sabzi, which was one of the dishes that Akram highly recommended on the plane.  I had at least three servings of everything and polished off the plates.  (Oscar was shocked that I could out-eat him.)

When I asked Dave and Zoe how they were, they replied that they were bored.  It never even occurred to me that the other people in the group might have been bored.  But then, Dave and Zoe never wanted to take part in the "cooking lesson", but were forced to attend it anyway.

After dinner, we drove off to Habib's house.

When we got there, an elderly gentleman, elegantly dressed in a suit, came out to meet us.  He must have been Habib's father.  He shook our hands, presented his family to us and then served us tea and cookies.

That's Zahra's husband, who is the brother of Habib's mother, assisting the old man, who might be Habib's father.

Then the old man sat down and huddled with Mustafa.  Then Mustafa huddled with Gareth.  When we thought that the talk was finally about to start, Mustafa announced that there would be no talk but that the old man would answer our questions.  And yet the old man and Mustafa continued to huddle, Mustafa then huddled with Gareth.  And there was no Q&A.

Huddling.  Notice how Dave is seated right next to the old man.

We started getting restless.  First, I went up to talk to Gareth and he nearly took my head off.  After a while, he came over and informed us that the old man no longer wanted to talk but that all would be explained in the car.  But when that still took forever, Chad and Oscar got up and had some words with Gareth.  Chad, was especially not in a good mood.  It was their last night in Iran after all and they were summoned over against their will.

Waiting for Godot with the rest of Habib's family.

Dave joined us at our end of the room and relayed to us that, earlier, the old man leaned over and asked Dave where he was from.  When he answered that he was from the U.S., that's when he felt the old man changed his mind.  Dave theorized that the old man may have been tortured, if not by Americans, at least in their presence.

Finally, it was officially announced that there would be no talk and that Mustafa would call for transport to take us back to the hotel, but that he would explain everything in the bus.

Since Chad, Oscar and I were driven to the hotel in a car instead, we missed the debriefing.  But back in the room, Dave filled me in.

He was right after all.

It turns out that the old man was a poet in his youth.  His idealism led him to acts against the Shah's regime for which, he was not only jailed, but blacklisted so that he could not continue his studies nor seek employment.  This only served to fuel his anger and led to more subversive acts for which he was again jailed, interrogated and tortured.  Apparently, it was at the hands of Americans that he was blinded in his right eye, suffered a perforated ear drum resulting in permanent hearing loss, and had his testicles crushed.

That night, with American guests in his house, he allegedly did not want to disrespect his guests by making them uncomfortable about what their people had done to him.

And I so truly want to believe this but there's a huge part of me wondering why it was such a surprise for him to know that there would be Americans in the group?  Habib had all our passports at reception.  And wasn't this the plan all along?  To air anti-American sentiments to Americans?

Something isn't quite right with the picture, but the old man and his family were so gracious and I do really, really, truly want to believe them.

But if it was all an act, then I do suggest to the directors behind this charade that they cut to the chase. Seriously.  Remember that these are Generations X, Y and Z  that you are dealing with.  Know thy audience.  We are selfish bastards of a decadent, consumerist mindset.  We were born and bred on entertainment and have zero attention spans.  We do not appreciate anyone else wasting our time but ourselves, no matter what the explanation.  All we understand is the inconvenience to us.

However, if you put on a good show for us, we might be more sympathetic.  We might even believe you.  Perhaps if you started off with a bit of wailing and a beating of chests - hooked us on the drama right from the handshakes and carried us away with emotion - that might have worked.

The indy art-house approach that you took that night doesn't work for everyone.  I myself have to be in the mood for it.

I'm just saying.

 

Persian Tales: Beyond The Tour - Esfahan

On the road from Yazd to Esfahan, we stopped at yet another roadside diner that seemed to cater exclusively to tour groups being bussed in.  The boys weren't in the mood for it so we decided to check out the pizza joint the guys had spotted down the road.

On our way there, we passed a gym and a man got out of a car, clearly headed to pump some iron.  Oscar said hello and asked if we could accompany him to the gym.  The man smiled and motioned for us to follow.

I jumped at the chance to check out a place that is off limits to women in Iran and, of course, had to take a picture, especially when I spotted the guy in the grey wife-beater standing at the back.  (Enjoy, ladies!)

At the pizza place, we were served what must be the Iranian version of pepperoni pizza.   It had a nice crust and a pale sort of sausage on it.  (I actually thought it was either tuna or sardines at first.)  If it had a proper tomato sauce and some crumbled kebab, they could have nixed the Frankensausage and it would have been a better pizza.  As it was, it was strange, but it wasn't bad.  We took the leftovers back to the restaurant, which Gareth promptly demolished.

Served with ketchup, of course.

The guys at the pizza place wanted photos with the boys so I took some of my own.

By the time we arrived in Esfahan, it was late in the afternoon so our entire itinerary for the day was scrapped and we were free to roam around until dinner.

Before we parted with the rest of the group, Dave and Zoe, also tired of the tourist-trap restaurants we were being herded to, volunteered my contacts to Gareth.  They said that my contacts had pointed us to a very good restaurant in Tehran so that they were sure that they could help us out in Esfahan.  Gareth then turned to me and put it on my shoulders to sort out the restaurant for the evening.

Out on the street, I scrambled to get in touch with Asghar.  Before I could contact him, we got to talking to this man who used to work in Germany.  He returned to Iran to care for his father who is afflicted with Alzheimer's.  He pointed out some restaurants to us on the map, as well as sports shops where Oscar could buy Iranian football jerseys.

We walked up and down the streets of Esfahan, in search of the elusive Iranian football jersey.

And found ourselves at a football stadium instead.

By evening, I had spoken to Asghar several times.  He was about to board a plane for a business meeting somewhere, but SMS-ed me his top three restaurant choices.  After cross-checking with other locals, the verdict for best local restaurant in town was unanimous:  Shahrzad.  Fortunately, it was also the restaurant Mustafa was supposed to take us to.

I joined the group for dinner, while Chad and Oscar hung back and ate a local chicken shop instead.

At Sharzhad, I sat at a smaller table with Dave, Zoe, Jan and Gareth.  We decided to split three dishes between the five of us, seeing as the Iranian servings tended to be quite large.

When the group gave me a collective pat on the back for the restaurant choice, I called Asghar to thank him.  He asked me to put the manager on the line because he wanted to pay for my meal.  I tried to dissuade him but he was very insistent so I handed the phone to a waiter who, for reasons unknown, passed the phone on to Mustafa.  I am not sure what they talked about but Mustafa later told me that he informed Asghar that we were a group of 2, discouraging Asghar from paying for the group.  In the end, Asghar sent over some ice cream to our table, with profuse apologies for not being in town to entertain me.

Thanks for the yummy ice cream, Asghar!

Because the waiters didn't speak English and none of us spoke or read Farsi (except for Evan), it was up to Mustafa to take our orders and bill us for our food.  Since he was also organizing our transport to and from restaurants, he would include our taxi fare in the bill.  He would collect the money from each of us and then settle with the restaurants and the cab drivers.  This became standard practice throughout the tour.

That night, he charged our table 170,000 rials each.  We had been averaging about 140,000 rials per meal and, this time, we only had three dishes and there were no cab rides to pay since we had walked from the hotel to the restaurant.  When I pointed this out, Mustafa changed the figure to 125,000 rials each, claiming that he had forgotten that there were five of us at the table instead of four.  His figures still didn't add up but none of us were good at Math either.

After dinner, we walked over to the bridge, where we met up with Chad and Oscar.

Si-o-se Pol or The Bridge of 33 Arches, also known as Allah-Verdi Khan Bridge, is one of eleven bridges in Esfahan.

The guys wanted to hit the shishas (qalyan).  The use of it is supposed to be regulated in Iran but, as if by magic, someone provided them to us while we sat along the banks of the Zayandeh River.

I seriously don't get it.  I can understand if it's in your culture to smoke it.  But if it's not, then it's the equivalent of smoking menthols for me.  I'd rather smoke a cigarette or a cigar, or something that isn't flavored tobacco.

I spotted some girls sitting on their own so I quickly chatted them up so that I could introduce them to the guys.  Soon, the guys in the group were flocking around the girls and this seemed to disturb some of the local boys, but they eventually apologized to Mustafa for creating intrigue and everything settled down before it could get out of hand.

Chad sends a message to the group that's for us to know and keep to ourselves.  ;-)

But because there are strict regulations on acceptable social interaction between men and women, especially in public, especially between foreigners and locals, the night didn't last very long and we were back at the hotel before midnight.

My favorite moment of the evening though was when an old couple came up to us to say hello.  They couldn't speak English but there were a lot of "Salaam"s and when I spoke a few words of Farsi, the woman took my hand and held it to her heart, which moved me.  Before they left, I asked for a picture together.

Notice how she is still holding my hand.

Persian Tales: Rockin' The Hijab (Or Not)

When I finally knew I was going to Iran, I started stressing about the heat.  Hijab refers to the head cover of women, as well as the modest dress that is required of every female, local or foreign, in Iran.

I've lived in shorts and dresses for so long that I almost immediately feel warm when anything covers my legs.

I turned my closet inside out, looking for the lightest fabrics I could find.  When I thought I had gotten it all figured out, I remembered my Iranian friend mentioning that April weather in Iran was light and cool.

A quick Google revealed highs of 20 and lows as low as - ACK! - six degrees!  I dumped the light clothing (including my portable fans) and went rummaging through my winter clothes.

I'm a lightweight when it comes to the cold.  I actually try to avoid air-conditioning unless it's absolutely scorching outside.  Otherwise, I'm quite happy with an electric fan pointed steadily at me.

But I was just in Paris last December so I knew what clothes to bring.  And I had just bought several coats from the neighborhood ukay-ukay (second-hand shop) that could serve as manteaus (- those coat dresses that Iranian women wear).

As the plane was landing in Tehran, I put on my hijab and manteau.  Mahsan approved but Zahra laughed at the way I tied my scarf.  "You're supposed to have half of your hair showing," she teased as she adjusted it for me.

So much for modesty.

Even before we got off the plane, I felt stifled.  "God, it's hot!" I said out loud.

"Get used to it," one of the men called out.

He wasn't kidding.

I have no clue what all that six-degree weather was about but it was hot when we got there.  Well, not hot HOT.  It was cool outdoors and warm indoors and we were indoors a lot.  And even when it was cool outdoors, when you've got that big-ass sun shining down on you, it can still get pretty warm underneath that hijab.

It's no coincidence that hijab sounds like "head job" because it can sure do your head in.  I kept some anti-anxiety pills on hand in case I got really close to giving in to the urge to rip my clothes off.

I have no idea how the Iranian women do it.  They carry it off with such panache, while I just looked like a peasant.  I think they use a lot of clips and have very big hair underneath...  And, boy, do they know how to work the eye make-up!

Of course, when I got to people's houses, they'd invite me to remove my hijab.  Um, yeah, right.  I've only got hat-hair now, don't I?  Let's see, look like a peasant or go around with hair matted to my skull?  I think I'll stick to looking like I pick fruit, thank you.

When we were in the subway, packed in like sardines, I whispered to the girls, "At least, it's not too hot in here."  Then Mustafa tapped me and motioned to my head.  Apparently, my hijab had slipped off.

Another time, while lounging around, waiting for lunch to be served, I started rolling up my jeans.  Mustafa quickly stopped me before the sight of my ankles could cause a riot.

Apart from the heat, the hijab can also make one hard of hearing.  "I'm sorry I can't hear you, I've got a hijab in my ear."

My hat's off (indeed) to the beautiful women of Iran, who managed to look stunning underneath the veil.  Here is my photo tribute to them.

Over Adi's shoulder.  At SPU Restaurant, Darakeh, Tehran.

At Niyavaran Palace, Tehran.

At the park behind Niyavaran Palace, Tehran.

Wearing the chador at the Portal of Bagh Melli, Tehran.

Very Grace Kelly.  At the Coffee Shop & Veggie Restaurant of Iranian Artists' Forum, Tehran.

At the Arg of Karim Khan, Shiraz.

Students showing some shirazzle-dazzle in Shiraz.

Mustafa's brother's girlfriend at Persepolis.

Mother and child in front of the Amir Chakhmaq Complex, Yazd.

Glorious Esfahan.

The beautiful and friendly, Nastaran, here with boyfriend, Farzad.  At Sharzhad Restaurant, Esfahan.

Lovelies:  Fateme, Pari, and Ava.  Electrical engineer students at Esfahan University.

Cooking at Habib's house:  his aunt-in-law (Zahra), his mother (Shahin) and his fiancee (Kimiya).  From Esfahan.

Stylin' while climbin'.  Kolakchal Mountain, North Tehran.

Persian Tales: The Photos

... are currently being uploaded onto Desperate Measures' page on Facebook.  Please feel free to look through the albums.

Persian Tales: Beyond The Tour - Yazd

"What did you like best about the trip," Anna asked over our last breakfast together.

Without hesitating, I answered, "The people and the food."

Anna looked confused by my answer and didn't seem to know how to respond, so I returned the question to her.

"Oh, I really liked the mosques," she replied, "I didn't think they would be so elaborate..."

It's funny how we had been on the same tour and yet had remarkably different experiences.  For me, the tour was just a way to get into Iran and travel around the country with other people.  But, after Persepolis, the tour quickly disintegrated into disorganization and disappointment for me.

I found allies in Chad and Oscar, who had also made friends with Iranians, and we were more on a mission to interact with locals, rather than to stick to the tour group.  We broke away often and walked the streets on our own, greeting everyone we passed, intent on having a more local experience than a touristy one.

These are some of the snaps we took on our walks.

***

After we visited Persepolis, we spent the whole day on the road, arriving at Yazd after nightfall.  When "stay at a private home for dinner" turned out to be a buffet dinner at a hotel (- at least, we got to try camel; it tasted like beef), we hit the pavement to explore Yazd at night.

Yazd's clock tower.

Trying the local soft-serve.

Oscar and Chad.  (FYI, the thumbs-up sign means "up yours" in Farsi sign language, although more than a few locals know that it means a different thing to the rest of the world.)

Disappearing down Yazd's alleyways.

The Amir Chakhmaq Complex.

We yelled "Saalam!" at some kids on a motorbike and they immediately U-turned to shake our hands and say hello.

The Jameh Mosque, which was right by our hotel.  As we were returning from our walk, the group was just heading back from dinner.  Those are Andrew and Jing on the bottom right, also taking photos of the mosque.

Persian Tales: Postcards from Persepolis

Running late.  Under the weather.  Just posting some of yesterday's photos from Necropolis and Persepolis.  Currently in Yazd but packing up for Esfahan.

(FYI, I've been re-editing past entries because, as you may have noticed, I just churned them out without giving them a second glance.)

Necropolis (Naqsh-e Rustam).

Burial site of (left to right, if I remember correctly):  Darius II,  Artaxerxes I, and Darius I.

Burial tomb of Xerxes.

Persepolis.

Persian Tales: Salaam from Shiraz

We flew in to Shiraz early this morning.

The Arg (Citadel) of Karim Khan in Shiraz.

It's 6 PM now and everyone's either napping or poking around at the bazaar, which is really quite fabulous - so much better than the Tehran bazaar - but I haven't the energy to trek all the way there and make it back to the hotel in time for dinner.

A shopkeeper at the Shiraz Bazaar.

I have a new roommate though.  (Yay!)  It's Jing.  And maybe Gareth, who's supposed to be rooming with Jan, but since Jing and I have a really big room - and an extra bed, Gareth would rather stay with us.

The courtyard of Niayesh Boutique Hotel in Shiraz.  As I write, some guys are playing the guitar and singing in the courtyard.

I also, finally, have a SIM card.  My Iranian number is +98-930-255-3638.  I've talked to my new friends and I've been invited to stay at someone's home when I get back to Tehran, which I am really looking forward to.

Shower time!  Going out to dinner then, hopefully, having a clandestine party tonight.  ;-)