ISFAHAN, Iran – L.A., L.A., L.A., L.A, We don’t want girls from UCLA, Go to Lufthansa, fly to Tehran, For the girls, come what may.
The wistful but lively tune was recorded in Los Angeles, home of America’s largest Iranian community. But the Iranian pop song has made full circle, filling the air at a riverside park here in Isfahan, where picnickers relax and savor the beginning of a long weekend.
My Iranian vacation, unlikely for an American but totally enjoyable, has taken a scenic turn. After five days traveling with a guide along the edges of deserts – Tehran to Yazd to Shiraz – we’ve arrived at the green vision of Isfahan. Connecting the lush parks along the Zayandeh River: a series of lovely 16th- century bridges.
They were built by Shah Abbas I, who presided over a great Persian cultural renaissance and went on an architectural binge to celebrate it.
At twilight, the most famous bridge, the Si-o-Se (33 Arches), is aglow with nightlife. A flutist pipes a lively melody, and small shops lure revelers with tulip-shaped glasses of hot tea to sip right on the bridge and enjoy the view.
A boy who looks about 7 serves us: He works every night until midnight and takes home about $2, he tells my translator and guide, Ray. This may not indicate a culture of child-labor abuse but a subset: the perils of working for your dad! As we walk along the river, we’re accosted by young people – all men – who hear me talking to Ray.
“Hello! Where are you from?” they say in a parade of cheery if unoriginal greetings.
When I first considered a vacation in Iran, I wondered: Will I have to pretend to be Canadian? Avoid speaking whenever possible? But Iranian-Americans in Dallas and Los Angeles assured me that I’d be welcomed as an American, and they were right. Every time.
Enjoying the visit?
My new friends wanted to know: What do Americans think of Iranians? Was I enjoying my visit? Would I go to their house for tea? Would I talk English with them? English is the second language of the world for commerce and culture, and that’s true in Iran, too. Most signs are scripted in English as well as Persian, and all young people in Iran have at least some skill speaking English. Some have taken classes, some have a rough, bootleg variety acquired via black-market music CDs.
My “Lonely Planet” guide to the Middle East cautions that in recent years, Isfahan has been plagued by “bogus policemen stopping foreigners and demanding money and passports.” But now, the city has an office of tourist police – real ones. All foreigners passing through the city are required to register, and you can report any problems to them. Reporting in at the tourist police center was a little unnerving, but the effect was pure safety net. “Tell him to watch out for pickpockets,” the officer told my translator, “and have a nice time.” We splurged a little for dinner at Sharhrzad, where we found chicken and lamb shank cooked with pomegranate juice and walnuts. The results were so succulent and tender I was almost giddy.
Mehrdad, the owner of the Shahrzad, is an engaging fellow who collects interesting foreigners (his guest book bristles with Western business cards). First things first: Would we like lamb cooked in the traditional way, or would we like the dish of the day, chicken? Happily there’s no wrong answer.
In the course of the evening, Mehrdad describes his collegiate experience – in Tennessee! (“I am a Volunteer!” he says, beaming broadly.) Turns out those days weren’t all golden – a car accident slightly impaired his speech and his right hand. His joie de vivre and his curiosity are full-strength, though, and he’ll know as much about me as I learn about him before we’ve inhaled the rosewater-and-saffron aura of a Shahrzad dessert.
Early-morning serenity
The next morning Ray and I were strolling on the river bank once more, taking in the architectural detail of the bridges and the serene calm that followed the party-time night.
We ended the day with a little shopping at the bazaar, combing through boxes of sweets, highly lacquered verses in sweeping calligraphy, scarves and belts and ceramics and inlaid boxes and enameled plates and miniatures. The string of shops connects two of Isfahan’s most impressive sights: Imam Khomeini Square and Jameh Mosque. Most of the mosque was built in the 16th century, though parts of it go back almost 1,300 years, I’m told.
There’s a carpet bazaar, too. After entering a shop braced for a show-and-tell and a polite decline to purchase, I find myself charmed by nomad rugs made by shepherds I’d encountered on the road just the day before.
It’s beautiful, 100 percent lambs’ wool. A perfect souvenir for an amazing trip. (And thanks to a sideways relationship with a sister company in Dubai, the rug merchant takes credit cards – very rare in Iran since the 1979 hostage crisis and subsequent U.S. embargo.)
