They also want to know what the average American thinks about George W. Bush.  Cautiously, they broach the subject, anxious not to offer offense.

Iranians young and old beg the question, “Iran—good?”  They want to reaffirm the vision of their country as a great empire, not the maligned nation of terrorists the West sees daily on television.

“Please tell Mr. Bush not to bomb us,” one shopkeeper tells me as he counts out my change, while a hotel owner who has lived briefly in Boston goes one better.

“That Bush is such a geek!” he exclaims, anxious to show off the American vernacular he’d acquired in his year abroad.  “We liked that blowjob President of yours much better.”

Despite their aversion to the U.S. government, Iranians are infinitely curious about America, and often express its superiority to their own land.  In the cool interior of a mosque, I watch as a teenage boy entertains his friends. He stands on the cement tile reserved for imams, and in a voice that harkens back to when the place was a city of tents, sings the opening words of the call to prayer. Afterward, the group surrounds me, shy but enthusiastic.

“Were you afraid to come to Iran as an American woman?” one asks.

When I tell him no, the boys seem relieved. 

“Were you afraid to come to Iran as an American woman?” one asks.

When I tell him no, the boys seem relieved. 

“I want to go to America one day,” one tells me, while another asks how he can improve on his English. Finally, one dares the question they all have been waiting to ask.  “Do Americans hate Iranians?” 

For weeks I’ve thought about a possible reply, how to delicately suggest that some Americans are ignorant of Iranian affairs and perceive the country as bad, but that there are others who do not share those views.  But in the end, I respond with the only answer I know to be true.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Esfahan would be the greatest city on earth if it didn’t have Esfahanis living in it,” my Teherani driver says, as we pull past the checkpoints into this city of bridges and blue sky.  It is the last leg of my journey, the place I have dreamed of for over a year.

Finally, one dares the question they all have been waiting to ask.  “Do Americans hate Iranians?” 

... I respond with the only answer I know to be true.

“I don’t know,” I say.

Once called the “jewel of ancient Persia” Esfahan is a city built along the Zayandeh River, which once coursed under the thirty or so bridges that skirt the city.  Now, however, the Zayandeh has dried up and become a series of mere puddles in craters of mud.  Still, the bridges remain, each retaining their own bit of charm. A teahouse rests in the middle of one bridge’s arches, filled with families who smoke the water pipe with half-closed eyes.  It’s here that I first get a glimpse of the Esfahani character that is completely contrary to my guide’s impression.  Packed into the tiny teahouse, I wait for a free table when two teenage girls nearby insist that I join them.  My refusal is not considered, and I spend the next half-hour in blissful contemplation of the world with two new friends.

But while the bridges are a site to behold, nothing can compare the extraordinary spectacle that is Emam Khomeini Square.  Situated in central Esfahan, it is some 500 meters long, and can be likened to the national Mall on Washington, if the Mall were surrounded by domes, palaces, and the cacophony of bazaar merchants hawking their wares.  Over the bazaar’s shops, workers hammer verses from the Qur’an into copper bowls, or hover over slivers of camel bone, painting miniature polo horses and men.  Around the corner, a man stamps row upon row of paisley on ivory cloth, while his son paints the folds blue, green, and maroon.

I return to the Square at different times of day, admiring the buildings and people in every light.  In the morning, groups of children skitter among the fountain.  By afternoon the place bustles with the sale of books and carpets.  And then, during a crimson sunset, as the cars honk along the roads and families come to enjoy their tea before returning home for dinner, I find the half of the world I have been looking for.

Hello, hello!” the young girl in the maroon headscarf says in English, as she climbs over the rail separating the grassy expanse from the gravel path on which I stand. Horses clomp and neigh along the path, pulling white carriages of young newlyweds and children.

And then, during a crimson sunset, as the cars honk along the roads and families come to enjoy their tea before returning home for dinner, I find the half of the world I have been looking for.

“How are you?” 

Behind her, a group of women are assembled for a picnic.  They smile and crane their necks to hear our exchange.

“Hello, I am fine. How are you?”  I reply, amazed that such a young girl — she must be only eleven — is fluent in my language.

She stands grinning, but doesn’t answer.  One of the women, possibly her mother, signals to me from the grass. “Emrika?” she asks. 

I nod my head in assent.  The women squeal and chatter amongst themselves, and the mother pats the ground beside her, beckoning me to have a seat.

The girl takes something from behind her back, then pulls at my hands and fills them with sunflower seeds.  The mother waves at me once again.  I stand still, wondering whether the social custom of refusing everything twice before accepting applies to making friends.  I munch on my seeds happily, then figure, oh, what the hell, and climb over the cement barricade to take a seat beside her.  I know immediately I’ve made the right choice, because once I’m settled, the women squeal even more, and the mother folds me into her breast and kisses my cheeks.  The fountain sprays a cool mist along my back. 

“Ahsh,” the woman in front of me says, showing off the silver pot filled with stew that sits in the middle of the sofreh on which they’ve spread their meal.  Beside her, two elderly members of the clan smile, one revealing her gums, devoid of all but one tooth.

I know immediately I’ve made the right choice, because once I’m settled, the women squeal even more, and the mother folds me into her breast and kisses my cheeks.  The fountain sprays a cool mist along my back.

The kissing woman points to the girl in maroon, then two others, maybe twelve and fourteen, who sit to her left. 

“Dokhtar, dokhtar, dokhtar,” she indicates them one by one, then points to herself.  “Madar.”

“Mah…Mah…Mommy!” one of the girls shrieks, happy to show off the English she has gleaned from school or television, I’m not sure which.

This elicits a series of giggles from the older women, who in turn identify themselves. 

“Khahar, khahar, madarbozorg,” they go around, until each is known for her association to the others. 

“Shoma shohar dareed?” one of the women asks.  Puzzled, I turn to the girl in maroon.  She repeats the question in Farsi, pointing to her ring finger.

“Oh!  Married?  Na, na,” I answer, wishing I could find something else to say.  The chatter picks up around me, but the words run so close together I have no idea what is being said.  I watch the maroon girl closely, my translator, but it occurs to me she knows no more English than hello. 

Around us, the taptaptap of the coppersmiths can be heard from the windows above the bazaar.  It’s a sound that’s foreign and warming at the same time, like this little enclave I find myself in now.  So entrenched am I in discerning their talk, I hardly notice the lights coming on over the square, and the gold tile flickering in the honeycomb corners of the mosque.

“Esme shoma chee yeh?” the mother asks me.

Wait, I know this one, I think, thumbing through the pages of beginner’s Farsi I have cataloged in my brain.  But before I can respond, she helps me out. 

“Zahra,” she says, pointing to herself.

Then the others follow, the youngest first.  “Sooleh…Zohreh…Nadia…” They take turns listing off their names, waiting for me to repeat each one.

Finally, we reach the eldest of the group. “Esmam….” she announces to an invisible drumroll, and raises both arms skyward, “Iran!”

“Iran!” I exclaim, and the entire clan laughs and cheers.
 

Nadia brings the tureen of stew closer to my side, opening the tin lid to show me the green noodle soup within.  One of the women produces a black purse that’s deceptively larger than it appears.  Nadia opens the clasp to reveal a stack of bowls and spoons.

“Ahsh,” she offers, but allows me only one refusal before placing an overflowing bowl into my hands.

“Mamnoon,” I say, eyeing the others carefully so as not to be rude and start eating before them.  But the elderly women have already begun to dig in, and the girls are giggling and climbing over each other; they take no mind of what I’m doing.

I remember that it is morning in America; hours away, my co-workers are making phone calls, sending updates to clients via e-mail.  But here, no one is concerned with the pace of activity. Across the path a carpet seller pours tea for a potential buyer.  Two men kiss each other’s cheeks when greeting.

I remember that it is morning in America; hours away, my co-workers are making phone calls, sending updates to clients via e-mail.  But here, no one is concerned with the pace of activity. Across the path a carpet seller pours tea for a potential buyer.  Two men kiss each other’s cheeks when greeting.

Later, this is the scene I’ll describe to my friends back home when they ask me about my trip.  I will tell them about the savory taste of that stew, loaded with spinach and beans, and the way the sunset lingered beyond the mountains for over an hour.  And then, I’ll describe what it is like to leave this half of the world, aboard a Russian aircraft so ancient there are no baggage compartments above the seats, only shelves like those on buses.  The plane takes off in a blowing sandstorm, and out of the window I see a salt lake stretched out like rust-colored chiffon.  Then the sand rocks the plane back and forth, back and forth, but with a calming rhythm that makes me feel at peace among the tumult.

contact the author Brandy Bauer

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