Tehran Nights Part 1:
My clothes were gone, my suitcases were gone.
February 28, 2007
iranian.com
"Ding!" Said the noise dispenser above my head, as it woke me from my dream and threw me forward. "Passengers get ready for landing. Please be seated and fasten your seat belts. On behalf of World Air, I'd like to thank you for flying with us and we wish you a safe visit in Tehran."
"Lover," I nudged him. "Get up we're almost here!" I whispered. "Where's my scarf? I can't find my scarf. It was right... over... over... got it." I pulled my black Chanel scarf over my head. Brought the ends of the triangle fold I had made, together for a knot, and another knot, and one last one just to be safe. I had to make sure that my scarf would stay in place.
I've had plenty of dreams in which I have forgotten to put on my mandatory head scarf before leaving the house. There must be some deep psychological reasoning for it, I'm sure. I'll call Dr. Adler, my therapist as soon as I get back to DC.
I lifted the airplane window cover and took in the view of the land that I actually have cravings for when I'm not there. Mmm... I could almost smell the polluted air. The metropolis of Tehran had the most magical glow, as we flew over it, as it always does during the midnight arrivals most European airlines tend to favor when flying into Tehran. My usual 'shotgun' proclamation for the window seat gave me ample room for some familiar eye candy.
"Isn't it beautiful?" I asked Rob.
"It's definitely beautiful, I am mesmerized already, can't wait to get to your mom's place and eat" He said.
"Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for landing," the pilot said over the loud speaker as we stared out of our tiny window together, hypnotized. Here we go, I thought to myself.
I opened my eyes and I looked to my right, and there was nobody there then I looked to my left and again, no sight of Rob.
"Yes, thank you. Thanks very much. Yes, I love it here, it's very beautiful." A loud voice said speaking in slow English, as if trying to communicate with a mute. "Yes, I love Iranian food. Sure, I'll try one." It was Rob's voice coming from the main dining-room.
It must have been pretty loud for it to have traveled all the way through the white marble hallways that lead to that area of my mom's penthouse. Last I checked nobody in my family was deaf, so naturally I decided to get dressed and go and join the festivities. I was starving and felt the need for chocolate in my tummy.
I needed to get dressed and find something to eat from the kitchen. I glanced over at the couch in the corner of what used to be my room when I lived here some years ago. It was also where my travel clothes and suitcases were last night. My clothes were gone, my suitcases were gone.
"Shamsi!!!" I yelled immediately at the top of my lungs. "Shamsi, come here right now!" I continued, as I got up and put my pink robe on.
"Knock. Knock." Presumably Shamsi was at my door.
"Come in please," I said as I stood there with puffy lips from overindulging in much needed sleep the night before.
"Yes, Madame?" He inquired as he walked toward what used to be my closet.
"Where are all my clothes?" I said with a voice that was noticeably sleepy sounding, but was making an effort to be heard. Then my eyes began to itch. Which lead me to start my sadistic eye-rubbing ritual. A sacrament that can evidently put one in such a state of trance, that the pain of the pressure from your finger onto your eye, can start to feel good. So, you keep rubbing, and rubbing... until like me, you end up worse off than when you started.
By the time I was able to see past the high-in-contrast-yet-colorful kaleidoscopes I see after a good rubbing session, I regained my sight. I saw that Shamsi was now gone and my closet doors were left open. As I stepped further into my closet I noticed that everything had been put away for me, color coordinated just the way I like it.
The set up of the closet definitely emphasized the presence of all my haute-couture goodies. This made it easier for me to get dressed during my stay, since everything was now visible in my closet. Including my new Fall 2006 collection green alligator-skin Gucci stilettos. They never looked better next to my limited-edition black and white snakeskin Christian Louboutin sling-back sandals, from the summer '06 collection.
Mr. Shamsidelli, or Shamsi as we call him, has been working for our family for as long as I can remember. In fact, his father was also the main maid for my maternal grandparents as well.
Shamsi and his wife have eight kids, five of which are under the age of fifteen and still living at their home in Karaj, a city on the outskirts of Tehran. So, Shamsi sometimes brings the older kids from his stock to help him out when my mom has guests or visitors.
Ah, the comfort of help abroad, I thought to myself triggering a big smile to spread across my olive-complexioned face. Right then Rob came back into the room, wondering what I had been yelling at Shamsi about.
"Uh... well, I just wanted to ask him a question, yeah um, a question." I couldn't tell Rob that I had screamed at a sixty-something-year-old man to tell me where my clothes were. Rob's so considerate and kind; I'm afraid to show him how mean and cruel I can be as a person sometimes.
It's bad enough that he gets to see what an unkind, bipolar-inclined, and unreasonable individual I can be at least a week and half out of every month. Yes, I'm admittedly horrible during my "cycle" but I'm not on my cycle, am I? Oh jeez! I am. OK. No problem. I'll wear my True Religion jeans that are a little loose so that I can keep the smile on my face for the remainder of the day, hopefully.
"Lover, are you going to get dressed or are you going to just stand there?" said Rob.
"I was just trying to figure out what to wear OK? It's not like I'm abnormal or something, to want to just stand here and stare at my closet," I retorted irritably.
"You're on your cycle aren't you?" He said smiling with a look that was both sweet and knowing. I love that about him, he always finds humor in my faults.
"It's OK, get dressed and I'll get you some pain killers. Your mom, cousins, and grandma-Suri, are all on the patio having breakfast. I heard that the cook has made freshly squeezed orange juice especially for you. Your mom said that your other grandmother, Mamani, is sending a car to take us to her place after we have breakfast here. Your mom agreed to it, on our behalf, because she's planned a major renovation project for the main dining room, starting today. So, come on baby get ready." He lifted my long hair and kissed me on my neck, behind my ear, then headed into the bathroom to find some anti-cramping capsules from the chromatic pile of pills sitting enticingly attached to their sheets.
There is never a shortage of household medicine in Tehran, it seems. The pharmacists diagnose patients and prescribe accordingly in their 24-hour pharmacies. Patients alike, diagnose themselves, their friends and relatives while remaining surprisingly knowledgeable of the pharmaceutical patois necessary to obtain their drug(s) of choice. Most Iranians show signs of a crutch for drugs - prescription, holistic, or not.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Tehran Nights Part 2:
"I'm so glad to be here with you and be able to see and feel your past."
April 10, 2007
iranian.com
As we approached the security-guard filled nook nestled in the middle of the mile-long driveway to my dad's parents' home, the driver stopped. I took advantage of the guard's order to the driver to stop the car for a security check, and jumped out.
The guard had to do this to all visitors before permitting entrance to the compound. I began to run up the driveway towards the main gate of the house to look for the tree that bared so many memories for me. My cousins and I had made the carvings on the Sequoia tree. It has always been my Mamani's, my paternal grandmother, favorite tree.
It sits on the outside front left corner of the main entrance. It can also offer shade for the delivery people during the hot days. The Sequoia tree was adjacent to an uber-trendy door buzzer, next to a high-tech speaker-system with a camera that I couldn't have missed.
Papa-joon has always been very up to speed with technology. He is proficient in emailing, downloading, and even uploading. I've heard through the years that he was the first to buy a TV on their block as my mom and her siblings were growing up. He's clearly a gadget-obsessed boy deep down.
Their fascination with technology is nothing new, I suppose. My grandfather more so than my grandmother that is. Though, ever since my father passed, Papa-joon has become more obsessive about his toys. Maybe it helps distract him from his loss. Keeping busy helped me through a lot of it, I know that much.
I finally reached the tree. At first glance I found the markings I was looking for. I was standing there mesmerized by the tree when the driver pulled up.
"Rob!" I shouted, but he seemed to be passed out in the front passenger seat of the car.
He must have been experiencing some major jet-lag. He was sitting in the front seat because we were taking a very large vase as a gift for my grandparents. The vase took most of the backseat space, including mine. I brought my finger up to my mouth and made the universal hand signal for "be quiet" to the driver. You know, the pointed index finger over the nose gesture.
I reached into the car with my free hand through the driver side window and just as I was reaching out to honk the horn, to wake Rob up when... "BUZZ!!!"
The big metal gate doors started to open. Someone from inside had buzzed us in as if timed specifically to the detriment of my would-be prank.
"What?" Said Rob. "What's going on?" I figured he was saying by reading his lips through the noise of the opening gate and car.
I gave him an upward nod through the noise. He immediately recognized that the motion meant for him to get out of the car and head towards me and the tree that I was now pointing to.
"Can you believe it's still here?" I said almost feeling the sparkle in my own eyes from enthusiasm. "Look, it's all here. Everything that Roya and I had carved out is still here. I'm really proud of my grandparents for letting this gigantic tree in its wounded aesthetic hang out around these formal grounds. Lover, are you listening to me? What are you looking at on that side? Did you find the crazy-looking smiley faces with the bullets drawn on their foreheads? Lover?"
As I tried to say his name or nickname again, no sound would come out of my mouth. His sometimes green eyes were filled with tears.
"Lover," he said back sympathetically and softly in his sexy masculine voice as he grabbed my face in his strong hale hands. "I'm so glad to be here with you and be able to see and feel your past. I can't believe this is your father's hand writing. This is the closest I've physically felt to him, other than the intangibles you've shared. Now I believe that I've been apart of your experiences and memories, but as an invisible man," he said as he moved his well-groomed hands from my face down to my shoulders and wrapped me tight in his bulging arms and began to kiss me softly. His eyes were closed. His kiss was palpitation-inducing and inviolable. I was barely able to talk or laugh off the tears since my tears had already begun their stream down south. However, the fact that I was crying was great, because Dr. Adler said that I needed to cry it out to be able to fully deal with the loss of my father. Then unanticipatedly, I felt his teardrop on my right breast as it dripped from his cheek. Lucky tear to have made it that far, past all the Hejab garb I was wearing. I quickly tried to wipe the droplet off, and realized that I hadn't buttoned my Manteau all the way - leaving the top two buttons open. Oops.
"You know the 'moral police' will come and take us to their prison-like police station, then give us a good whipping and make us get married, if the security-guard notifies them of our public displays of affection?" I attempted to say as I pulled away.
"But we are married already," said Rob with an informing smirk.
"I know, well maybe they'll make us do it again and we won't be able to serve liquor at the ceremony, and we both know how much you would hate that" I said sarcastically. We both shared a laugh.
He turned me around and held me from behind. He held me in a way that allowed both of us to put our hands on the now infamous tree, where my initials were still visible above my dad's.
Right in the heart of the tree is where my dad had helped me carve out my initials next to his own, when I was five.
We stood there to feel the moment as a smooth breeze came, swept through my hair, and got trapped in my headscarf. Damn headscarves don't even give the wind a break. While the breeze that got into my sleeves traveled quite well through my body sending me to a shaky two second long chill. I think my dad was there, in spirit, to greet me.
"Nazy! Is dat you honey?" My grandmother shrieked as she stood atop the crown stair of their Alborz mountain-top monstrosity's open atrium in the cutest broken English accent ever.
"Yes, hi Mamani it's us. We'll be right there, can you please send someone to help us with our stuff?" I said looking at Rob take in the view.
"Sure assalam," my grandmother said.
Rob quickly turned to me with a raised eyebrow, indicative of a question, and mouthed "assalam?"
"Verbatim? It's Persian for 'my honey'."
"I thought assalaam-o-alaikom meant hello?", asked Rob, whispering this time.
"No, Mister Ig Norante. That's Arabic, not Persian. Plus they're completely different words. One is a greeting and the other is a term of endearment," I said with a smile and gave him a quick peck to redeem my brash remark.
"Nazy and Rob peleeze come inside, my favorite new couple. I have a esspecial soorprise for you. Der's somebody here vaiting inside to see you two," Mamani said as she pulled out this huge remote control with at least two-thousand, well maybe only forty, buttons on it.
She punched a couple of keys and a few seconds later Kian, the eldest son of my paternal grandparents' live-in family of help showed up. Kian also happened to be my playmate whenever I visited my grandparents' Tehran home-base as a child. We were only a few months a part, with Kian being the elder. We grew apart though once I left Iran for the US as a second-grader.
"Kian!" I said both excitedly and hesitantly. I hadn't seen him in years because the last time I was in Iran, he was off fulfilling his mandatory military obligations. As he walked towards us our eyes met and I realized it really was him. "Kian," I said again this time with more certainty. "This is Robert my husband, you can call him... "
"Rob, you can call me Rob. Nice to meet you", Rob interrupted me as he stepped over in front of me and gave the boy a very firm handshake.
"Very nice to meet you Sir, and Madame it's nice to see you as well," he said sounding British.
"Wow, your English has improved Kian. I guess it has been a long time since we saw one another last," I said initiating the steps towards the atrium.
"Yes, it has been a bloody long, I mean, pardon me, a very long time Madame indeed," he said again confirming my suspicion with his usage of British terminology on top of the accent as he signaled to me with his eyes asking where our "stuff" might be.
I answered by looking at the back seat of the car whilst giving him another handy upwards nod, all of which meant: right there, in the backseat of the car.
"So, were you doing your obligatory time in the UK? Or did Papa-joon pull some strings for you to be able to go abroad or something?" I asked trying not to sound too nosey or interested.
"Actually, Madame I have the bullocks-filled tapes of famed British-Iranian Satellite TV-personality Zal Milani. He's taught me every bloody English word I know," he said with almost too much zeal.
"His program is very helpful. You know he even teaches curse words in English too," Kian blabbed as he started piling the overnight bags and vase onto his dolly.
"Really?" I said trying to seem intrigued by such a great find on his part.
"Spot on. Madame, he also teaches words that girls like to hear on dates." Kian said while he was pulling out the big box with the vase in it from the back seat.
Rob watched on.
"Well, he is certainly a national asset for the Persian community worldwide, that's for sure," I said trying not to sound too noticeably cynical, as Rob and I took our final steps on the ultra-wide stairway.
"Naznaz! I can't believe you're here!" My cousin Roya screamed, as she was running down yet another marble hallway toward us. Iran is abundant with stones of all kinds, especially marble. So it is not uncommon for homes to be plastered with marble. Roya's lustrous and satiny-black was pulled back in a neat pony-tail was swaying from side-to-side as she bounced en route. Her arms wide open. I was wrapped in them before I knew it.
She was squeezing the hell out of me. She was kissing my cheeks with sisterly passion. I didn't mind though, I've always been a sucker for attention like that. Also, since she's one of my favorite cousins on my father's side, I was more than happy to hug and squeeze her right back.
Roya has always been someone I looked up to. She's beautiful, smart, and super friendly. She can get along with anybody, whereas I can barely get along with myself at times.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were in Rome taking classes at GIA, did you finish your jewelry design class?" I said excitedly.
"I'm on holiday love!" she replied back even more excitedly.
"Hi Rob! It's so nice to see you again. Wow, you're looking even more bloody handsome than the last time I saw you two! She's a lucky girl this one," she said, moving onto Rob for some more hugs and kisses, in her British accent.
Maybe that's why I think she's smart, because she speaks with a British accent. Note to self: talk to therapist about Roya's British accent and its effects on my standards for judging IQs.
Before she even got a chance to stop hugging and kissing Rob twice on the cheeks, she came back to attack my cheeks again. She's always loved my cheeks. She doesn't care who may be around, or where we might be. As far as I can remember, Roya has been doing this to me since I was four and she was eight
"I'm so glad to be here with you and be able to see and feel your past."
April 10, 2007
iranian.com
As we approached the security-guard filled nook nestled in the middle of the mile-long driveway to my dad's parents' home, the driver stopped. I took advantage of the guard's order to the driver to stop the car for a security check, and jumped out.
The guard had to do this to all visitors before permitting entrance to the compound. I began to run up the driveway towards the main gate of the house to look for the tree that bared so many memories for me. My cousins and I had made the carvings on the Sequoia tree. It has always been my Mamani's, my paternal grandmother, favorite tree.
It sits on the outside front left corner of the main entrance. It can also offer shade for the delivery people during the hot days. The Sequoia tree was adjacent to an uber-trendy door buzzer, next to a high-tech speaker-system with a camera that I couldn't have missed.
Papa-joon has always been very up to speed with technology. He is proficient in emailing, downloading, and even uploading. I've heard through the years that he was the first to buy a TV on their block as my mom and her siblings were growing up. He's clearly a gadget-obsessed boy deep down.
Their fascination with technology is nothing new, I suppose. My grandfather more so than my grandmother that is. Though, ever since my father passed, Papa-joon has become more obsessive about his toys. Maybe it helps distract him from his loss. Keeping busy helped me through a lot of it, I know that much.
I finally reached the tree. At first glance I found the markings I was looking for. I was standing there mesmerized by the tree when the driver pulled up.
"Rob!" I shouted, but he seemed to be passed out in the front passenger seat of the car.
He must have been experiencing some major jet-lag. He was sitting in the front seat because we were taking a very large vase as a gift for my grandparents. The vase took most of the backseat space, including mine. I brought my finger up to my mouth and made the universal hand signal for "be quiet" to the driver. You know, the pointed index finger over the nose gesture.
I reached into the car with my free hand through the driver side window and just as I was reaching out to honk the horn, to wake Rob up when... "BUZZ!!!"
The big metal gate doors started to open. Someone from inside had buzzed us in as if timed specifically to the detriment of my would-be prank.
"What?" Said Rob. "What's going on?" I figured he was saying by reading his lips through the noise of the opening gate and car.
I gave him an upward nod through the noise. He immediately recognized that the motion meant for him to get out of the car and head towards me and the tree that I was now pointing to.
"Can you believe it's still here?" I said almost feeling the sparkle in my own eyes from enthusiasm. "Look, it's all here. Everything that Roya and I had carved out is still here. I'm really proud of my grandparents for letting this gigantic tree in its wounded aesthetic hang out around these formal grounds. Lover, are you listening to me? What are you looking at on that side? Did you find the crazy-looking smiley faces with the bullets drawn on their foreheads? Lover?"
As I tried to say his name or nickname again, no sound would come out of my mouth. His sometimes green eyes were filled with tears.
"Lover," he said back sympathetically and softly in his sexy masculine voice as he grabbed my face in his strong hale hands. "I'm so glad to be here with you and be able to see and feel your past. I can't believe this is your father's hand writing. This is the closest I've physically felt to him, other than the intangibles you've shared. Now I believe that I've been apart of your experiences and memories, but as an invisible man," he said as he moved his well-groomed hands from my face down to my shoulders and wrapped me tight in his bulging arms and began to kiss me softly. His eyes were closed. His kiss was palpitation-inducing and inviolable. I was barely able to talk or laugh off the tears since my tears had already begun their stream down south. However, the fact that I was crying was great, because Dr. Adler said that I needed to cry it out to be able to fully deal with the loss of my father. Then unanticipatedly, I felt his teardrop on my right breast as it dripped from his cheek. Lucky tear to have made it that far, past all the Hejab garb I was wearing. I quickly tried to wipe the droplet off, and realized that I hadn't buttoned my Manteau all the way - leaving the top two buttons open. Oops.
"You know the 'moral police' will come and take us to their prison-like police station, then give us a good whipping and make us get married, if the security-guard notifies them of our public displays of affection?" I attempted to say as I pulled away.
"But we are married already," said Rob with an informing smirk.
"I know, well maybe they'll make us do it again and we won't be able to serve liquor at the ceremony, and we both know how much you would hate that" I said sarcastically. We both shared a laugh.
He turned me around and held me from behind. He held me in a way that allowed both of us to put our hands on the now infamous tree, where my initials were still visible above my dad's.
Right in the heart of the tree is where my dad had helped me carve out my initials next to his own, when I was five.
We stood there to feel the moment as a smooth breeze came, swept through my hair, and got trapped in my headscarf. Damn headscarves don't even give the wind a break. While the breeze that got into my sleeves traveled quite well through my body sending me to a shaky two second long chill. I think my dad was there, in spirit, to greet me.
"Nazy! Is dat you honey?" My grandmother shrieked as she stood atop the crown stair of their Alborz mountain-top monstrosity's open atrium in the cutest broken English accent ever.
"Yes, hi Mamani it's us. We'll be right there, can you please send someone to help us with our stuff?" I said looking at Rob take in the view.
"Sure assalam," my grandmother said.
Rob quickly turned to me with a raised eyebrow, indicative of a question, and mouthed "assalam?"
"Verbatim? It's Persian for 'my honey'."
"I thought assalaam-o-alaikom meant hello?", asked Rob, whispering this time.
"No, Mister Ig Norante. That's Arabic, not Persian. Plus they're completely different words. One is a greeting and the other is a term of endearment," I said with a smile and gave him a quick peck to redeem my brash remark.
"Nazy and Rob peleeze come inside, my favorite new couple. I have a esspecial soorprise for you. Der's somebody here vaiting inside to see you two," Mamani said as she pulled out this huge remote control with at least two-thousand, well maybe only forty, buttons on it.
She punched a couple of keys and a few seconds later Kian, the eldest son of my paternal grandparents' live-in family of help showed up. Kian also happened to be my playmate whenever I visited my grandparents' Tehran home-base as a child. We were only a few months a part, with Kian being the elder. We grew apart though once I left Iran for the US as a second-grader.
"Kian!" I said both excitedly and hesitantly. I hadn't seen him in years because the last time I was in Iran, he was off fulfilling his mandatory military obligations. As he walked towards us our eyes met and I realized it really was him. "Kian," I said again this time with more certainty. "This is Robert my husband, you can call him... "
"Rob, you can call me Rob. Nice to meet you", Rob interrupted me as he stepped over in front of me and gave the boy a very firm handshake.
"Very nice to meet you Sir, and Madame it's nice to see you as well," he said sounding British.
"Wow, your English has improved Kian. I guess it has been a long time since we saw one another last," I said initiating the steps towards the atrium.
"Yes, it has been a bloody long, I mean, pardon me, a very long time Madame indeed," he said again confirming my suspicion with his usage of British terminology on top of the accent as he signaled to me with his eyes asking where our "stuff" might be.
I answered by looking at the back seat of the car whilst giving him another handy upwards nod, all of which meant: right there, in the backseat of the car.
"So, were you doing your obligatory time in the UK? Or did Papa-joon pull some strings for you to be able to go abroad or something?" I asked trying not to sound too nosey or interested.
"Actually, Madame I have the bullocks-filled tapes of famed British-Iranian Satellite TV-personality Zal Milani. He's taught me every bloody English word I know," he said with almost too much zeal.
"His program is very helpful. You know he even teaches curse words in English too," Kian blabbed as he started piling the overnight bags and vase onto his dolly.
"Really?" I said trying to seem intrigued by such a great find on his part.
"Spot on. Madame, he also teaches words that girls like to hear on dates." Kian said while he was pulling out the big box with the vase in it from the back seat.
Rob watched on.
"Well, he is certainly a national asset for the Persian community worldwide, that's for sure," I said trying not to sound too noticeably cynical, as Rob and I took our final steps on the ultra-wide stairway.
"Naznaz! I can't believe you're here!" My cousin Roya screamed, as she was running down yet another marble hallway toward us. Iran is abundant with stones of all kinds, especially marble. So it is not uncommon for homes to be plastered with marble. Roya's lustrous and satiny-black was pulled back in a neat pony-tail was swaying from side-to-side as she bounced en route. Her arms wide open. I was wrapped in them before I knew it.
She was squeezing the hell out of me. She was kissing my cheeks with sisterly passion. I didn't mind though, I've always been a sucker for attention like that. Also, since she's one of my favorite cousins on my father's side, I was more than happy to hug and squeeze her right back.
Roya has always been someone I looked up to. She's beautiful, smart, and super friendly. She can get along with anybody, whereas I can barely get along with myself at times.
"What are you doing here? I thought you were in Rome taking classes at GIA, did you finish your jewelry design class?" I said excitedly.
"I'm on holiday love!" she replied back even more excitedly.
"Hi Rob! It's so nice to see you again. Wow, you're looking even more bloody handsome than the last time I saw you two! She's a lucky girl this one," she said, moving onto Rob for some more hugs and kisses, in her British accent.
Maybe that's why I think she's smart, because she speaks with a British accent. Note to self: talk to therapist about Roya's British accent and its effects on my standards for judging IQs.
Before she even got a chance to stop hugging and kissing Rob twice on the cheeks, she came back to attack my cheeks again. She's always loved my cheeks. She doesn't care who may be around, or where we might be. As far as I can remember, Roya has been doing this to me since I was four and she was eight
Tehran Nights Part 3:
"Look, it's not like I do hardcore drugs, I only smoke the pot."
May 18, 2007
iranian.com
"Let dem in Roya. Stop squeezing dat von's cheeks and let her go so she can come and give her grandmother some love too." Shrieked my grandmother again from down the hall. She just shrieks when she talks. I think it's a reaction to my grandfather's declining hearing ability. This time though, her voice was followed by her body and she was moving at a swift pace.
"Yes, Mamani." Roya Said as she linked her arm under Rob's. "Come on Rob. I'll show you to your room so you can wash up." She said all fidgety.
"No. Let him kiss Mamani first. Roya, what is wrong with you? You crack-head. Are you high?" I asked sarcastically as I grabbed Rob's arm and unlocked it from hers. I pulled him towards my torso and put my own arms around his waist. Mamani had reached us at this point. So, I stretched my arms out to her. Instead, she stepped back and perused my attire. I'm guessing that it was to see if I'd gained weight or not. I predicted this and promptly reeled her in for a big hug before she had a chance to remind me to eat more sabzi (greens) and meeveh (fruits) cause it's "good for your esskeen".
"Mamani, it's so good to see you. I haven't seen you guys for at least six months. I missed you and Papa-joon at the grand opening of the boutique in DC, but I know you guys were busy renovating the flat in Monaco. Where is Papa by the way?" I asked even though I knew she was going to respond as she pleased - meaning she might fib on his behalf.
"Grandpa is out choosing tile for the villa in Darya Shahr." She said as she grabbed Rob's wrists and stared him up and down. She then gazed straight into his eyes, broke into a huge smile and said, "Velcome to Tehran finally, my son."
Mamani reached up from her five-foot frame to Rob's almost six-foot high neck. She wanted to put the gold chain she was holding in her hand on him. The chain had what seemed to be a Zoroastor symbol charm and a Star of David charm linked to it. Then she put her hand on his face. A sweet gesture that he seemed a bit uncomfortable with, since he was now blushing.
Willingly, he grabbed and cradled her delicate hands in his and kissed them before she got the chance to pull away. This is so cute. He's so cute. Feeling the moment. Loving the moment.
"Merci Mamani." Rob said with a flirtatious smile as he was trying to show off one of the few Persian words he'd learned.
As he had hoped, she responded with a gleaming smile and said, "Oh, you esspeek Persian now, Robert?"
Rob at a loss for words, said, "Well, not exactly Mamani. I plan to uh..."
Mamani put her graceful yet heavily-tanned pointer finger, with her signature orange nail-polish, on Rob's chunky lips and said "Shh. It is ok darling. I vill teaching you Farsi vile you are staying here. Now, go and get changed. You're going to an engagement party dis evening."
"Yes Ma'am. Sounds great Mamani-joon."
"Roya, show dem to der room in deh new ving." Mamani turned around and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. It seems like my whole family is always renovating, adding, or rebuilding a property somewhere. Maybe it's something in the genes.
"Yes mamani. Come on you lovebirds, follow me. I will take you to your room." Roya said in a surprisingly normal voice. Then continued whispering almost surreptitiously, "... and afterwards to the secret room."
We followed her upstairs as she headed East, in the direction of the newly built wing of my grandparents' residence.
"The secret room? What's the secret room?" Asked Rob.
"It's probably where she hides her stash." I said acerbically.
"Bloody Hell! Why do you have to be such a bloody bore Nazy?" Roya said using her extensive Oxford-boarding-school-acquired-colloquial English lexis.
"Are you serious Roya? I was just joking. Do you really do drugs? This is nuts, does your husband know?" I asked noticeably a bit confused.
"Well, Ario and I are no longer together" She said without even looking at me.
"Oh, I'm sorry honey, I didn't know. Nobody bothered to tell me. Not even Mamani." I said trying to seem as apologetic as I could.
"That's because nobody knows. Not even Mamani. So if you both could keep this between us three, then I would appreciate it very much. As for my drug habit, there is nothing else to do here but to hang out, get smashed, and party. Plus, it's cheaper than buying cigarettes so you can't really blame me too much. Look, it's not like I do hardcore drugs, I only smoke the pot. You know it's a plant, so it can't be bad." Roya said as if we had put her on trial for "the pot" and she had to win the jury's vote with her passionate explanation.
"It's alright, Roya. I like the pot too. I mean I tried it in college. It really is harmless." Rob said before he caught my look of 'what the fuck are you saying'.
"I mean, it's actually not good for you if you do it a lot. Like everything else in life. If you do it in excess, then it is bad." He said trying to redeem his view on pot-smoking for the average newbie-divorce trying to erase some memories.
"Yeah, bloody right you are. I totally keep it under control. It's completely moderate. Moderation is good. You're brilliant Rob, you are so spot on with everything." Roya said evidently having gained her confidence back.
I know she was self-assured again because she was sticking her chest out. At least as far as Dr. Julia Santos was concerned , the resident body language expert to 'Celebrity Life Weekly' magazine, she was confident. Dr. Santos was hired to demystify Jennifer Lopez's posture and body language towards Ben Affleck during the time of their anouncement to brake off their engagegement.
Seemingly, right after Ben broke off their engagement, Jennifer Lopez jumped into another relationship followed by marriage with Marc Anthony. Dr. Santos suggested that while J-Lo's heart was broken by Ben Affleck, her posture was hunched over and sloppy. However, as soon as she got a ring and marriage proposal from Marc Anthony, J-lo was feeling good and began walking with her back arched and chest out again. So according to Dr. Santos' theories this sort of body language was to be a sign of regained confidence, and I recognized it in Roya.
"Ok Roya. We'll see you in an hour. Let's meet in the foyer, cool?" Rob said to Roya, as he faced the door right across from the supposed "secret room" trying to figure out how to operate the sleek looking door knob.
"Push the button on your left, and I'll see you two in a bit. We're going to have so much fun at the engagement party guys. Ciao!" Roya said as she turned around and opened the door to her hideout.
"Hey. Do you know whose engagement it is?" I asked Roya as I got her attention with my eyes right before she was about to close her door.
"Yes, I do. It's little Kaveh's engagement soirée. You know, Uncle Nader's youngest boy." Roya replied now standing in the doorway.
"Wow. I can't believe he's getting married, it seems like it was just yesterday when we used to dress him up in girl clothes and put make up on him for fun." I said.
"Yeah, I can't believe it either that's why I'm going to indulge in some herbal therapy to be able take in all the change that's going on in my life. You know, coming to terms with age, little Kaveh's engagement," she paused, "and my husband leaving me for someone fifteen years younger. What color are you going to wear? I'm wearing black, so make sure to wear another color." Roya said in one breath as she let her bedroom door close behind her.
Rob and I looked at each other in astonishment. He then reached over and put his hand under my chin and pushed my jaw upward to close.
Am I ever going to be able to look at her the same way again? My favorite cousin from London is officially now, my pot-smoking-divorced-cousin. Her drama-filled life happenings do make for some interesting conversation but I wish she would be more responsible sometimes. Maybe the best thing would be to be understanding and supportive of her in her time of need. I should try to improve on my own bad habits before I vocalize my thoughts on her status and decisions and make Roya feel any worse about herself. That's probably the most positive approach I can take, for now. She did marry him quite young. She was 21 and he was 24. Her parents didn't approve of Ario from the beginning but she pushed for their union to take place regardless.The typical 24 year-old Iranian-man/boy isn't ready for marriage, especially if he's enchantingly handsome as Ario was then, and still is. Although Roya's influence has been impactful on me, I don't think I want to get effected by her marital problems. I hate to surrender to the "all men cheat" phenomenon. I have to exercise self-discipline. Ambitious of me, but possible.
"Look, it's not like I do hardcore drugs, I only smoke the pot."
May 18, 2007
iranian.com
"Let dem in Roya. Stop squeezing dat von's cheeks and let her go so she can come and give her grandmother some love too." Shrieked my grandmother again from down the hall. She just shrieks when she talks. I think it's a reaction to my grandfather's declining hearing ability. This time though, her voice was followed by her body and she was moving at a swift pace.
"Yes, Mamani." Roya Said as she linked her arm under Rob's. "Come on Rob. I'll show you to your room so you can wash up." She said all fidgety.
"No. Let him kiss Mamani first. Roya, what is wrong with you? You crack-head. Are you high?" I asked sarcastically as I grabbed Rob's arm and unlocked it from hers. I pulled him towards my torso and put my own arms around his waist. Mamani had reached us at this point. So, I stretched my arms out to her. Instead, she stepped back and perused my attire. I'm guessing that it was to see if I'd gained weight or not. I predicted this and promptly reeled her in for a big hug before she had a chance to remind me to eat more sabzi (greens) and meeveh (fruits) cause it's "good for your esskeen".
"Mamani, it's so good to see you. I haven't seen you guys for at least six months. I missed you and Papa-joon at the grand opening of the boutique in DC, but I know you guys were busy renovating the flat in Monaco. Where is Papa by the way?" I asked even though I knew she was going to respond as she pleased - meaning she might fib on his behalf.
"Grandpa is out choosing tile for the villa in Darya Shahr." She said as she grabbed Rob's wrists and stared him up and down. She then gazed straight into his eyes, broke into a huge smile and said, "Velcome to Tehran finally, my son."
Mamani reached up from her five-foot frame to Rob's almost six-foot high neck. She wanted to put the gold chain she was holding in her hand on him. The chain had what seemed to be a Zoroastor symbol charm and a Star of David charm linked to it. Then she put her hand on his face. A sweet gesture that he seemed a bit uncomfortable with, since he was now blushing.
Willingly, he grabbed and cradled her delicate hands in his and kissed them before she got the chance to pull away. This is so cute. He's so cute. Feeling the moment. Loving the moment.
"Merci Mamani." Rob said with a flirtatious smile as he was trying to show off one of the few Persian words he'd learned.
As he had hoped, she responded with a gleaming smile and said, "Oh, you esspeek Persian now, Robert?"
Rob at a loss for words, said, "Well, not exactly Mamani. I plan to uh..."
Mamani put her graceful yet heavily-tanned pointer finger, with her signature orange nail-polish, on Rob's chunky lips and said "Shh. It is ok darling. I vill teaching you Farsi vile you are staying here. Now, go and get changed. You're going to an engagement party dis evening."
"Yes Ma'am. Sounds great Mamani-joon."
"Roya, show dem to der room in deh new ving." Mamani turned around and headed back down the hallway to the kitchen. It seems like my whole family is always renovating, adding, or rebuilding a property somewhere. Maybe it's something in the genes.
"Yes mamani. Come on you lovebirds, follow me. I will take you to your room." Roya said in a surprisingly normal voice. Then continued whispering almost surreptitiously, "... and afterwards to the secret room."
We followed her upstairs as she headed East, in the direction of the newly built wing of my grandparents' residence.
"The secret room? What's the secret room?" Asked Rob.
"It's probably where she hides her stash." I said acerbically.
"Bloody Hell! Why do you have to be such a bloody bore Nazy?" Roya said using her extensive Oxford-boarding-school-acquired-colloquial English lexis.
"Are you serious Roya? I was just joking. Do you really do drugs? This is nuts, does your husband know?" I asked noticeably a bit confused.
"Well, Ario and I are no longer together" She said without even looking at me.
"Oh, I'm sorry honey, I didn't know. Nobody bothered to tell me. Not even Mamani." I said trying to seem as apologetic as I could.
"That's because nobody knows. Not even Mamani. So if you both could keep this between us three, then I would appreciate it very much. As for my drug habit, there is nothing else to do here but to hang out, get smashed, and party. Plus, it's cheaper than buying cigarettes so you can't really blame me too much. Look, it's not like I do hardcore drugs, I only smoke the pot. You know it's a plant, so it can't be bad." Roya said as if we had put her on trial for "the pot" and she had to win the jury's vote with her passionate explanation.
"It's alright, Roya. I like the pot too. I mean I tried it in college. It really is harmless." Rob said before he caught my look of 'what the fuck are you saying'.
"I mean, it's actually not good for you if you do it a lot. Like everything else in life. If you do it in excess, then it is bad." He said trying to redeem his view on pot-smoking for the average newbie-divorce trying to erase some memories.
"Yeah, bloody right you are. I totally keep it under control. It's completely moderate. Moderation is good. You're brilliant Rob, you are so spot on with everything." Roya said evidently having gained her confidence back.
I know she was self-assured again because she was sticking her chest out. At least as far as Dr. Julia Santos was concerned , the resident body language expert to 'Celebrity Life Weekly' magazine, she was confident. Dr. Santos was hired to demystify Jennifer Lopez's posture and body language towards Ben Affleck during the time of their anouncement to brake off their engagegement.
Seemingly, right after Ben broke off their engagement, Jennifer Lopez jumped into another relationship followed by marriage with Marc Anthony. Dr. Santos suggested that while J-Lo's heart was broken by Ben Affleck, her posture was hunched over and sloppy. However, as soon as she got a ring and marriage proposal from Marc Anthony, J-lo was feeling good and began walking with her back arched and chest out again. So according to Dr. Santos' theories this sort of body language was to be a sign of regained confidence, and I recognized it in Roya.
"Ok Roya. We'll see you in an hour. Let's meet in the foyer, cool?" Rob said to Roya, as he faced the door right across from the supposed "secret room" trying to figure out how to operate the sleek looking door knob.
"Push the button on your left, and I'll see you two in a bit. We're going to have so much fun at the engagement party guys. Ciao!" Roya said as she turned around and opened the door to her hideout.
"Hey. Do you know whose engagement it is?" I asked Roya as I got her attention with my eyes right before she was about to close her door.
"Yes, I do. It's little Kaveh's engagement soirée. You know, Uncle Nader's youngest boy." Roya replied now standing in the doorway.
"Wow. I can't believe he's getting married, it seems like it was just yesterday when we used to dress him up in girl clothes and put make up on him for fun." I said.
"Yeah, I can't believe it either that's why I'm going to indulge in some herbal therapy to be able take in all the change that's going on in my life. You know, coming to terms with age, little Kaveh's engagement," she paused, "and my husband leaving me for someone fifteen years younger. What color are you going to wear? I'm wearing black, so make sure to wear another color." Roya said in one breath as she let her bedroom door close behind her.
Rob and I looked at each other in astonishment. He then reached over and put his hand under my chin and pushed my jaw upward to close.
Am I ever going to be able to look at her the same way again? My favorite cousin from London is officially now, my pot-smoking-divorced-cousin. Her drama-filled life happenings do make for some interesting conversation but I wish she would be more responsible sometimes. Maybe the best thing would be to be understanding and supportive of her in her time of need. I should try to improve on my own bad habits before I vocalize my thoughts on her status and decisions and make Roya feel any worse about herself. That's probably the most positive approach I can take, for now. She did marry him quite young. She was 21 and he was 24. Her parents didn't approve of Ario from the beginning but she pushed for their union to take place regardless.The typical 24 year-old Iranian-man/boy isn't ready for marriage, especially if he's enchantingly handsome as Ario was then, and still is. Although Roya's influence has been impactful on me, I don't think I want to get effected by her marital problems. I hate to surrender to the "all men cheat" phenomenon. I have to exercise self-discipline. Ambitious of me, but possible.
Tehran Nights Part 4
"If I was able to identify the scent of this smooth-operating-uber-trendy-brand-junky-Persian-male, I knew that Roya was already in love."
It was a Thursday night, which is the equivalent of a Friday or Saturday night in the US. There’s one “weekend” day in Iran, and most of the Middle East, instead of two days. Friday is the day that’s considered to be the day off. So naturally Thursday nights happen to be the busiest time for the young and hip to hit the streets.
“Honk!” One car screamed for a while when our driver forced himself in the left lane as if it was his last chance, ever.
"Take a left at the next exit. We want to go through Jordan Street to get there." Roya said to the driver of our stretch black Mercedes 600 with tint so dark we could barely make out the streets and people from inside the car.
Wearing our manteaus and headscarves in tandem with the windows and car interior, we were "black on black" in its truest aesthetic for a night on the town in Tehran.
"Yes, Madame of course we will." Replied the driver, as he prepared to get in the exit lane of the expressway we appeared to be on. This took a lot of skill, considering that most traffic signs, signals, and lights are for decoration in Tehran. It works out rather well when you're hastened but, not so much when you're just cruising, or when you're a pedestrian. That's when it becomes really hard to cross the road at intersections.
“Wow. I remember you warning me about the traffic situation and driving style here baby-doll, but I had no idea it was this bad.” Rob chimed as he moved his hand and firmly grabbed the back of my neck, in a semi-choke hold. I love when he does that. I in turn gave him a peck on the lips and smiled big for him.
“Excuse me, but there seems to be too much traffic entering Jordan Street. If you would like to get to the engagement party on time, may I suggest another route Madame?” The driver looked a bit flustered as he said this.
“No!” Screamed Roya at the same time I chirped, “Yes!”
We looked at one another. Roya was showing me a confused face.
“No, stay on this path and stop banging on driver.” Roya quipped in her intellectual-sounding British tongue. She grabbed a Davidoff Light carton out of her monstrous black-fur Fendi spy bag, which probably costs about eight-thousand EUR. She proceeded to take one of the remaining boxes out of her almost empty carton of thirty.
She has the most beautiful hands. Although I knew this habit of hers would kill her sooner than she may have originally been destined to leave this planet, I couldn’t help but be mesmerized by her long and graceful fingers. She pealed off the easy-to-grab plastic wrapped around the box by pulling the protruding tip, hastily - moving onto the almost thinner-than-paper foil wrapper, slipping it off, almost perfectly. She then grabbed the pre-folded, and now the size of a pomegranate seed, plastic wrapper, placed it in the middle of the rectangular two-inch-wide foil wrapper, and folded them both into a ball the size of a 6-carat round diamond . She dropped the foil-engulfed-plastic-ball into the ashtray in the side door, on her right.
She looked incredibly chic as she did this. Suddenly I noticed that she was becoming increasingly jumpy. I couldn't place where her arousal trigger was stemming from. Her perpetually black nail polish juxtaposed to the cigarette that fit provocatively between her suntanned fingers, distracted me too much to give it any more thought.
“You know this helps prevent major fires from happening, when you’re smoking a fag.”
“What do you mean?” Rob turned away from the window and gave his attention to Roya.
“It’s simple really. The foil prevents the plastic from catching on fire in the automobile ashtrays. I know it’s brilliant isn’t it?” She asked consciously.
I could tell she was feeling good about her chance to “spread some knowledge” as she often liked to quip. She got the know-it-all gene from her mom’s side of the family, that’s what her dad says anyway.
“Sure. OK. It’s good to know how much thought you put into everything.” Rob retorted and went back to his street gazing through the dark windows.
It sounded like the cars were honking from every direction. We were sitting in gridlock on the heavily crowded and trendy Jordan Street strip. Roya put her window down. She took a drag of her cigarette, before realizing that it wasn't lit.
She started rummaging through her dark and obnoxiously pricey yet enviably-lux handbag for a lighter when all of a sudden a handsome man sprouted in front of her window.
“Hey beautiful lady.” He said as he courageously reached into the window to light her cigarette with his wind-breaking Mont Blanc monogram emblazoned lighter.
The smell of his Facconable cologne was heavy, as if he had showered in it, but attractive as his animated hand movements created a tiny wind that blew some in my direction.
If I was able to identify the scent of this smooth-operating-uber-trendy-brand-junky-Iranian-male, I knew that Roya was already in love.
“Finally, a gentleman.” Roya managed to say with the most libidinous smile she was capable of. “Come in why don’t you?” She said shamelessly flirting with her doe-like eyes while trying to open the car door from the inside.
“No, thanks khoshgeleh (beautiful one). My friends are waiting for me in the car. I have a better idea though. We're headed to a party about a block away. I would be honored to have you accompany us as my guests. Seeing as how we’re sitting in a cluster of motion-less traffic, I thought it might be something you guys would consider.”
“OK. Hold on a minute.” Roya put her window up and turned to us. “So, do you guys want to party with these blokes?”
I looked over at Rob and he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Well, it’s not like we’re going to make it to the engagement party on time. We can go for a bit, to let the traffic die down, then we can head to your cousin’s engagement thing.”
“Yeah, come on don’t be a wet blanket! It’s a celebratory occasion for all of us. We owe it to our cousin to start celebrating him right now.” Roya added.
“Fine, we’ll go for half-an-hour. Then we’re going straight to Kaveh’s party OK? Roya? OK?” I tried to sound not too uptight as I set the rules for my older cousin.
Roya put her window down again. “Alright, we’d love to come. I think we’re just going to walk there. What’s the house number?”
“Ay val (great)! Just take a left at the next block and the house number is 935. It’ll be on your right hand side. My name’s Ross by the way, well it's Rostam, but Ross for short. See you there!” He said as he exchanged a connected look with Roya.
“I can’t believe how dishy he is. Driver, we’re getting out. Come and get us down the street to the left at house number 935 in thirty minutes. Let’s go you two.”
We arrived at the house. There in front of the main door, stood the bulkiest Iranian man I’d ever seen.
“Tu listi (you on the list)?” He asserted as he put his arm in front us, blocking any possibility for us to go past the iron-gate. The three of us stood there, speechless.
“I said are you on the list? I can’t let you in if you’re not on the list.” The bouncer inquired, in English this time in hopes of a response.
“They’re with us Hooman. Kooleh (It's cool).” It was Ross's voice. He was standing under the extravagant doorway. He started walking towards the bouncer and us.
They must have been fast walkers, him and his friends. He already had a yellow-tinted drink in his hand too, probably a Redbull-infused concoction.
He now stood out of the shadow that the entrance doors had previously cast on him, in the foyer. The doors were 14-ft-high arched double-doors. They were grand, like the majority of Jordan Street's pied-a-terre. I was, at this time, able to make out more of his shape. His silhouette was in the light now, his silver Hermes belt buckle caught a ray of light from the street-lights, flashing me in the eyes.
The bouncer followed orders and pulled his arm back away from us. We walked through the gate. Ross came forward and gave Roya a kiss on her cheek, shook my hand, and Rob's.
Rob obliged and shook his hand while flashing him an approving smile. He must have been trying to encourage Ross’s interest in Roya. Meaning Rob's "guy-dar" had deemed Ross as a "good guy".
Rob’s a great judge of character. Usually, he can predict the life cycles of either one our friendships in less than five minutes of acquaintance. I admire this trait so much.
I have, more than once fallen into a trap with a friend that I misjudged. Sadly, most of them were Iranian girls. Though the fact that Iranians lack unity on all levels is not a secret, so I'm still optimistic.
As Ross put his hand out to shake Rob’s hand, I noticed his Breitling watch, it was a newer model of Rob's gift from me a couple of years ago.
"Well, at least he has good taste. " I mumbled into Rob's armpit.
Ross then placed his hand on the small of Roya’s back, leaned in and whispered something in her ear, causing sounds of mischievous laughter from both of them.
“Let’s go upstairs lovelies. Come on.” Roya said looking back at us with a naughty smile.
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