Restless Me - The Journal of World Travel

There is a difference in the travelers who chose to come to Iran. Without exception, none of the travelers I met were under 25, and all seemed to have come to the country at some crossroads in their life, as if drawn by some force to a country that is itself at a crossroads, both politically and culturally.

I met one of these travelers while walking back to my hotel in Esfahan one night. I had noticed a tall, thin man walking at a respectful distance beside me. It was difficult to see more without turning my head. The edge of my headscarf prevented any sort of discrete glances.

It turned out we were both staying at the same hotel, and we spent that evening talking and drinking tea in the hotel's courtyard. Jasper had come from Amsterdam on a motorbike. He planned to thread his way through the cities and villages of Iran and continue to Pakistan. He was also struggling with questions about the future of his 13-year relationship with his girlfriend, who had remained in Amsterdam.

I found myself easily telling Jasper things that I had not said out loud before. Although I had graduated from law school and had a job that many would envy, I felt as if I had stayed too long on a train that I'd already known was heading in the wrong direction when I boarded. Somewhere far behind was a love of words and writing that was abandoned in the ease of floating from one "good" decision to the next.

When we parted at the end of the evening, we went to our separate rooms, our own personal borders clearly drawn and agreed upon.

During the following days in Esfahan, I often found myself ruminating on the fact that it was summer in Iran, and wearing a coat, pants and scarf outside seemed like something you'd do on a dare, not on a daily basis. Then one day I am struck by an idea -- if I wore the manteau without my shirt underneath, I would still technically be in compliance with the rules of hejab.

When I emerged shirtless from my hotel, I immediately began to imagine that everyone knew I was naked from the waist up. Thanks to my nervousness and dwindling confidence in my ability, should I be caught, to parse the fine semantic difference of being "technically in compliance," this arrangement soon proved to produce as much as sweat as the original.

I had just returned back to fully-clothed sweating when I was approached by two Iranian girls, Maryam and Nazi. This was not the first time, nor was it the last time that I was approached by strangers on the street. Although the Lonely Planet guidebook to Iran advises "Bring a book. Bring lots of them," to combat the dearth of organized entertainment or nightlife, I soon discover that due to the overwhelming and generous hospitality of Iranians, of all the pieces of advice for me to have taken to heart, this was the most ridiculous.

Maryam and Nazi invited me to their home for lunch. Their house, like many other houses I visited, was hidden away behind a large solid wooden fence, beyond which was a lovely garden. Once inside the house, the girls took off their manteaus and chadors and insisted that I do the same. I silently thanked whatever god may be applicable to a situation such as this that I had put my top back on.

After a meal of khoresht-e fesenjun (chicken in pomegranate sauce) shared on a cloth spread out on the floor, the girls told me I was welcome to stay with them as long as I wanted. I politely declined their invitation and told them that I had to go meet Jasper at the Si o Se Bridge, or, literally, the bridge of 33 arches.

If I had announced my impending plans to sew my hand to my forehead, I think fewer questions might have followed. Is he Iranian? No. Is he your boyfriend? No. Where did you meet him? I tried to explain.

The girls wanted to accompany me. They were afraid that I would be late, so they helped me with my head scarf, their hands swooping gracefully like birds, arranging my scarf and fastening the large, flat blue buttons on my coat. Each of my hands was taken by one of the girls, and together we set off running toward the bridge.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a group of Komite, or religious police. They jumped out of a jeep, surrounded a man and began to beat him with what looked like night sticks. If the girls noticed it at all, they did not give any indication, and I followed their lead. We did not slow down. The bridge, with its smooth arches skipping over a dry and cracked riverbed, was just ahead, and we kept running, hand in hand. Next