And here we are, deep in the sweet mire of nostalgia: Esfahan.
First things first, garden of the Abbasi Hotel, formerly known as the Shah Abbas. The scent of the stocks on a warm evening was almost overpowering in its heavenliness. Self-consciously traditional tea house at the far end of the first picture:
View from balcony on the road side. There was a little notice requesting ladies to observe the hejab rules when they went out on to the balcony. I thought, Fuck it. Our room is the only place I can take the wretched headscarf off; I'm damned if I'm putting it back on every time I go out for a fag. If people are going to be offended or inflamed by a distant glimpse of an uncovered female khariji head, they know what they can do. And then one morning, when I was out there smoking in my pyjamas, the smell of the smoke was drifting in so Mr P shut the door without my noticing and went to shave followed by a long soak in the bath. The telly was on in the room (news of G20). The door doesn't open from the outside, natch. One improperly and immodestly dressed khariji woman stuck on the balcony, knuckles sore from bashing on the door. I considered clambering over to the next balcony (the Silver Lady and the American's) but considered that unwise in the circs.
The shopping parade and concrete square replaced the pretty park I remembered looking out on to (rightly or wrongly? Nostalgia plays such tricks) with my hapless rich young suitors in previous visits to the hotel. Oh well, that's progress.
When I told my mother I was going to Iran for a year, she said, "If you must, I don't suppose we can stop you. But for God's sake don't marry some Persian prince who'll lock you away for ever in his hareem." (Though I think she'd have preferred a prince, any prince, even an Iranian one, to the penniless Mr P.) There were no princes in the frame anyway, but the beautiful elder son of a Qashqai clan leader came close, especially with his invitation to accompany the tribe's migration to summer pastures. The Shah stymied that one though, with a renewed clampdown on nomadic movements as part of his forcible settlement programme.
Inside. The miscreant properly attired, baggy coat and all. Haft sin display (seven items beginning with s traditionally displayed for Nowruz - like a Christmas crib?) on the left. One of them used to be wine; the succulent-looking glasses of coloured water were a cruel tease to the oenophiles among us. The American and the Guide sitting below.
Shes never interfered with me. I have no complaints about her.
Same here.
Mega ditto.
I met her once and I found her to be a nice lady. Not kookey in any way.
Penta has always been gracious, kind and very sane in all my interactions with her.