All that was before lunch. To the bazaar at last. Restaurant. When I slipped out the back for a cigarette after lunch, a man I reckoned was one of our assigned watchers made a bit of a hash of strolling aimlessly round the corner: it was a dead-ended alley with nothing much for him to pretend to be looking at.
A standard spice and herb shop:
Esfahan's bazaar stretches for miles. I spent much of my spare time there all those years ago, chatting to carpet-dealers, enamellers, brass bashers and the rest (there were still hundreds of workshops then). It's where I learned most of my colloquial Farsi, and discovered that a revolution was brewing (something the embassies missed, presumably because they were too busy talking to generals, ministers and other diplomats rather than the people who matter - and know what's going on). We were horribly pushed for time (the bazaar would be closed the next day along with everything else) and I wanted to get down to some serious shopping with a bit of superficial bargaining for pleasure - no time to play the game properly, sadly. (Given the choice, I'll take the joys of ritual haggling in a bazaar, even if I'm bound to overpay, in those circumstances at least, over fixed prices in a shopping mall any time.)
One scene to remember from this occasion: discussions with the prosperous, paunchy shopkeeper were developing nicely along the lines of - him: Lady! Please. I can ask more than this when I sell in bulk to the other shopkeepers. Me: I have spent a small fortune to get to this very shop so I can buy some of your exquisite goods, sir; would you make me leave empty handed? Him: I am but a poor man, lady, how will I feed my children? - when his fashionably dressed grown-up son, big hair and all, burst out laughing, ruining pa's spiel. So cross was he that he started throwing things across the shop at his son. Mayhem, as the brothers joined in the ribaldry. But not for long: there was business to be done. Dad's professional smile was soon back in place and the deal was done amicably, to everyone's satisfaction.
And then we were off again, to the only other remaining Safavid palace (subsequent dynasties destroyed the rest), the Chehel Sotun. It means forty columns; there are actually 20, usually doubled by their reflection in the pool, but not really for us in such shitty weather:
More mirrors for Jäeger and Stiv:
Another pretty ceiling:
And the only picture we got of the extraordinary wall paintings that wasn't horribly blurred in the poor light. I forget who it portrays (the best was the one of Shah Abbas of which you can see a detail on his Wiki page, or the front of the current British Museum exhibition page), but I think it's Abbas II receiving the Turkmen or Uzbeks. Nice plaits on the dancing girls:
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.