Lucie Briscoe
Considering very few people travel there and many do not even know that Persian is a living language, I do not like the idea of being the ears and eyes of others who have not been and might not ever go; I fear feeding a certain perception of it, or saying things that one day might be cause for a visa rejection. I will try, stress on the I; language is a craft that leaves a lot to be desired.
First day in Tehran, the smell of gasoline and of spring. The rumble of old engines. The sun shines bright above the Alborz mountains that cackle along the northern edges of the city, trailing in a pinkish mist. In the park, street cats hang out in great numbers, rolling in the hot grass, drinking from fountains, and meowing dozily. Everyone here either drives a white Peugeot Pars from the early 2000s or a beaten down Honda bike in green, black or red.
The Hondas, the Hondas are everywhere, making loud rumbling sounds and carrying everything, big crates of bread rolls, passengers on the back of old men’s ‘peds, whole families heading to a park for a picnic. They rule the alleys and boulevards, cutting and slashing through traffic, sometimes in the opposite direction to the cars; crazier than Naples, as Taxi drivers and their squads, or ‘taxi groupies’ try and win your rial.
Women are not allowed to drive motorbikes in Iran but may ride on them. If it is indecent to see a woman with two hands on the handlebars, it is not to see them clutched around her husband. The chadors and loose veils flutter across the busy roads.
How I enjoyed smoking out the hotel window and watching the traffic move up Valisasr, towards the Alborz. Since Tehran is on a slight incline, one can always spot the mountains squeezed between dilapidated buildings and tranquil green avenues full of trees. Tehran and its wide shaded boulevards, its street cats, its Persian gardens and spring breeze. The city is chaotic but peaceful, between wisteria and a hot day’s traffic.
Everything comes to life in the late afternoon, no matter where you find yourself in Iran. People sleep in the parks, by the mosque, at the bus station. People prefer to rest during the day, enjoying the sun, the sound of the gurgling stream and the gentle breeze. When Léonie and I were in Isfahan, Hassan, who ran our guest house, would always insist ‘rāhat bāsh’, ‘be at ease’, as we rushed early to visit more mosques. And sometimes, it really was tempting. Sometimes it was all we felt like doing; sitting in the hayāt, writing, drinking watermelon juice and talking to Hassan about Mehdi Akhavan Sales.
First day in Tehran, the smell of gasoline and of spring. The rumble of old engines. The sun shines bright above the Alborz mountains that cackle along the northern edges of the city, trailing in a pinkish mist. In the park, street cats hang out in great numbers, rolling in the hot grass, drinking from fountains, and meowing dozily. Everyone here either drives a white Peugeot Pars from the early 2000s or a beaten down Honda bike in green, black or red.
The Hondas, the Hondas are everywhere, making loud rumbling sounds and carrying everything, big crates of bread rolls, passengers on the back of old men’s ‘peds, whole families heading to a park for a picnic. They rule the alleys and boulevards, cutting and slashing through traffic, sometimes in the opposite direction to the cars; crazier than Naples, as Taxi drivers and their squads, or ‘taxi groupies’ try and win your rial.
Women are not allowed to drive motorbikes in Iran but may ride on them. If it is indecent to see a woman with two hands on the handlebars, it is not to see them clutched around her husband. The chadors and loose veils flutter across the busy roads.
How I enjoyed smoking out the hotel window and watching the traffic move up Valisasr, towards the Alborz. Since Tehran is on a slight incline, one can always spot the mountains squeezed between dilapidated buildings and tranquil green avenues full of trees. Tehran and its wide shaded boulevards, its street cats, its Persian gardens and spring breeze. The city is chaotic but peaceful, between wisteria and a hot day’s traffic.
Everything comes to life in the late afternoon, no matter where you find yourself in Iran. People sleep in the parks, by the mosque, at the bus station. People prefer to rest during the day, enjoying the sun, the sound of the gurgling stream and the gentle breeze. When Léonie and I were in Isfahan, Hassan, who ran our guest house, would always insist ‘rāhat bāsh’, ‘be at ease’, as we rushed early to visit more mosques. And sometimes, it really was tempting. Sometimes it was all we felt like doing; sitting in the hayāt, writing, drinking watermelon juice and talking to Hassan about Mehdi Akhavan Sales.
