Nostalgic Journey to Iran

Why is the American crying? For me it is an interesting love story that began 27 years ago.

There was a bittersweet feeling in my fourteen year old heart as my family and I boarded the Tehran train in 1974. The previous year had been my first international experience, and, however brief, it really changed my life. But now we were bound for the States via Istanbul and Madrid, and I couldn't help but wonder if I would ever be able to return to Iran.

Needless to say, I was ecstatic earlier this year when my family and I began to plan our summer vacation. While many of our fellow Americans headed to the States to escape for the summer, we decided to take a nostalgic journey to the Islamic Republic of Iran. It had been over a quarter of a century since I walked the crowded streets of Tehran, and although I was a little apprehensive, it was exciting to consider doing it again.

We were very fortunate to have made friends with an Iranian family over the past year, and about 6 months ago we started talking about traveling together to Iran during the summer holidays. We used to stay up late together drinking tea and dreaming about making this an unforgettable journey. We thought of ferrying our vehicles from Dubai to Bandar Abbas and driving up through the heart of the country resting finally at the shores of the Caspian Sea. We tortured our taste buds while feasting in our minds on daily servings of bastani sonati (traditional ice cream) among other things that we planned to devour.

Si o se Pol bridge and Tea house.

Not a few people thought we were strange as we mentioned our plans of revisiting the Islamic Republic. I had great memories of those earlier days, but I knew life in Iran must have changed. I wondered if I was really going to be able to obtain a visa. Would I be able to locate my old residence and renew some old acquaintances? Would I recognize any familiar sites, sounds and smells? What kind of impact would this second visit to the land of Hafez and Sa'adi make on me? More importantly, I wondered what kind of impact this brief visit would make on my wife and our two teenagers.

Had I been dreaming or did I actually walk out of the Iranian Consulate on July 27, 2001 with a visa stamp in each of our 4 American passports? It seemed so strange that a country that had become so distant from my own was now only a short two hour flight away. Later that evening, as we settled down on the comfortable Persian carpets at the Tarikhi Restaurant in Northern Tehran, I couldn't help asking myself had I really eaten a bowl of cereal for breakfast that morning in our Emirate villa? Now we were feasting on Bakhtiari kebab and drinking in the pleasant sounds of traditional Iranian music and singing. Even the entertainers and owners of the establishment seemed enamored with the unusual visitors who were present that night.

A magic carpet like ride transported us the following day through the beautiful Alborz mountain roads to the scenic town of Nowshahr on the Caspian Sea. We drank in the warmth of the people of Mazandaran province as we simply shared our lives together for three wonderful days. Two particular families made it their duty to see that we truly experienced their culture. We obliged ourselves to see every new thing we could see, eat that was placed in front of us, rest a little each afternoon, and laugh together until late into the night. Even though it was originally a Rashti grandmother would to her grandchild, we learned it was appropriate among close friends to say, "ti jani gorban" (I love you so)!

Unlike the wide open spaces of Nowshar and the fresh air of Mazandatm, Tehran on the surface appears to be in the other extreme with crowds of people and pollution. Granted Tehran is a bustling metropolis of over 12 million people, and with a population four times what it was when I lived there, it carries all of the accoutrements that a city of such expanse demands.

However, inside the homes of the city, there are people anxious to enjoy the warmth that close families and deep friendships ignite. Even in the heart of the city, we were swept away by the hospitality of our Tehram friends who, like their fellow citizens, consider visitors a gift from God. For me personally, I felt like I was coming home, and the faint but familiar aroma of xangak and chelo kebab that filled the streets and my nose seemed to say welcome. I hadn't reached home yet, but now the time was near to see if I could.

I am generally pretty good with directions. I can usually find my way back to a place I had previously visited without a map. But in this city, no way! The first challenge was to find art English map of Tehran. Visiting all the bookshops along Engalab Ave, we became convinced that a Farsi map was going to be all that we could manage. The next challenge was locating my former kuche (alley) on a map where all the names had changed over 20 years ago, and the city itself had changed too.

On the map the distance from where we were staying and the general vicinity of our destination appeared to be very short, but the hired driver with his skill at maneuvering through all the back streets of the city seemed to stretch the distance into light years. Once we arrived in what we determined as the old mighborhood, we started to walk searching all the while for familiar landmarks. My memory was faint, but I knew there had been a big hotel on the major avenue just opposite my old street, but strangely no one seemed to be familiar with it.

The scenery of the neighborhood started to come into sharper focus after a kind shopkeeper pointed out the dilapidated hotel across the street that had been abandoned for about 25 years. Walking up the sidewalk of the street with the familiar ditches unfit we were directly across from the old hotel, I found myself standing in front of Kuche Kamran. Everything had a strange familiarity. I knew this was the right place but the street seemed much shorter and the buildings much smaller than I had remembered.

Andy Bealer looks on his former house in Tehran.

Upon reaching the middle of my street, unable to detect the old house, we unashamedly sought the help of an elderly gentleman. Although he had only come to live on this street 20 years earlier, he instantly recognized the name of our landlord. *ne tightness in my throat and the tears that followed gripped me suddenly and intensely as I turned to face the house that had once been my own. I tried to hide and look at the same time overwhelmed with the reality of the moment.

A few hours later, after exchanging phone numbers, I was listening to the sweet voice of Mimi, the wife of our former landlord. They were living in mother country now, but she happened to be them for a visit at the same time. Later we enjoyed an evening together with dinner and catight up on each other's news from the past 27 years. Since she had been like, a sister to my mother, we agreed that it was appropriate for me to call her khale jun, or auntie. We were dumbfounded at the coincidence of our reunion if one could call it that and concluded that it was God who brought us together again. We resolved not to let anything ever again keep us apart.

Many people have asked me since my return which part of Iran I enjoyed the most. Was it the beautiful shores of the Caspian at Nowshar, the peaceful life of Shiraz, the great ruins of Persepolis, or Esfahan with the incomparable Imam Square and Sio se Pol? As wonderful as all of those places were, for me the answer is simple Tehran, my first Iranian home.

I went to Iran this summer not really knowing what I was looking for and not very sure what I would find. Now I can quite confidently say last Summer in Iran I found some new friends, and I found my old home. I found my khale jun, and I found a part of myself that had been hidden for a very long time. I hope to return again soon. Don't you think it's time for you to visit Iran again? You never know what you might find.

Andy Bealer is the International Sales Directorfor TIA.