Tehran. More photos... 24 November 2008 - Tehran It's hard to get through an eight-hour conference awake after almost 70 hours without real sleep. But somehow I managed. I was attending the International Tour Operators Conference in Tehran, designed to give a boost to Iranian tourism. For keeping me awake I'll credit such riveting speeches as those delivered by the Secretary of the Iranian Hotel Association and representatives from UNESCO and UNWTO. The Vice President of Iran even showed up, filling in for his buddy Mahmoud. Some of the speeches conveyed the idea of tourism promoting peace, with each individual traveler an ambassador, while others delivered due praise to the noble aims of the conference as well as to Iran itself for just being awesome. Some may have laid it on a bit thick, and at one point I felt as though this nationalist mantra being washed through my sleep-deprived brain: Iran is not just great, it is the greatest thing to ever happen to mankind. However, I was amazed by some of the presentations on Iran's incredible array of sites, wildlife, and landscapes, ranging from sandy beaches to green wetlands to glacial fields to vast deserts. The fact is, tourism/travel creates jobs (more jobs per unit of investment than any other industry, apparently), protects the environment and often preserves local culture and historical sites. It's wonder Iran wants this, and no doubt it deserves it. The plane landed at 3:30am, and two hours later I had a visa, headed towards Tehran. As we zipped down the freeway the driver offered me a cigarette and some tea. I accepted, mostly because I wanted to watch how he would pour me a cup of tea while driving the cab. He procured a thermos from under his seat, and grabbed a cup and some sugar cubes from the glove box. I was already beginning to believe the widespread rumors I'd heard of Iranian hospitality. The cab drifted over a couple lanes as he poured his own glass. As we neared the city, the neon green lights of hundreds of mosques began to dim in the rising dawn, coloring the sky while silhouetting the snow-capped peaks to the north. At the Hotel, I checked in and checked out within an hour. I had time only for a five-star shower. Taking the elevator to the roof, I was blown away by the sweeping vista of the city, sprawled as far as I could see and climbing the slopes of the impressive mountains, blanketed in deep snow. I talked to dozens of tour operators, both from Iran and a list of about other countries, stacking my wallet with business cards. After the first day of speeches and banquets, having yet to get outside and see for myself the beautiful country extolled in the conference as a virtual portal to the heavens, I'm feeling a bit antsy to get out and explore. But first I'll need a few hours of sleep - tonight on Kish island. Persepolis. More photos... 25 November 2008 - Kish, Shiraz, and Persepolis Kish island was largely developed by the Shah as Iran's version of Vegas. It's been a prime vacation spot for Iranians for years, but unless you're all about duty free goods, lavish hotels and restaurants, and an exclusive (foreigners only) co-ed section of beach, don't go out of your way to visit. We arrived late in the evening before being treated to a incredibly grandiose banquet at an over-the-top restaurant. I had heard of our place before I knew we were staying there: the Darius Hotel is famous for its ancient architecture, designed to look as elegantly immense as if Darius himself had built it. This time I enjoyed about seven or eight full hours checked into five-star luxury before taking to the road again. After being whisked to the island's zoo and treated to an impressive dolphin show (definitely a bit random), we checked out Kish island's prime archeological site, where I spent some time underground in the ancient ruins of Harireh. An extensive network of cisterns was built here over a thousand years ago, providing the island's only source of water. I broke loose from the group again to explore the cool dark tunnels before surfacing into the humid heat of the sun-drenched island. We took a short flight over a slice of the Persian Gulf, landing outside Shiraz, city of flowers and nightingales. Upon arrival, our Iranian hosts literally rolled out the red carpet for us at the airport. Without taking a breath, we were jetting towards Persepolis, ancient capital of Persia, an hour to the northeast. In a race against the setting sun, I sprinted the kilometer from the parking lot to the ten-meter high high man-made platform of the city, which lifted its ruins above the golden plain to the west. We'd arrived not long before sunset, so I did my best to catch the last light of day in some pictures of the spectacular site. Even though the vast majority of the stones in Persepolis have crumbled to the ground, it takes little imagination to see what this city once was. Sadly, and perhaps in retaliation for the burning of Athens, Alexander the Great decided to destroy it when he passed through Persia. Still, busts and reliefs of lions, horses, eagles, and kings can be seen almost everywhere you look, and the stonework is delicate, smooth and artful on an enormous scale. Here at the supposed birthplace of the Iranian monarchy also appears the remnants of its demise some 2500 years later: rows of tent poles and tatters are all that is left of the Shah's ridiculously opulent party back in the 70's, when he invited dignitaries from all over the world, much as Cyrus had brought them here to the Gate of All Nations, to celebrate the millenia of Persian monarchy. He spent millions on the most expensive of imported luxuries, even tiling some of the tent floors with marble for the single event. Of course, the Shah's popularity, at the time already very low, never bounced back after the party and just years later the monarchy was dead. Back in Shiraz, after yet another feast, I explored the city in what little time I had: walked around the ancient city wall, explored the night market, and paid a visit to the tomb of Iran's greatest poet, Hafez. I met a bunch of cool kids hanging out in the market, most of them very surprised to hear I was from the USA. It's clear that not a good number of Americans find their way to Shiraz. At one point, away from the crowds, getting harassed by an old beggar, I handed him a note to get him to leave me alone. A full minute later I realized I'd just given him money from Qatar instead of Iran, meaning the note was worth a good deal more than I'd intended to give; I turned around to find him holding the strange currency under a street light, enchanted by the mystery of its worth. I approached from the side and snatched it out of his hand, slipping him a more appropriate amount. He wasn't so happy about that, and yelled some nonsense at my back as I walked away, relieved, and caught a cab to the hotel. I think he was actually trying to chase me down, but he was old enough that a brisk walk was too much for him to handle. Shiraz is known as the "city of mysteries and secrets," and I feel as though I haven't even scratched the surface in getting to know the city. But the whirlwind tour must continue: tomorrow in Esfahan. Woman in Esfahan. More photos... 26 November 2008 - Esfahan According to an old rhyme repeated by several of my hosts today, "Esfahan is half the world." I now have a better idea of where the saying comes from: this city is incredible, with more than enough architectural wonder and cultural flavor to spare the rest of the country. Arriving on a charter plane this morning, we were greeted by red carpet as well as small children, colorfully dressed and smiling, holding flowers for their guests. Without wasting too much time, we loaded onto the bus for another speedy session of sightseeing. Historically speaking, Isfahan is just an infant in comparison to the more ancient cities of Persia. It was largely developed by Shah Abbas in the 16th century, who went to great lengths to beautify the city. Most of the mosques, palaces, gardens, and bridges owe themselves to him and the following century of Saffavid rule. We began with a visit to the grounds of an old Armenian Christian church. Supposedly, Shah Abbas relocated the Armenians to Esfahan so they could contribute as artisans on city projects. In the attached museum were some dusty relics, ancient bibles, and some morbid memorabilia from the Armenian genocide in Turkey. About a dozen bridges span the Zayandeh River that runs through the city, half of them from medieval times. My favorite was the Pol-e Si-o-Seh, or Bridge of 33 Arches. Only having a few minutes to check it out in the afternoon, I returned late that night to find the bridge illuminated and still humming with pedestrian traffic, its waterside teahouses and arched walkways filled with mostly young people just there to hang out. We arrived at the Chehel Sotun Palace, a giant reception hall surrounded by manicured gardens, only an hour before sunset. Built by Abbas II, its thin wooden pillars were at least ten meters tall, supporting a giant carved wooden roof covered in exotic colorful frescoes, a combination that made it appear to belong much further to the east. But as I walked through the gardens I realized my sunlight would be gone very soon and I had yet to reach the main attraction: Imam Square. Once again I escaped the group and made it on foot to the opening of the giant complex. The brilliant blue tile of Imam Mosque was still reflecting the warm light of the sunset as I approached the entrance to the mosque. As impressive as its bright colors was its sheer immensity, the inside roof hovering 40 meters above the ground. As I wandered alone, several people approached to ask the perennial question sequence of my visit to Iran: 1) Where are you from? 2) How do you find Iran? 3) What do Americans think of Iran? In my short experience, the answer to the first question usually receives a look of surprise, the second answer receives a warm smile, and the third sometimes gets a laugh (if I say that some of my friends actually fear for my life here). Everyone has seemed somewhat excited to speak with an American kid. Among the questioners tonight night was a crew from Iran TV - Alireza, one of my new Esfahani friends, recognized the TV host and got pretty excited to be see her in the flesh: "She's famous," he giggled. She interviewed me in front of the fountains in the dead center of Imam Square. And of course, before asking a few other questions, she followed the above sequence. Alireza showed me around the bazaar, which was as colorful as any I've seen, its arching vaulted roofs disappearing into the distance ahead. He bought me a strange yoghurt with a bizarre consistency, a treat that is supposedly famous in Esfahan. He insisted it was delicious as I pretended to agree. We talked about our jobs, homes, families and dreams, and as in almost all of my more extensive conversations here, we concluded that it sucks that our countries are so much at odds politically. And again, as in most of my conversations here, Alireza left me with the distinct impression that it is politics and governments alone that have caused any rift between us, and despite coming from a conservative home, even by Iranian standards, he sincerely wants to see change in his own country. As far in my country is concerned, he's hopeful: "Obama," he laughed, "yes we can!" I made it back to the hotel before midnight to try and connect to the internet for a few minutes before yet another abbreviated sleep. The program had said our departure was at 8:00am, but I'm guessing they just didn't have the heart to tell us until tonight that it's actually 4:30am. All I know about tomorrow is that I fly back to Tehran - not sure what I'll do after that, or even where I'll sleep. The important thing is that I do sleep, at least four hours - tomorrow in Tehran. Tehran night. More photos... 27 November 2008 - Tehran Back in Tehran, I checked into the Esteghlal Hotel and immediately collapsed on the bed, completely exhausted. I've spent the past few days and nights trying to suck the life out of every hour of my far-too-short stopover in Iran - even if that's meant looking and feeling like a crazed insomniac. Today I took a much needed break, opting to save some energy for the night. For dinner, the group reunited for a final banquet at yet another extravagant restaurant, complete with live Iranian music. The servers walked out balancing giant trays bearing the familiar main course: kebab. Having eaten practically nothing but kebab since landing I can say with authority that these particular chicken and lamb slices were top-notch. I'm just grateful that I didn't have to look at the bill. Mid-meal, another Iranian TV crew pulled me aside for basically the same interview as in Esfahan. They interviewed several of us, and then we enjoyed our final minutes together before returning to all corners of the earth - at my particular table sat a Malay, a Singaporean, an Iranian, a Turk, and a Dane. The conference was officially over, certificates awarded, souvenirs packed, and most if not all probably left fat and happy, wallets bulging with business cards. I said some goodbyes before meeting up with an old Iranian friend for a night out on the town. To translate, a night out in Tehran is technically a night in, since there are absolutely no pubs or nightclubs to speak of. But believe me when I say that Iranians like to party, and no laws or restrictions are going to keep them from having a good time. For the the less wealthy or unconnected, alcohol is as unattainable as it is illegal for Iranian Muslims, but you'll still see such youth out in droves on a Thursday night: with nowhere to go, many of them hang out in the street, sipping tea and coffee. My Iranian friend, however, happens to be especially well-connected, and therefore our party was to take place behind the closed doors of a private apartment on the ritzy slopes of northern Tehran. Picture Syriana's opening scene. Following routine procedure, the police showed up at one point and the music shut off, people spoke in worried whispers, half the guests put on their jackets and half the girls put on their scarves while all milled about the door, waiting, and then with a single word the music was blasting again, coats were re-hung, hijabs thrown off: the cops had been sent away with loaded pockets and the party would continue, late into the night. Kashan. More photos... 28 November 2008 - The Desert Today I joined a small group led by our Iranian friend Khalil for an trip south to Kashan, an oasis city since prehistoric times. Khalil, a veritable spring of knowledge on all things Iranian, provided excellent narration throughout the day, while the rest of the group also proved quite enjoyable company, including three guys from Portugal, a Czech, and a Swede. Heading due south, we'd made it out of the smog of Tehran within an hour and were flying by Qom within two. The city which Khomeini called home, Qom is Iran's second-holiest city after Mashhad, but perhaps the center of Shi'a thought today: from here, only a short drive from Tehran, Iran's all-powerful clerical government can keep its distance while keeping its finger on the capital's pulse. From the freeway I could make out about a dozen domes, one of which was a dazzling gold - most likely wrong, I labeled it the Hazrat-e Masumeh. Reaching Kashan, we stopped a couple kilometers to the west of the modern city, at the site of several suspiciously tall hills rising above the valley floor. Here lies an archeological site dating back anywhere from 6 to 9 millenia, at least until Elamite times. Among other interesting notes, Kashan is said to be the origin of the three wise men that traveled to Bethlehem, in which case it would make sense that these "magi" were Zoroastrian priests. Below one hill, I came across the remains of a 10-year-old girl encased in glass, along with a label revealing her cause of death: collapsing roof. I'm still not sure how they could actually know that, as the next line indicated her year of death: 5500 BC. The Tabatabaei House was our next stop, giving us a sampling of aristocratic life back in the day. Plain, even austere from the outside, it is the inside, especially the inner courtyard where guests were entertained, that's worthy of hundreds of photos. Entering through the old wooden doorway you're welcomed to a small architectural wonderland, with its walls, windows and arches decorated as delicately and artfully as the flowers in the gardens, all set in balanced symmetry. Inside, the stained glass windows cast geometric highlights of color on the white-washed walls. At the complex's four corners stood badgirs, natural wind towers, designed anciently to funnel wind from the plains and down the shaft, to fan the cool surface of the underground water stores, working as perhaps the oldest functional AC system. As the sun set, we made our final stop in Kashan at the Fin Gardens, or Bagh-e Fin. A spring on a hill just behind the garden supplies the complex with a artful network of pools and fountains that have circulated without the help of any pumps since being built in the time of Shah Abbas I. Its two hectares of water, walkways, and gardens were clearly a popular hang-out spot for Friday night. Families sat for picnics everywhere. Young groups of friends splashed each other with water and snapped pictures with their cell phones. Back on the road, I imagined some future trip to Iran in which I'll drive a car, crossing from Mashhad to check out Yazd and Kerman along the old Silk Route, and passing back through Kashan to spend a more appropriate amount of time. Kashan gave me my one and only taste of the many striking Persian oasis towns and caravanserais dotting Iran - I was definitely impressed though not surprised. Back in Tehran, our group stopped at a restaurant to sample some dizi, with Team Portugal kindly picking up the tab for us. Tomorrow will be my last day in Tehran, so I'm about to plan my route through the old section of town to the south, at least up until I reach the bazaar - from that point forward, mapping becomes futile - better just to get lost. Woman in Tehran. More photos... 29 November 2008 - Tehran This morning I split a cab with my Portuguese friend Tiago to south Tehran, getting out in front of an old Armenian Christian church. After some confusion, the priests let us in, and we stood at the back of the cathedral checking out the stained glass and ridiculously large chandeliers. It felt a bit awkward to take photos behind pews with real-life worshippers, so we left shortly to navigate our way to the former US Embassy. Tiago wasn't quite as initially excited as I was to see what is known as the "US Den of Espionage," but within a few minutes we were both having an adrenaline rush. It started when Tiago snapped a photo of a giant Hezbollah sign nearby the compound and some guy came up and grabbed his arm. It seemed like he was motioning for us to delete our photos and pay him cash (?); we kept walking. He tried to stop Tiago again, yelling something in Farsi while grabbing for his arm, then he focused his attention on me. He did the same with me and my camera, but I followed Tiago's lead and shook free of his grip, taking off down the street. We thought we'd gotten away until a cop car pulled in front of us halfway along the old embassy wall. Our kind friend was sitting in the back, his finger pointing at us. They all got out and asked to see our passports among other things I didn't understand. But unlike our hard-liner friend, the police were very reasonable and polite, simply asking us to leave and not photograph the embassy. Not wanting to leave without some photos, we spent the next twenty minutes sneaking shots from across the street and walking by the graffitied wall shooting pictures, sometimes from the hip. While the painted political slogans alternated between scary and laughable, the building behind the walls is indeed a shameful symbol of American intervention. As far as the results of such meddling, one such is reflected in the writing on that wall, in the form of about a dozen anti-American quotes and slogans that have been there for almost thirty years. It takes little more than the most basic knowledge of Iran's recent history to understand the source of the frustration: from this building, CIA operatives planned the overthrow of Mohammad Mossadeq and his democratically elected government so that the hated Shah could be reinstated and more importantly, the oil industry denationalized. Heavy US influence over Mohammad Reza continued to emanate from this building until the Revolution, after which students stormed its gates in 1980 to take its American diplomats hostage for a year and half. Perhaps they were worried that history might repeat itself and the Shah be reinstated yet again. Today it's occupied by the Sepah militia, one of three Iranian military branches according to Khalil. I noticed that the US Embassy seal was still recognizably there, though clearly brutalized. We kept looking over our shoulders a few minutes after leaving Taleqani street and boarding a subway car, although I'm sure there was no need. The Tehran metro was about as nice as any I've taken. After a short ride, we surfaced not far from the Golestan Palace and bought our separate passes for the old complex's various rooms and museums. Opulence was the word that repeated in my mind as we wound through the lavish Qajar chambers, tiled with mirrors and gold. Opulence and maybe decadence. Everywhere I looked was something that almost made me vomit, from the Ivory Room to the Room of Mirrors, just glitter and jewels everywhere. But then again, it is a royal palace, so that's to be expected. Still, as the Qajar rulers that built this place broke the national bank on fine architecture to surround themselves with and bought up heaps of mediocre European art to display in private museums, much of their country outside the guarded walls had deteriorated to a pitiably sad state. We entered the bazaar late in the afternoon and took little time to get lost in its maze. Swarms of shoppers and bazaaris often filled the narrow corridors, broken up by the passing of the occasional transport cart, overladen with goods, forcing people to make way at the last second or be crushed. We popped into a restaurant looking for anything tasty - anything other than kabob - but when shown a menu in the form of four rows of sliced meat, two chicken, two lamb, we opted to keep looking around. On the west end of the bazaar we found Khayyam, a restaurant built in a chunk of what used to be the Seyyed Nasreddin Mosque - across the street the same mosque still functions, but the building of Khayyam Street cut the mosque in two. On a carpet next to us sat four young Iranians, two couples, happily sipping on water pipes. They invited us to join them, and we ended up spending the next hour chatting through Milad, the one guy who happened to speak English. Within minutes we were friends, as evidenced by the gifts (cute stuffed animals) they handed us, complete with personalized cards, as we sat in a circle around the shisha. Part of me suspects the little gifts might have been intended for someone else, but Iranian hospitality seemed to have called for the giving of gifts. Mine was a brown bear that said "I love you." We all left Khayyam and headed for the bazaar together. We passed through Imam Khomeini mosque, built within the bazaar itself, and explored until the shops started to close. Having received so many gifts during my short visit - I'll have to check a back (that was itself a gift) on the flight home - I felt as though my shopping had been done for me. Later in the night we said goodbye to our new friends and headed back to the hotel. I had to pack and take care of some last-second business before heading to the airport at 1:00am. My Iran experience turned out to be awesome, as was expected. My Iranian hosts have been incredible - I've been impressed with both the people I met during the conference and on the street. And of course, I was blown away by the sites; my eyes were opened to the immense adventure potential this country holds. I realize I've barely scratched the surface in my week here. I never reached the green and mountainous north, the lowlands of the southwest, or the sprawling deserts to the east. Tabriz, Yazd, Mashhad, Mount Damavand are still among many places on my list. It just means that someday I'll have to go back.