Iran - 1

It’s utterly difficult for me not to be discouraged by
my exile from the outside world.  As of now, I do feel
quite trapped inside myself.  My inability to express
myself to my grandmother is both heartbreaking and
extremely frustrating to me, especially because I
believe that she expected more of me.  I came here
utterly unprepared.  The only thing I can grasp onto
for encouragement is my determination.  I must
learn…and I must learn quickly.  I feel that I have
made some progress within my first day and I am happy
with the quickness in which Farsi is returning to me
however I must become fluent or near fluent within the
month.  Six months of alienation just will not do.

Furthermore, I am experiencing similar problems with
gaining access to the internet as in South America.
Specifically speaking, they still use dial up internet
which cuts out every ten minutes and takes a minute to
reconnect every time and the keyboards are a bit
shotty as well.  Even worse is the censorship
mediating which websites I can go to.  For example,
Myspace and Facebook are prohibited.  It appears as if
most free forum based sites are prohibited; however, I
have to investigate that further before actually making
that accusation.  I attempted to create a blog for
myself and came up against an impermeable brick wall.
At first, the search engine provided me only with
politically conservative blogs with the second most
popular site being that of Mahmoud Ahmedinejad.
My final attempt seemed like some conspiracy against
me.  No matter what username I typed in the computer
to create my blog, it was already taken.  I swear I
tried more than fifty names, names which could not
have possibly been taken, and it was to no avail.
Feeling impotent and stunted, I gave up trying.

But enough with my frustrations, I shall begin where I
originally meant to begin with this blog.  All technical and linguistic difficulties aside, you could
say that the Iranian culture first made itself quite
evident to me as soon as I got on the plane to come
here.  Contrary to the tranquil orderliness and
efficiency of my plane ride from SFO to Amsterdam, the
ride from Amsterdam to Tehran seemed more like a scene
out of some Persian adaptation of “Soul Plane.”
During these five hours of chaos, not one passenger
was sitting in their seats.  Everyone seemed to have
formed the opinion that the aircraft was some
extension of their own living rooms, in which they
could feel free to wander about and mingle with fellow
Iranians, laughing and gesticulating to each other as
if there was a great big family reunion taking place
there, and every passenger was a member of the family.
There were at least twenty babies on the plane whom I
witnessed crawling about the aisles gleefully and
freely and at least five of them had formed an
operatic choir from hell, all screaming in unison,
uninterrupted for the entire flight.  Amidst their
demonic cries, I sank into my seat allowing the sheer
terror that was newly inspired by this show to wash
over me.  What was I going to do?  I couldn’t even
successfully offer the humble old man sitting next to
my piece of my orange meringue pie in Farsi without
accruing a blank stare and then some uncomfortable
fidgeting.  My only allies were the poor plane
stewardesses who, bless their hearts, had exhausted
their infinite well of patience attempting to control
what had erupted into a full fledged party.  I got out
my phrase book and after flipping through it eagerly,
tried to help the old man next to me with his
television set.  He had been fidgeting with the same
screen for two hours, unable to get past the page
where it asks you what language you would like to
continue in.  This, again, was fruitless and after his
second round of blank staring and fidgeting, I
resigned to keep to myself and just watch “The Diving
Bell and the Butterfly” which, oddly enough, has
seemed to mirror my situation here perfectly.

Arriving at the airport, I immediately made a dash for
the bathroom, as I refused to wait the line on the
plane which was eternally at least six people long.
There, in this brand new airport, I came face to face
with those “toilets” consisting of two foot grips on
either side of a hole in the ground which I became so
accustomed to during my travels in South America.  In
lieu of toilet paper, they had installed a small,
rusty shower hose on the side of the stall, which may
have been somewhat useful had there been something to
dry the water off with.  The last thing I wanted was
to greet my family for the first time looking like I
peed my pants.  I thanked god or whomever that I still had a
snot-ridden ball of Kleenex in the pocket of my jacket
and made a mental note to myself that this was not
America anymore.  My exasperation at the excessive
clothing I was to wear, the unbearable heat, and
interminable waiting in airport security completely
evaporated when I came down the stairs and saw what
appeared to be an entourage waiting for me in front of
a huge mass of other Iranians waiting for their loved
ones.  They pointed me out of the crowd immediately
and started waving and gesturing frantically as I
descended the staircase unsure as to whether this
unprompted display of excitement was meant for me or
not.  Halfway down the stairs, and after a minute of
staring, then looking around, and then again staring
at them again, I deduced that yes, the excitement was,
indeed, for my arrival and I could feel myself smile
for the first time since I had left Oakland.  They
followed me through customs, separated by a glass
pane.  I felt like a fish in a fish tank.  I couldn’t
communicate with them, therefore I saw no point in
just staring at them wave and smile at me excitedly as
I slowly made my way along through the line of
passengers.  I thought they might tire of the
gesturing eventually but every time I looked to my
right, they were pushing their way through the crowd
and with happy faces and eager determination to make
certain I could see them waving.  I couldn’t help but
smile at them and giggle as I timidly waved back to
these people who I had only to assume were my family.
How did they recognize me so quickly and from so far
away?  I looked like a Pepto-Bismol babushka with a
flesh eating face infection; quite a stretch from the
pudgy Asian-looking baby with the outdated “bowl”
haircut they once knew.  In any case, I crossed the
threshold of glass to finally be united with my
zealous welcome wagon.  I had no words of gratitude
for them except for “merci” (i.e. “thank you” in
Farsi) which I proceeded to repeat awkwardly and
continuously to everyone for the following ten
minutes.
I was happy and scared and sad and mute.  My freshness
to them would eventually wear off to reveal my true
self: a complete stranger; and not only a stranger,
but a stranger who didn’t speak their language.  I
tried to push these thoughts to the back of my mind
and concentrate on learning as much Farsi as I could
on the ride home.  Hoomer, my cousin who is fluent in
English and Farsi, served as my human dictionary for
the entire ride home, which turned out to be an hour.
By the time we arrived to my grandmother’s house, it
was five in the morning and though everyone was
utterly exhausted and had to go to work in three
hours, my grandmother still insisted on making tea and
sitting around the living room to chat as is the
custom when you go to any Iranian’s house for any
reason.  I finally managed to pry myself away from
their eager grasp enough to leave the insomniac tea
party in order to bathe myself for the first time in a
while.  The shower was an actual room in itself which
connecting to my bedroom.  I was all too pleased to
bore myself away in my room for the rest of the night
and forget the screaming babies and the slew of
fervent questions, which to my disappointment and
theirs, I had not the knowledge to answer.  Showering
was heaven, and much more than I expected after the
airport bathroom experience.  Refreshed but thoroughly
exhausted, I stepped out of the shower into my room
and looked around.  It was adorned rather austerely
save one thing; on my bed, there laid a bright red
cheetah print blanket made of fake velvet.  It was
totally out of place in this old lady house but I took
one look at it and I smiled, feeling comfort rush back
to me from far away.