Traveler's Tip: Visit Iran...

...But maybe not this week.

When my wife was a kid, she took a round-the-world trip, visiting poor countries, dirty countries, dangerous countries, until she reached the promised land: a nation of luxury, wealth and sophistication. A place… called Iran.

This was Iran in the 70’s, ruled by the Shah. The Shah was a brutal dictator, but back then he was OUR brutal dictator, and Iran was the Paris of the Middle East. In fact, they still say “Merci” for “thank you”.

Iran’s nuclear program is under attack, and probably that’s a good thing. I don’t like their government, but I’m not totally in love with our government. And even if you like the current guy, you didn’t like the last guy. The point is — the point of all world travel is — people are not their government.

Subway station, Iran.

About ten years ago, at the height of US/Iranian tensions, my wife said she wanted to go back for a visit.

“No,” I said.

“No?” she replied, baffled. My wife speaks five languages, but couldn’t seem to understand this.

“No,” I repeated. “Their government supports terrorism, Holocaust denial, and the oppression of women. So, no, I am not going to Iran. And if you have any respect for me, you won’t ever ask again.”

A few weeks later, we were on a plane bound for Iran. I was surrounded by Iranian nationals and they all looked like me: dark curly hair, dark eyes, more nose than was strictly necessary. They may have been anti-semites, but they were still semites.

Midway through the flight, my wife asked, “How long do you think we’ll be in Iran before someone speaks to you in Farsi?”

I said, “It already happened when I got up to use the bathroom.”

So, we were headed to a country full of friendly, very good-looking people. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad.

The second we landed, troops with machine guns took us into custody. They sequestered us in a dingy room at the airport. One soldier offered us ginger ale and ribbon candy. It was like being held hostage by grandma.

After two hours, they let us go. They never questioned us, they never looked at our paperwork. “What was that all about?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” said one soldier. “But you do it to us when we come to your country.”

Our tour guide was a long-haired, laid-back, twentyish Tehrani. He asked me what I did for a living. How could I explain The Simpsons to a young man who’d never left Iran? Do they have cartoons there? Do they even have TV?

I began, “I write for this show called The Simpsons . . .”

He replied, “I really liked the early seasons.”

This kid was full of surprises. He told me he had just been to a Blue Oyster Cult concert.

“Really?” I had to ask him: “Do you have drugs here?”

“Sure. Pot, speed, coke, acid… what do you need?”

I’ve mentioned before that Tehran is exactly like Los Angeles: the traffic, the smog, the large number of Iranians. Still, sharia law was in effect: women, including my wife, had to dress in head scarves and long skirts or pants. Still, those who wanted to look attractive found ways around it: elaborate eye make-up and bangs, beautiful manicures, filmy hijabs and clingy jilbabs. My guide nudged me as a woman walked by: “Hey Mike, did you see the wrists on her?”

When I tell Iranian Americans I visited their country they’re always delighted. “That’s wonderful. It is a beautiful country. How long were you there?”

I say eighteen days.

“Eighteen days? That’s too long.”

It was too long. Everywhere we went, we’d visit the local madrassa or school, the bazaar, and the hamam or ritual bath. They were all nice and they were all exactly the same. And every meal was giant piles of kababs, French fries and rice. Their national dish is A LOT.

We also visited dozens of beautiful mosques, all gilded, filled with colorful mosaics, mirrors and chandeliers. Islam forbids making pictures of people, so a mosque is not like a church: you’re not bummed out by paintings of saints being whipped or shot with arrows or grilled alive. The job of a mosque is to be lovely and they hit the mark pretty often.

We made one more special visit. Not too far out of Tehran, not too far off the road, our cab driver pulled off into the desert. He showed us three huge concrete circles in the sand. “See that? Under there, we’re enriching uranium for nuclear weapons!” Fun stop. After that we went out for Iranian ice cream.

We visited every corner of Iran: Qom, Koy, Kajan, Yazd, Bam… many Iranian cities are named after punch noises from the old Batman show. Bam’s name was particularly ironic since the entire city collapsed – BAM! – in a 2003 earthquake. Even the city’s ruins were in ruins. But despite our strained relations with Iran, the US government and its people gave generously to aid earthquake relief. We used to do stuff like that. Did you know Americans are the statistically most charitable people on earth?

You know who knows that? Iranians. They like Americans. They like our movies, our TV, our rock and roll. Everyone in Iran has a cousin who came to America and found success as a doctor, an engineer, or Christiane Amanpour.

And they’re pretty generous people themselves. I visited a mosque and on the way out they forced me to take two crates of juice boxes. I stuck my nose into a clothing store and walked out with a free men’s suit, tailored to fit me. Need to get somewhere? Just hold out your hand. A passing driver will pick you up, and if he’s heading in the right direction, take you closer. Two or three hops like this will get you anywhere you want to go. So to any children listening: if you’re in an enemy country, always take rides from strangers.

And then there was the Feast of Imam Hussein. It’s a sad holiday commemorating the martyrdom of Muhammud’s grandson. Women wail and slap their chests. Men walk the streets, whipping themselves with chains. But not too hard. I’ve had massages that were more painful. The fact is that the Iranians are like my people the Jews: there’s no holiday so sad that you can’t make a banquet out of it. Strangers invited us into their home for a huge chicken and rice dinner. As we were leaving, they handed us two more chicken dinners to go. Who else keeps to-go cartons in their home?

As I walked the teeming streets, filled with wailing women and whipping dudes, more strangers handed me chicken dinners. Soon, I was overburdened, carrying more meals than I could handle. I looked like a Christmas tree decorated with chicken dinners.

My final meal of the trip was with some friends of friends in Northern Tehran, the Beverly Hills of Iran. They had a big beautiful home and it featured something I hadn’t seen for eighteen days: booze. Alcohol is illegal in Iran, but, like America’s Prohibition, if you want it, you can get it. This family had a personal bootlegger who brought top-shelf liquor to their back door at night. Some of it looked a little… fake, including Marker’s Make Bourbon and a brand of vodka called Absolutely. After a lovely dinner, the family gave us two more dinners to take with us.

That was a decade ago, and since then I’ve been begging my wife to go back to Iran. She says no.

“No?” I say incredulous. I miss the people, the sights, and the amazing hospitality. Plus, we finally ate the last chicken dinner.

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