My first encounter

I take off my heavy motorcycle helmet and place it on my iron competitor—my husband’s bike. We’re somewhere on the outskirts of Tehran. Around us stretch yellow-burgundy hills and dry, parched earth. In the distance, young trees have just been planted, their delicate green a quiet contrast to the dust.

The motorcycle broke down right at the top of the hill. I step aside and wait calmly while my beloved husband tries to fix the problem, carefully inspecting the source of the breakdown. Nearby, motocross bikes roar and leap—jumping into the air, diving into valleys, then vanishing behind the foothills.

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly, trying to gather my thoughts. Living in a country without Vogue turned out to be harder than I expected.

My first encounter with the morality police came out of nowhere. We were heading to the annual state book fair, and I hadn’t given a second thought to the length of my pants. It were just a little too short — my bare ankles instantly caught the attention of a stern woman in black. At first, I didn’t understand why she was speaking to my husband. But when he suddenly grabbed my hand and steered us away from the entrance, it became clear: I hadn’t passed the dress code.

That moment sparked an internal conflict — part of me was indignant, while another part tried to soothe the rebellion, insisting this was only temporary.

Then my husband called in his "support service"—his friends. Minutes later, a car pulled up, and we jumped in at the same time. A sharp hit of cannabis filled my nose, and a track by the banned Tehran hip-hop group Zedbazi thumped through the speakers.

Two friends turned around from the front seats, smiling as they passed a “pipe of peace” back and forth. My inner storm began to settle, soothed by the warmth and carefree atmosphere that filled the car.

Later, I learned that what truly connected those two — it was a shared love of nature, especially birds.

At that moment, I felt the stark contrast between two worlds we all constantly try to balance: the legal one and the real one. My friends laughed at our little adventure and handed us saffron ice cream.

Breathing in the crisp mountain air, I climb back onto the motorbike and wrap my arms around the familiar back in front of me. Out here, everything that happens is just a small bump in the road. The main thing is—we’re together. I’m ready for whatever comes next, and I truly believe: this time, the motorcycle won’t break down again.

We get back on the highway and speed toward Tehran.