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Tehran, Iran, 2014
Opening the curtains, I let the sunlight of a new day fill the room and, tiptoeing past my mother-in-law's room, hurried to the kitchen to have some coffee. We decided to have breakfast outdoors.
The city is almost empty, and the sky is clear. Without exceeding the speed limit, we move along with the general flow of traffic. Ahead, the mountains rise like a wall, their snow-capped peaks standing out. On the closest one is the Tochal Ski Resort. That’s where we plan to go today.
A favourite track by the band Archive "Again" is playing. For the first time, after witnessing the scale of a foreign metropolis, the question pops into my mind: "What am I doing here?" This question will arise periodically throughout my stay — sometimes completely unexpectedly on the street, among a crowd where everyone is rushing about their business, and at other times, very quietly, in a dimly lit room, somewhere between the rubais of Omar Khayyam.
We are standing at the end of a long line for the funicular. Young guys, leaning on skis and snowboards, are wearily waiting to board the cabin that will get up them to the top — to the world of extreme sports and into the heart of real winter. Suddenly, a stranger approaches us and offers his tickets. It turns out he urgently needed to leave for business.
And here we are, at the top. A clear day, without a breeze. My nose starts to sting. I stomp twice and clap three times to restore feeling to my frozen limbs and snap a couple of pictures on my phone. Chilled to the bone, we head back down.
I sit on a bench near the car park, warming myself, greedily clutching a glass of hot coffee in my palms, and carefully observe two elderly Tehranis. They are thoughtfully playing backgammon, sipping black tea.
There’s a legend that once the Indians, seeking to test the intelligence of the Persians, sent them a set of chess, hoping they wouldn’t figure out how to play such a complex game. However, the Persian sage Bozorgmehr not only mastered it with ease but also introduced his own game, which the Indians couldn’t solve for 40 days. It was backgammon.
The men’s age was evident only in the wrinkles, which had become deep furrows on their faces over time. Their slender physiques confirmed my suspicion of their mountain addiction. It was clear they had been in love with them since childhood.
Evening. We’re on our way to a private party. Such events are not uncommon here; parties are more of a way of life. Celebrating with dancing and a large group is officially prohibited in Iran, so many people head out of town to celebrate. We, too, are going to visit new friends to celebrate the ancient fire festival — Chaharshanbe-Suri, which takes place on the eve of the Persian New Year.
While, in other parts of the world, people make wishes, write them on paper, and then wash down the burnt paper with champagne from December 31 to January 1, here everyone is peacefully sleeping or having a late dinner. The countdown to the new year in Iran begins with the start of spring, when nature awakens from its long slumber and brings new life.
The celebration of Nowruz began with the emergence of the solar calendar, which appeared among the peoples of Central Asia and Iran long before the advent of Islam — seven millennia ago.
In Babylon, the holiday was celebrated on the day of the vernal equinox, when nature stirs from its winter sleep. The New Year was marked by masquerades, carnivals, and processions that lasted for 12 days, starting at the end of March, when agricultural work began. People celebrated and enjoyed walks, as work was prohibited during these days.
Later, this tradition was adopted by the Greeks and Egyptians, then passed on to the Romans, and so on.
Translated from Persian, the word "Nowruz" means "new day," and according to the Iranian calendar, it falls on the first day of the month "Farvardin." Bonfires burned along the streets, with children and adults happily jumping over them. According to tradition, this is how people cleanse themselves of all the bad things from the past. On this night, the spirits of the dead could visit their descendants.
A high fence, a blue pool, and a small orchard. We arrived at a house party. Inside, there were DJ turntables, music was playing, and the hosts greeted the guests with smiles. The girls were immediately shown to the bedroom, where they could take off their outerwear and change clothes. This is where the real transformations took place. Like butterflies emerging from a cocoon, oriental beauties in stylish short dresses came out in the main room. Many of the girls, when we first met, asked me how old I was. The house was filled with a cheerful, mutual vibe.
Late at night, the guests went outside and started setting off fireworks. The bright bonfire and loud explosions of firecrackers drove me back inside the house. Such entertainment seemed a bit wild.
And here I am, sinking into an armchair, sipping red wine, and asking a friendly blue-eyed brunette if her eyes were really that colour. Turns out, they were contacts. Suddenly, the music stopped, and the explosions and shouting ceased. Not understanding what was happening, I looked around for my husband. Through a light haze of cigarette smoke, I could see a crowd of people, and other voices were coming from outside the door. A few minutes later, my husband returned and told me that the police had arrived. The party continued, but the music wasn’t as loud, and no more fireworks went off. I found myself thinking that this quieter atmosphere was even cosier.
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