While other musicians such as Alan Jackson, John Rich, Corb Lund (to name a few), are preoccupied with singing songs that praise the more simpler things in life, Brad seems to have taken a different direction. I get tired at times hearing country songs that go on and on about nothing but farms, hillbillies, barrooms, drinking, cheating, old people imparting life lessons, nationalism, going to church, how great it is to totally live the authentic country way etc etc etc, lather, rinse, repeat. These are inevitably regurgitated, since these themes are after all the bedrock of country music, but I have to wonder if there is more that can be offered.

I dig the fact that the track “Welcome to the Future” recognizes the accomplishments of people like Rosa Parks and Barack Obama while managing not to associate itself with any political platform or stance. I also dig the fact that the song, as well as the album’s title track, not only recognizes the ubiquity of technology and how most things in life tend to revolve around it, but readily accepts the all-too-true multiracial and multicultural nature and make-up of America and the world as we see it today – two concepts rarely addressed in country. This is something you almost never see in country music. For that, and for the excellent video below which helps debunk the stereotype that country music can only be understood by the conservative white Christian demographic (if yours truly isn’t already testament to the mendacity of that belief, since I do not belong to any of those three categorizations), I forgive the insipid black hole of boredom that was “Then”, and welcome you to the new, multifaceted world and future of country music.

Even if you don’t like country, the take-home message will surely resonate with you regardless.

(Plus, you gotta love Tokyo and the awesome Japanese people in the video.)

Welcome to the Future – Brad Paisley

And I’d have given anything
To have my own PacMan game at home
I used to have to get a ride down to the arcade
Now I’ve got it on my phone

Hey
Glory, glory, hallelujah
Welcome to the future

My grandpa was in World War II
He fought against the Japanese
He wrote a hundred letters to my grandma
Mailed ‘em from his base in the Philippines

I wish they could see this now
Where they say this change can go
‘Cause I was on a video chat this morning
With a company in Tokyo

Hey
Everyday is a revolution
Welcome to the future

Hey
Look around it’s all so clear
Hey
Wherever we would go and well, we’re here 
Hey
So many things I never thought I’d see
Happening right in front of me

I thought about him today
Everybody who’s seen what he’s seen
From a woman on a bus
To a man with a dream

Hey
Wake up Martin Luther
Welcome to the future
Hey
Glory, glory, hallelujah
Welcome to the future

The third city of my whirlwind tour to several Middle East countries took place in Tehran, the notorious capital of Iran that is also the largest city in the Middle East. More than 10 million people live in the city alone, with youths making up the majority. Perhaps I may be used to living in a small city but I find the place to be absolutely humongous. It is always best to ask for directions first before you venture out into the crazy urban wilderness known as Tehran, lest you be consumed by the unceasing traffic jams on the roads, confusing non-English street signs and the poor quality of the city’s dry air. It is advisable to bring along with you a good supply of lip balms and face moisturizers if you have sensitive skin, as well as a map of the city’s landmarks and attractions should you ever run out of friendly Iranians to serve as guides.

From Isfahan, we traveled overnight to Tehran via an 8 hour bus ride. This is a much better option than flying into Tehran because then you’ll get complimentary front row seats to the amazing Iranian landscape at dawn, which is filled with gorgeous mountains, quaint little farmlands, rolling hills and large plots of land and desert that seem to extend perpetually beyond the horizon. Having been living in a small, densely populated city for most of my life, such rare, ephemeral moments are a welcome sight for sore eyes. Isfahan was nice, but back then we only stuck to the inner boundaries of the city, never venturing out to examine other kinds of beauty that Iran has to offer, so the bus ride was an incredibly refreshing experience.

The Tehran leg of our journey was a little unconventional accommodation-wise. You might have heard of a phenomenon called “couch-surfing,” which is a unique take on the international hospitality exchange concept. The tour agency we had committed ourselves to had linked us up with a local Iranian family living in the city using the system, and we were to spend our remaining days in Tehran with them serving as our hosts and personal tour guides.

My group, consisting of six from my family plus a young Malay couple, newlyweds Jasmin & Naz, was to meet our couch-surfing host, Youssef, at a large square somewhere north-west of the city so the tour bus dropped us off at that point. Driving around Tehran some things that you are bound to notice include the symbolic Freedom Tower, Azadi Square, and the numerous anti-Western banners spouting anti-American slogans. The subliminal propaganda ranged from the infamous “Down with the U.S.A” banner to ones that depict a huge cross against a backdrop of the flag of Israel; others are harsher, proclaiming “Death to America” and “Death to Israel” as well as large portraits of various Ayatollahs that are either perched up onto billboards or hung along the side of buildings.

It was nearly noon by the time we reached the square. After saying goodbye to our guide Ihsan, we met Youssef, an unassuming young man in his early twenties, who had been patiently waiting for our arrival. To get to his house, we had to take a short 30 minute cab ride (we split into two cabs, with Danial sitting on my lap) and Youssef was insistent on paying for the fares. In the end, after a little persuasion from us, he finally agreed to pay the fare for just one of the cabs, while the rest of the group split the cost for the other. Youssef’s unwavering friendliness and generosity was typical of any Iranian you would meet on the street, much like the young Iranian girls I encountered in Isfahan.

We were welcomed by Youssef’s smiling parents, Ali Mohsen & Samira, and his brother Younus at the door, and together they helped us bring our luggage into the house. We were given a tour of the compound which was large and had six spacious rooms, three of which were for guests, as well as a beautiful garden and a small swimming pool at the rear. The place exuded a pleasant, homely vibe, it’s walls adorned with a ton of family portraits, photos and several snapshots of the Holy Ka’abah. I roomed with Danial & Raz in one of the private bedrooms on the second floor, while the women had two rooms to share amongst themselves. I was also relieved that each room had it’s own bathroom, so we avoided having to fight tooth and nail over who gets to shower first in the morning.

It was nearly two by the time we settled down and our hosts invited us to have lunch together. Youssef’s mother Samira had been waiting for our arrival so she had cooked up a storm. Delicious Iranian dishes were served, such as the traditional herbal soup Gormeh sabzi (consisting of mutton, parsley, coriander and a host of other herbs unfamiliar to a culinary-ignorant person like me), Fesenjān which is stew made from pomegranate, nuts and spiced chicken served with yellow Persian rice, a tasty pastry called Baklava made from some kind of sweet dough and consumed with honey, as well as a simple dish consisting of Basmati white rice peppered with sweet gravy, onion and meat. We helped ourselves eagerly to the food, famished after the draining bus ride from Isfahan. Danial refused to eat when I tried to feed him, probably because he was too exhausted as he had trouble sleeping on the bus the night before. In the end Youssef offered him a Ferrero Rocher to munch on, which the little monster accepted earnestly, and after he took his time unwrapping and devouring the candy, I brought him upstairs to our room where he quickly fell asleep on the bed. So much for chocolate being able to boost one’s adrenaline level.

The lunch was an excellent way for us to get to know more about our remarkably gracious hosts. Youssef was enrolled in the Amirkabir University of Technology as an aerospace engineering student, while his elder brother Younus worked as a doctor in one of the government hospitals located in the city centre. Ali Mohsen was a retired policeman, and he went to great lengths showing us numerous ceremonial photos, shiny certificates and various accolades that represented the “pinnacle” of his career. He also recounted to us his experience as a young Iranian who took part in pro-revolution demonstrations during the 1979 Islamic Revolution, specifically the infamous incident where they seized the American Embassy in Tehran and held numerous Americans hostage for 444 days. 

Samira, on the other hand, used to work for the International Red Cross as a young nurse, working in countries like Jordan, Germany, Greece, France and the former USSR. She had attended the 1972 Munich Olympics held in then-West Germany, and although she said she does not view Israel favorably, she condemned the Munich massacre which saw numerous Jewish athletes from the Israeli Olympic team taken hostage and murdered by Palestinian gunmen.

I found Ali Mohsen to be a jovial, boisterous man who always had a smile and a genial disposition about him, and his wife possessed an equally jubilant personality. Ali Mohsen’s family had originated from the north-eastern city of Mashhad, while Samira hailed from a mixed Azeri and Arab family from Khuzestan (she also spoke fluent Arabic, German and a smattering of Russian gained from working briefly in the former Soviet Union), but when I asked them if they would ever consider migrating to another country should Iran become too politically unstable, they were adamant about the fact that Tehran would always be their home. Younus was a little reserved at first, but as I would discover later, he too had apparently inherited his parents’ affable charm and engaging personality. They were a big-hearted, good-natured bunch, and I appreciated having the opportunity to be a guest in their beautiful home.

Of course, after that heavy lunch and having spent more than half a day on the road, we all became incredibly sleepy! My mother, Leilah and Naz soon made their way to their respective rooms for some much-needed shut-eye, while Aunt Nora, Juliah, Jasmin and me hung out with the brothers and Ali Mohsen in their living room to watch DVDs. Imagine my surprise when the title Schindler’s List caught my eye as I was going through their collection! Definitely not a movie you would expect Iranians to watch. In the end though we tuned in to Identity (starring the indomitable John Cusack) and Black Hawk Down, with Ali Mohsen disapproving the latter, saying that he disliked the way the “idealistic American heroes,” as he phrased it, were portrayed and blatantly overplayed in the film. He pointed to one end of the room, saying, “The real truth is there” while pointing to the other end of the room with ”But Hollywood is here. They are never one and the same.”

Youssef then shook his head, told his father something in Persian and said to us that despite whatever his father believed, he would love to visit and study in America and even come to our country one day. Also, Jasmin, as it turned out, was a former student from the University of Chicago where she graduated with a Bachelor’s degree in Economics two years ago, so she and Youssef swapped stories about college life.

Meanwhile I talked to Younus about how work-life was as a medical professional in the city, seeing that I had almost gotten into a rather similar profession had I opted to have followed through with my biology major. I also wanted to know if Iranian science was being used for things other than the country’s alleged nuclear enrichment programme, such as research & development in potentially lucrative fields like stem cells and genomics. Younus said research institutes are mostly centralized and tightly regulated by the conservative government, and admitted that it was challenging to find a job in the medical field, as each year there are thousands of medical students graduating from universities across Iran. He added that government jobs in Tehran were competitive, hard to get, and sometimes a little biased in favor of families that have affiliations with the government or the notorious Revolutionary Guards. “But how to implement meritocracy when democracy cannot even be trusted here?” he lamented.

When dusk came Samira had already cooked us dinner, which we all eagerly wolfed down without hesitation. This time there were Persian kebabs, an Arabic dish called Baba ghanosh I had encountered before in Cairo but this time served Azeri-style with a side of spicy tabbouleh (shake shake that tabbouleh), some mutton and fresh pita bread, and dessert being a unique rice pudding called Shol-e-Zard that I instantly fell in love with. Note to self: the days of take-away and surviving on instant noodles are over, hire an Iranian chef instead! A friend Maya commented that I looked a little plump after the trip, which I believe can be attributed to the few pounds I gained just by devouring Samira’s cooking alone. Heartburn! Forget Curtis Stone — this woman is the new Take Home Chef!

After dinner Maghrib prayer (shalat) was carried out. It is interesting to note that Shi’ite Muslims place a tiny stone (called the turba, from the holy city of Najaf) onto their prayer mat, so that when they carry out prostration (sujud) during prayer their heads touch the stone, which is considered an act of religious significance. Nighttime soon took over but since everyone was still a little weary, we agreed to stay in. The night was cool and you could feel a slight breeze wafting through if you opened the windows, although the atmosphere curiously carried that inconspicuous scent of petroleum in the air. The air quality can be capricious at times; sometimes the air is fresh, other times you might feel a little put off by the bad quality.

Samira and my mom were soon drawn into a discussion about baking and cooking and it was not long till they were in the kitchen, trading recipes and my mom telling her how to make Italian biscotti and Kelantan-style kuih makmur (Malay peanut cookie). Ali Mohsen showed the newlyweds various photos from his wedding with Samira, while Younus engaged Aunt Nora in a heated political debate about something related to the Islamic caliphate system and some egalitarianism-linked issue about women having to wear chadors in Iran, which no doubt made for a thorny and politically-charged discussion. Aunt Nora, unlike my mother, tends to be fiercely vocal about her fairly liberal views on a lot of things, and I see eye to eye with her more than I do with my own highly conservative parents.

Meanwhile Youssef brought me and the twins to a spacious study room, where the family also kept their music. Thick piles of CDs and old vinyl records were unsystematically stacked in a couple of cabinets in a corner of the room, while a huge phonograph resting atop a small desk dominated over the rest of the room’s furniture. A few discs and some posters were carelessly strewn across the floor, although Youssef appeared nonchalant about the haphazard state of the room.

“I want you to hear Iranian-made music.” he simply said, popping in a CD into the nearby radio. Music from an Iranian hip-hop artist called Eblis played from the speakers. Although the language used was Persian, the beat and melody sounded very much like the kind of generic hip-hop music that is being mass-produced and marketed for MTV these days. I asked him, “You do know what Eblis means in Arabic, right?” He just laughed. He also showed us old records he had collected; Bob Dylan, Simon & Garfunkel, Pink Floyd, The Eagles, KC & the Sunshine Band etcetera, although his all-time favorite musicians were Neil Young and Iraqi singer Kazem al-Saher. There were also other records by his father and Younus in the piles, amongst them a musty old CD by Cher! But, he pointed out, now that they have computers and widespread file-sharing, obtaining music was no longer much of a problem. “Although in ten, twenty years CDs will be very, very trendy, like vinyls.” he joked. So buying physical CDs now would be like a long-term investment or something.

I uploaded some songs from his iTunes onto my iPod, much of it from al-Saher and several Iranian rock bands, although for some reason the annoying “The Night Chicago Died” made it’s way on board as well. When he requested that I recommend him some artists I listened to, I gave him a couple of “easy-to-listen” country tracks from Brad Paisley, Trisha Yearwood and Blake Shelton, as well as some folk from Justin Rutledge, Ray LaMontagne and indie from Death Cab for Cutie. He seemed surprised by the relative youth of the musicians, telling me the only country he had ever come across was from Willie Nelson, and that he thought the music would be “much different and sound much more sillier” which got me laughing.

We woke up early the next morning and had a hearty breakfast. I ate a couple of hard-boiled eggs, some sweetened bread with grapefruit jam in them and drank home-brewed Iranian tea. Coffee is almost unheard of in Iranian cuisine but if you have an incurable predilection for coffee and absolutely must have some, you will have to either make a special request to whatever restaurant you are currently dining in, or take along with you sachets of instant coffee so you can secretly brew some using hot water. Coffee isn’t a banned beverage in the country like alcohol, but for some mysterious reason Iranians seem to have abandoned drinking it in favor of tea. By the time we finished our meal, we learnt that Younus had already left for work and Ali Mohsen had driven to a nearby mosque for some religious activities, so Youssef offered to take us to several “must-see” attractions within the city.

The modes of intra-city transportation to get around Tehran without breaking our wallets were the underground subway and metro bus system, so we all boarded cabs which drove us to a subway station. As far as public transportation goes in the Middle East, the infrastructure established in Tehran, while not without inherent flaws, is at the very least much better than some of the lackadaisical transport services offered in places like Cairo and Damascus. Getting around using public transport should not be problematic, provided that you know how to communicate exactly where you want to go when asking passing Iranians for directions. Taking the underground subway is a more frugal alternative as it is cheaper and convenient, compared to the irregular fare rates charged by some taxis (especially when they know you are tourists, plus you need to have a flair for haggling so you don’t always feel ripped off), although you will most likely never face a shortage of taxis on the streets of Tehran.

The bus system however, can take a little getting used to. Most times you need to take different buses successively to get to a specific destination (at times the place is only accessible by cars and taxis), which means it is absolutely imperative to do some early planning of your bus route lest you be stranded in some alien district within the city.

If it was even possible, I found Iranian drivers and motorists to be even more kamikaze than those found in Cairo! Even though streets tend to be always congested, Iranian drivers are masters in the art of dangerous driving; red lights and traffic rules are followed only when absolutely necessary. Crossing roads without dying can be considered a minor accomplishment of sorts. And while on the subject of vehicles in Iran, one thing you’ll notice about the cars on the streets is that a lot of them are old Peugeot models. You might spot a Suzuki or Hyundai but most likely the cars you’ll see are ancient and decrepit, thanks largely to American sanctions after the Islamic Revolution which effectively stunted the growth of the country’s car-making industry.

From the station we boarded a train that was bound south and arrived at our destination. Earlier on Youssef wanted to pay for our subway tickets, but we politely refused. Nearby there was the shrine to Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, whom you would recall was the leader of the 1979 Revolution and “founder” of the Islamic Republic of Iran that we see today. So naturally, one would want to visit the site that pays tribute to one of the most important historical figures in Iran’s modern history. The shrine resembled a divine mosque and palace, and you could clearly see a large gold dome emerging from the center of the building with four ascending gold minarets at the four corners surrounding it. If you wanted to go in, there were separate entrances for the two genders. Shoes had to be taken off though before you enter, in line with the traditional custom widespread across Asia (which also extends to the homes of people).

Inside the place was packed with Iranians paying respects to their late leader, with an equal mix of men and women, some even with kids. The Ayatollah was encased in a large, beautifully-decorated box-coffin, with verses and passages from the Holy Qur’an elaborately engraved on it. Some of the women were crying, although their veils did not reveal much of their facial features, while most of the men appeared deep in thought, an expression of quiet reflection etched on their faces. For some reason I sensed a kind of tense electricity in the air, like as if I was in a place where I didn’t belong, like I was intruding on someone else’s time of grief.

We didn’t stay long however, and Youssef quickly brought us to Behesht-e-Zahra, a gargantuan martyrs’ cemetery that is within walking distance from the shrine. (This is also the place where Neda Agha-Soltan, the innocent young woman who was killed during post-election violence in Tehran less than two months ago and made headlines across the world, was buried, which happened months after I had left Iran.) Behesht-e-Zahra represents a very significant site in the mind of older Iranians — to them, this is the place where their brothers, relatives and friends killed during the horrifying war between Iran and Iraq were buried. Nearly four hundred thousand people died between the devastating 1980-1989 conflict, which started when then-Iraqi President Saddam Hussein invaded southern neighbor Kuwait and later on invaded Iranian territory.

Like the shrine, the place was filled with a lot of people mourning the dead. There are two things you will notice: 1) you will notice lots of flower shops near the cemetery as well as people selling flowers along the side of roads, 2) There are these so-called “children grave-keepers” who will offer to clean up and wash a grave for you in return for a very, very small sum of money. The sight of these kids having to spend their childhood this way, through the selling of flowers by the roadside and doing manual labor, absolutely breaks my heart. This should never be the way for any child to grow up.

We walked amongst rows and rows of gravestones that had the names of the martyrs engraved, some with pictures of the deceased and some had a box where the martyr’s family would place all sorts of things inside. I spent a good fifteen minutes, away from the group and with Danial in hand, walking amongst the gravestones and peering into the contents of some of the boxes. One had a smiling picture of a pretty young woman in traditional garb whom I could only guess was the martyr’s widow. When Youssef told me approximately how many soldiers and innocent civilians died during the war, which many Iranians still speak passionately about, the huge figure sort of went over my head. In my very short life I have neither experienced nor seen a war with my own eyes, only learnt about them in books and in the news, so wartime casualty figures tend to appear as nothing more than just generic statistics and numbers; each dead body as anonymous and nameless as the next. I felt like I was just some meddling tourist shamelessly gawking at the pain and grief of another people who have experienced the devastating effects of armed conflict.

A late lunch was next. Changing our money into Iranian currency was a little tricky. We thought having things like credit cards and withdrawing money from ATMs would help, but these apparently do not (or rarely ever) work in Iran. Only Iranian credit cards could be used to withdraw money from banks, but we didn’t want to burden Youssef so we used the moneychangers (who sometimes charge absurd additional commission rates) to trade in our dollars for Iranian currency. Because the United States has enforced numerous economic sanctions on Iran due to the ongoing nuclear programme, international banks and banks from our home country (considered a United States ally) cannot not be accessed in Iran. There are other alternatives to circumvent this, such as utilizing a complicated credit card transaction route through Dubai, but these usually charge additional commission fares and you could end up paying hundreds of dollars for their services. In other words: Bring lots and lots of hard cash and dollars with you if you intend to embark on a shopping binge.

We had lunch at an Italian restaurant which served ciabatta sandwiches, tender fillets, pasta and one of my favorite foods ever, risotto. A lot of the patrons were youths with rather liberal dress codes, and me and Juliah made friends with an Iranian guy called Ramadhan. He was having a meal with his friends, two other guys and two girls at a table nearby. The first thing he wanted to know about us was where we were from since we do not look Iranian. We talked a little about ourselves, and I found out that he was a student at Tehran University. I asked him he knew Tayyebah, the girl I met in Isfahan who also went there. He joked that it was hard to tell women apart there as they all wore chadors of the same color. Quite surprisingly, he then offered to pay for our food. We were surprised and wanted to tell him that he barely knew us! Of course we declined because it wasn’t appropriate but he offered again.

Later on I asked Youssef about it and he said they have a system called “tarroof,” where sometimes Iranians will either refuse money or offer to pay three times — Iranian hospitality dictates that one time is never enough. Funny how outside Iran most of us accept a vehement “no” at face value, while in Iran a proclamation of such needs to be repeated thrice before it sinks in. These people are just too nice, sometimes unbelievably so; perhaps this is why I felt so comfortable in the city. If you met the right people, you could even spend days in Iran without spending a single cent!

After lunch the women demanded to go somewhere for shopping so Youssef took us to what was called the “Grand Bazaar of Tehran” which he claimed was the largest bazaar in the world. Ihsan told us exactly the same thing for the bazaar in Cairo and the one back in Isfahan. We took the subway, the most accessible mode of transport to reach the place, although the train carriages were a little packed. Must be grocery shopping day for Iranians. As per the norm in Iranian society, men and women have to be sequestered for public transport. Carriages explicitly designated for women do not allow men in them at all, while women are allowed to traverse along the mens-only areas although they will usually just stick to their carriages.

I was standing there carrying Danial with Raz nearby while at the same time talking to an Iranian guy who seemed curious by our presence. Perhaps it was because Danial was sporting an L.A Lakers T-shirt and cap. Again, I was asked if we were lost. The guy’s name was Hedayat and we chatted for the duration of the ride. Fortunately he didn’t assume that Danial was my son. I found out that Hedayat was a trainee chef and his dream was to open his own restaurant in France one day. He was heading to the market to pick up some spices and other ingredients for some event he was involved in, although the way he dressed belied the fact that he was a chef! He had his hair spiked in a crazed kind of way and he was wearing a leather jacket, which was unorthodox apparel in contrast to the conservative attire of the older Iranian men in the train. I think this is the only way the youths of Iran feel they can do to rebel against the conservative Iranian government – at the very least doing so is not likely to get them arrested or beaten up by the morality police. I liked that rebellious element in them. Before we parted ways I gave him Danial’s Lakers cap because he seemed genuinely interested in it for some reason.

The bazaar was huge as promised, in size and in the crowd it attracted. There is only one thing that you must know about the place: it is too easy to get yourself lost. Pickpockets are also rife. The small alleyways and corridors within the bazaar are constantly congested, noisy and are tragically unventilated, and weave in just about in all directions which may very well extend beyond a jaw-dropping nine or ten kilometres in distance! A reason for the poor condition of the place is that the Iranian government places less importance on the development of the bazaar, instead preferring to channel their resources to other areas of the city, leaving the place preserved and largely untouched since it was established some 300-plus years ago.

However the bazaar is an excellent place to experience traditional Iranian culture up close and personal, where traders and shopkeepers hawk their wares such as cheap trinkets, Persian rugs and carpets, traditional spices and fruits, inexpensive watches, clothes as well as a variety of common everyday produce. There are also what I call “mobile salesmen” where people selling goods drag their stuff around, and at times their sales pitch consists of them grabbing you by the shoulder and shoving their products in your face until you find something interesting to purchase. Sometimes you will need to decide on a price for whatever you are buying, since the hawkers tend to overcharge tourists and you need to be able to sense when you are about to get ripped off. I enjoyed the haggling and the arguing with the shopkeepers, sometimes even getting away with goods at heavily discounted rates even when they were already cheap in the first place! I bought some caviar sourced from the Caspian Sea at a ridiculously low rate, although the shopkeeper did not seem to mind.

The place might be a little overwhelming at first especially if you are used to shopping at trendy, air-conditioned malls, but take it in good spirit and splurge. Most of the stuff is cheap, and the people certainly love it when tourists overspend. The beggars roaming around might get you a little depressed or make you feel a tad guilty, but it’s all part and parcel of the vibrant, bustling Iranian-style market environment which I enjoyed.

It was getting dark by the time we headed back to Youssef’s place. In the end he somehow managed to convince us that he would pay for our ride, perhaps because we were all too tired to argue. That night Samira cooked for us another fabulous dinner, so we proceeded to engorge ourselves shamelessly. After dinner Samira, my mom and Jasmin proceeded to the kitchen where they baked my mom’s Milo cookies and strawberry tarts, while the rest of us glued ourselves to the couch to watch 300 which, according to Ali Mohsen, was “thumbs down” since he thought the film did not portray the ancient Persians favorably. I wondered then how exactly a movie as violent and brainless such as 300 could ever portray anything according to expectations, much less be in line with historical accuracy.

Afterwards the rest retreated upstairs to their rooms while I stayed with Youssef in the living room. While waiting for the women to finish baking their cookies, we watched The Simpsons on DVD. There was this one funny episode where Homer defiantly purchases an RV after Marge starts channeling the Scrooge over some life insurance matter, and they have a huge argument after Homer and his RV friends swarm the Simpsons’ backyard, and in true hillbilly style, start creating a ruckus by singing the tongue-twisting song “I’ve Been Everywhere.” In Homer’s words: “What about me, Marge, what about my womanly needs?!” Classic Homer!

While lazing on the couch we talked a little about ourselves. I found that Youssef’s dream was to be a pilot someday. He expressed interest in working for the aviation industry in Iran, although he acknowledged that such jobs are hard to come by in the country. He did not know what he would do though, if his degree in aerospace engineering failed to get him a permanent job. “I could work for NASA.” he joked, but I sympathized with his plight. Iran may be a growing power in the Middle East, but in terms of economic progress, there leaves a lot to be desired. Oil wealth in Iran does not immediately guarantee wealth for its citizens. If anything, Iran’s apparent wealth in the precious natural resource has fomented growing resentment among it’s own people, who complain that they do not profit at all from it. There are a lot of jobless youths in Iran, according to Youssef, even though a lot of them have the sufficient educational qualifications.

When he asked me how things were for youths back home, I wasn’t sure how to answer. I wanted to say that youths like me often count themselves as among the luckiest in the world; we haven’t seen any riots, wars or political unrest found so commonly elsewhere. Students here have an excellent education system that can take them far as long as they persevere, plus our airport, airline and efficient workforce are frequently rated as one of the best in the world. I’ve been thankful for the opportunities my country has given me, so what can I say to a young person from another country who hasn’t had such opportunities given to him? I felt a tad guilty so I just told him, “It’s very good. You’ll have to come and visit if you want to see for yourself.” When I asked him if he was planning to vote for the election, he shook his head and said he would rather not participate. A new government, he said, would not solve anything as policies cannot just revolutionize the country overnight. Remaining apolitical was a way for him to preserve himself in case anything went wrong.

The next day we had only the morning and early afternoon for more sightseeing. Our flight to Damascus was scheduled for 10.30 that night and we had to be at Imam Khomeini Airport by 7. Youssef and Younus brought us by bus to some museums located 30 minutes away from the house. These museums were former palaces whose former resident was none other than Shah Reza of Iran. The place itself was huge, you could lose yourself wandering around the halls of each palace, admiring the paintings and expensive furniture scattered across the numerous rooms.

After that we walked to a nearby Square to board a bus that took us to Taleqani Avenue, where we could see the former American Embassy in the distance, surrounded by walls decorated with murals. Some of them had words painted on them, with propaganda like “The United States of America is the most hated state” and “Defy the wild wolf of Zionism” and referring to America as “the Great Satan” with a distasteful depiction of the Statue of Liberty having a skull for a head. Youssef had warned us to take photos as discreetly as possible, as the place was under constant camera surveillance by the Iranian authorities.

As we strolled along the perimeter Younus supplied us with more information about the place, describing how the embassy was seized by the Iranians thirty years ago, which started when President Jimmy Carter allowed the Shah into the United States for cancer treatment. The seizing of the Embassy and the hostage-taking of numerous Americans within it had eventually led to the U.S and Iran severing diplomatic ties permanently, and the incident was part of the larger Islamic Revolution that brought Ayatollah Khomeini to prominence in 1979.

Younus was concerned that we might get picked up by the authorities just by hanging around too long so we moved on and explored the area near the place, which had parks and even hotels. We then took a metro that shuttled us to a shopping mall, where we shopped around for a while before settling down for lunch at a Chinese restaurant. The place was a little crowded so we had to wait for ten minutes before there were seats available. I noticed one funny trend though: some of the people at the mall had little bits of bandages pasted onto their noses! When I asked Youssef he laughed and said they were “pretending.” Wearing the bandage on one’s nose in Iran apparently means that one has undergone plastic surgery, which is a way of asserting a person’s hip and trendy image. It is like a symbol of status or something for the people there. Which I thought made little sense. And crazy! If that is true, then the cosmetic surgery profession must be the only thing other than the oil & gas industry powering the Iranian economy these days!

After lunch we headed back to the house by bus to pack our bags, albeit reluctantly. Before we headed out the door Samira passed us some traditional cookies made of raisin and some baked bread she had packed for our journey to Syria, which was really touching. With heavy hearts we traveled to the Square nearby and waited for our original tour bus to pick us up. Before saying goodbye I traded e-mails with Youssef and we promised to keep in touch. He was adamant about the fact that he enjoyed our company and that should I ever find myself in Tehran one day in the future, I would always be welcome to his home. I told him I wouldn’t pass it up and that Iran, regardless of whatever major I’d be taking in university, would probably remain as one of my top choices for study abroad destinations, should I be presented with the opportunity to do so in the future.

Even moment of our time spent in Iran was memorable - the incredible hospitality of the Iranians we met, the personal tours of the city thanks to Youssef & Younus, the fabulous home-cooked food Samira served us…I could go on and on.

It is very sad to see such a heartwarming people be denied so many opportunities, be it due to the government or through the numerous sanctions imposed by foreign countries. Iran is such a beautiful place and I pray that my brothers and sisters there will be able to rise above this despite the suffering they have had to go through, Inshaallah.

More pictures after the jump:

(impressive Freedom Tower at Azadi Square)

(the stylish underground metro system)

(at least the government acknowledges that AIDS exists in the country)

(Shi’ites inside the Shrine of Ayatollah Khomeini)

(nighttime skyline of the city)

Pictures of some of the government propaganda within the city:

(anything goes on the streets of Tehran)

 (outside the White Palace located at the Saad Abad Complex)

(the lavish interior of the palaces)

See ya soon

Marge: Homer, stop reading that Ross Perot pamphlet.

Currently addicted to: Something mildly melancholic. While I am not a big fan of Billy, I find this track quite moving.

Walk a Little Straighter – Billy Currington

From Current TV: “Vanguard producer Lauren Cerre zigzags from Los Angeles to New York on bus, stopping to talk to young Americans about national issues affecting them in the lead up to the election.”

I love it.

Take it away, kid:

I called up Anna afterwards and asked if we could meet up for coffee or something, someone I could sit down with and just talk. Her response to my offer was a question about A.D, if I was planning on getting back together. I sidestepped the question, partly because too many people have been asking that, and I am tired of having to explain to them why it can’t and won’t work. Also, she had things planned for the rest of the evening, so we agreed to meet up the next day.

And there we were: What started as a lunch “date” became a full-blown shopping spree. Nothing is more dangerous than a determined, hard-headed female with a bag full of cash and the unabashed display of branded goods and clothes within reach. Seriously though, as an XY-chromosomed male talking here, what is it about the transaction of cash for goods that is so innately appealing to women? The barter system seemed so much simpler back when our ancestors practiced it. Also, I suppose I don’t need to enlighten anyone about the outrageous GST surcharge rate that is being imposed these days. Impossible to avoid in a society highly entrenched in socialism.

Anna dragged me to this huge music and DVD store to get her hands on some hot Korean serial drama girls are watching these days. As I was (predictably) browsing through the roots and country section and scoffing at the meager selection of artists available (mostly mainstream artists like Kenny Chesney, Keith Urban, Carrie Underwood and oh, of course, pseudo-country’s most beloved, Miss Taylor Swift, although I was pleasantly surprised to discover a Johnny Horton compilation), I noticed a Johnny Cash greatest hits package going for $69.90. And what a deal.

The box set included extended DVDs for Cash’s famous performances at San Quentin and Folsom Prison, the amazing biopic film Walk the Line starring Joaquin Phoenix and Reese Witherspoon yo, which I cannot believe I have yet to watch, packaged along with bonus features and the 1970 soundtrack disc to the older movie version, a Best of the Johnny Cash TV Show DVD from 1969-1971 which includes performances by Loretta Lynn, Bob Dylan & Creedence Clearwater Revival, the debut album from the Highwaymen, the Live from Austin, Texas album + DVD, and a Ring of Fire: The Best of Johnny Cash album (which I already have). Still, what man could resist such an enticing deal? I am aware that no “Greatest Hits” package on planet Earth can do the entire catalogue of the King of Country justice, but this is a pretty damn good find at a reasonable price. Plus, paycheck had arrived the day before, so I was a little more lenient in forking out the moolah.

When I got to the counter, the salesgirl behind the cashier took her time inspecting the product.

“This is a big box.” she announced matter-of-factly. She was ethnic Chinese, but spoke with a thick Australian accent. A former Australian college student then, or one back for her summer vacation, I assumed.

“Yes.” I replied, not really sure what to say.

“I mean, wow, this is a big box.”

“Yes, I noticed.”

“You shore you can tayke this home?”

“Why?”

“Nothing. It’s just too heavy. Wow, JC, huh? You a big fan?” She started poking at the box for some inane reason.

“Um, yes. Can I pay?”

“Wow, it looks expensive. You shore you wanna pay for this?”

“Isn’t that why I’m here?” I tried grabbing the base of the box to stop her incessant poking, but she pulled it out of my reach and plonked it hard down onto the counter. I was pissed.

“It’s cool. I like big packages too.” She gave me a wink. I resisted giving her the bird. 

Afterwards I told Anna what the salesgirl said. Her conclusion: either the girl was a lesbian, which would have explained the liking the whole big packages/boxes a.k.a boobs deal, or she was flirting with me and I was too obsessed trying to preserve the condition of the box to notice. I laughed. And immediately dismissed the latter option, because I would never date a person who thinks the weight of Johnny Cash is too much of a burden to carry around.

And that, dear readers, is one of many reasons why I’ll probably remain single for a good, long while.

Now, off to watch Witherspoon at her best!

See ya soon

“Welcome to New York, now go the fuck home.” – Johnny Cash

Currently addicted to: One of the best songwriters modern folk & alternative country has ever seen. Plus, you’re gonna want to marry a girl of your own too after listening to the track, so you can both sleep on the roofs of people’s homes and ride bicycles happily towards the Utopian sunset.

Sweetie – Josh Rouse