June 1st 2008

Today I travelled to the heart of old Tehran – in the more congested and chaotic south of the city. I took a shared taxi from Tajrish Square to Vanak Square, switching cabs to take me to Arzentin Square, near the city’s central bus station. From there, I searched in vain for the metro station and finally decided to take another cab to Haft-e-Tir Square. From there, a helpful man from my cab showed me the entrance to the metro. I crowded into the men’s compartment of the metro and was whisked quickly to Imam Khomeni Square – the starting point for any real tourist in the city. I walked quickly out of the metro and promptly got lost, until three helpful vagabonds showed me the way to Park-e-Shahr. I passed many grand museums on my way until I turned right off the crowded main road into the park.

Arzentin Square


Tehran Metro


A museum in down-town Tehran

The park was truly was a breath of calm in the middle of the city. I snapped away with my camera as I made a beeline for Sofre Khane Sangelag, the famous teahouse in the middle of the park. My Lonely Planet guidebook had once again steered me in just the right direction. I escaped from the heat and entered a beautiful traditional teahouse with rich maroon carpets strung on the walls and spread across the floor. Patrons lay lazily on the diwans along the wall smoking hookas and sipping hot chai. The waiter directed me to one of the communal diwans.

Sofre Khane Sonnati Sangelag

Within a few minutes the curious Persian next to me had noticed my strange Farsi accent and had poured me a cup of tea to introduce himself. I chatted with Mehdi and his friends for nearly an hour, my Farsi growing more confident as the minutes wore on. Mehdi helped me with the elaborate dish I had unknowingly ordered – the traditional Iranian dizi, a delicious stew that is eaten in two phases. Mehdi drained the soup from the steaming pot the dish arrived in and mashed the soft nan into the soup. It was simply delicious. I emptied the bowl and prepared to lay back and allow my full stomach its due rest. That was until Saeedi protested. That was only the appetizer; the real dizi was still to come. Mehdi removed the meat that remained at the bottom of the pot and mashed it into my bowl. He then offered me his preparation and motioned towards the nan muttering the customary befarmoeed – “here you go.” The conversation drifted from bollywood to Indian food, from studying in America to politics in India. When I asked them of politics in Iran, they smiled and quickly deferred – choosing instead to speak about inequality and poverty. They took their leave, but not before a photo-shoot. We took many pictures and exchanged email addresses and phone numbers. Mehdi told me that when I visit the labyrinthine Tehran bazaar, I must give him a call and visit his clothing store.

Mehdi and his gang

On the way back I took the bus. It was slow and hot. I was befriended by a trio of young men who insisted on speaking with me in their atrocious English. We discussed Bollywood. After offers of alcohol and Irani pornographic stories on their mobile phones, they made their exit onto Valie-Asr Avenue.