The Ministry of Guidance Invites You to Not Stay: An American Family in Iran (27 page)

In Iran, Cuban cigars are legal and available; the best and most expensive are sold at the old Hilton, renamed the Esteghlal Hotel, near the Parkway intersection with Vali Asr. The Casa del Habano, a cigar shop that wouldn’t be out of place on Madison Avenue or in St. James’s in London, carries a huge selection of fine cigars at prices to match those in Europe; it is located in the hotel shopping arcade alongside carpet shops, clothing boutiques, and souvenir boutiques, none of which hold any interest for the occasional American tourist or journalist who, if he is a smoker, will gravitate to the store at some point in his stay. The store also keeps a private reserve of cigars, aged Cubans that are in some cases no longer even manufactured, for special occasions, such as the Tehran Cigar Club’s monthly meetings.

The members of the club are a disparate group of Iranian businessmen and lawyers; expat Iranians who maintain homes in Tehran; and Europeans drawn from the handful still living in Tehran. They rotate the duty of hosting club meetings, and the night I was invited to attend, a young man of about twenty-five was the host at his penthouse apartment in one of Iran’s most luxurious and expensive high-rise buildings. He was the son of a powerful businessman who had interests in all kinds of ventures (and was therefore likely to be a
partner of government officials, the Revolutionary Guards, or both) as well as business interests in Dubai, which the son handled to some extent, probably from an equally luxurious sky palace there. A special elevator whisked me up to the top floor, where a second private elevator took me up one more level, opening directly into the apartment.

Huge flat-screen televisions, mounted on two walls in the expansive living room, were tuned to the Persian Music Channel from Dubai, thankfully with the sound on mute. A full wet bar in one corner featured shelves of liquor, stools to perch on, and a bartender in a tuxedo mixing drinks: a welcome sight, but incongruous to say the least. As were the rest of the staff, also in tuxedos, who circulated to take drink orders and distribute canapés and other edible treats. Carrying a generous helping of Johnnie Walker Blue on ice, I stepped out onto the deck, a wraparound terrace with 360-degree views of Tehran unmatched anywhere except at the top of Milad Tower, Tehran’s space needle and its tallest structure. Flames from two or three built-in fire pits—of the kind one might see, if lucky, in Malibu backyards—heated the chilly night air, and sofas and lounge chairs were arrayed everywhere.

I lit a cigarette, sat down, and marveled at the view—until I remembered that I could smoke inside. I returned to a comfortable sofa and chatted for a while with a fellow guest, discussing the economy, the political situation in Iran, and, more important, the somewhat unbelievable apartment we were sitting in. The cigar of the night was announced by a Frenchman, who proceeded to give a long speech in English on its provenance—a Bolívar from the year 2000—mostly gibberish to me, since I can barely recognize the different notes in fine wine, let alone the difference between a fair, good, and exquisite Havana. Still, it was delicious, the better of the only two adjectives I’m equipped to use for tobacco of any kind.

Halfway through smoking the monstrously huge cigar, as I was feeling just a little queasy, dinner was served. I had assumed that “cigar night” meant a few appetizers and some booze, but I had misjudged
my countrymen’s appetite for throwing a good party, which always includes dinner regardless of the occasion. At about this time, our host’s girlfriends—yes, plural—arrived. The two young women, both pretty and provocatively dressed (and with six-inch heels) once they removed their scarves and manteaus, fiddled with the stereo until they found a CD of truly execrable dance music that they thought should be listened to at full volume, to accompany the gyrating bodies on the television screens. It was time to go. I looked at my watch, and indeed, it was past eleven, dinnertime for an Iranian party but bedtime for a fifty-plus-year-old father of an infant. The friend who had invited me, also unable to abide the music and the turn the party had taken, offered to drive me home.

We descended to the grand lobby, where the doorman gave us a mischievous look and went outside to my friend’s parked car. As we were getting in, a disheveled old man with a horribly deformed face and one arm shuffled by, that arm outstretched for a handout. I pushed some bills into his fist and got in the car, wondering if he was a war veteran, someone who had fought to defend his country against the invading Iraqi hordes to make it safe for the sons of businessmen to have cigar parties, or if he was the victim of a terrible accident, industrial or otherwise. Some thirty floors of a building separated the two extremes of Iranian society: the young, careless men and women who happily displayed their ostentatious wealth and thoroughly Western lifestyles, and the
mostazafin
, for whom Islam was supposed to be their salvation, if not their ticket to a party.

10
ROAD TRIP!

I always knew that Iranians were fond of traveling, not just because of the masses of spectators—apart from welcoming parties—that I saw as a child at the airport in Tehran, who traveled vicariously through those few who could at that time, but also because of the great interest everyone showed then in having me tell them stories of far-off lands and of the journeys themselves. Iranians have always been curious about the world beyond their walls, and have intrepidity built into their genes, but before the advent of cheap air travel very few could afford to venture far beyond the country’s borders.

At the turn of the twentieth century, my own grandfather, well before he became an ayatollah, traveled to Paris to study philosophy, crossing the mountainous border with Turkey by donkey and horse, then settling in on a train to Europe, undoubtedly in third-class. Today most Iranians, much as they’d like to travel afar, are once again restricted, less because of the expense involved than because of the visa restrictions that other countries impose on Iranian passport holders. Only a handful of countries allow visa-less entry by Iranians, including Turkey and, more recently, Georgia, and they are popular destinations for holidaymakers and shoppers alike. Malaysia, another friendly country that admits Iranians without a visa, attracts many
Iranian tourists, too, but the long distance means expensive flights. But the charter flights and package tours on offer during the big vacation month of March, the Iranian new year—equivalent to the Western Christmas break and Europe’s August—allow many more Iranians than just the upper middle class to travel far beyond the Middle East, to Southeast Asia, for example, and even to countries where visas can be easily obtained through tour operators.

Dubai is another very popular destination, as dozens of flights connect it to various cities in Iran. Traveling there is only slightly more complicated, as the Emirates require a visa, but the process of getting one is handled by travel agents, and few Iranians are ever refused. The distance, a two-hour flight from Tehran, and the many inexpensive package tours mean that many ordinary Iranians can make a quick trip to Dubai, where they can enjoy a brief taste of social freedom: they can swim in the warm waters of the Persian Gulf without a chador or hijab, with their husbands and boyfriends no less; and they can shop in the gargantuan malls to their hearts’ content. They can even eat Persian food while they’re at it, since the presence of 400,000 or so Iranian expats in Dubai makes the Emirates a Persian-friendly place in more ways than one. Since Dubai is also a hub of international commerce, it serves Iranian businessmen who are in import-export, banking, or any business that requires a substantially less restrictive and sanctions-ridden commercial environment than Tehran to thrive.

Other than our quick excursions to the mountains outside Tehran, we had not traveled far from our apartment by the time the truly oppressive heat of summer arrived, and as friends and family began their summer travels, to Europe or just to the Caspian, we were itching to escape both the weather and the monotony of summer life in the capital. Ramadan was also approaching, the month of fasting for Muslims everywhere—which rotates around the Gregorian calendar due to the discrepancies between the Arab lunar one and the Western solar one—and living in Tehran during Ramadan, especially in the
summer months, can be a miserable experience if one is not a practicing Muslim (and even for some who might be). When I explained to Karri what Ramadan actually meant, she responded with a look of terror: no restaurants or cafés open during the day, no eating or drinking on the streets (or smoking, which for me would be a challenge, as I smoke only outdoors), and very little to do during sunlight hours, which, it being summer, was more than twelve hours a day. As a nursing mother, she was exempt from fasting, or rather from being expected to fast by authorities who might otherwise stop her on the streets, as was Khash, but I warned her that she might get contemptuous glances from passersby if she chugged down bottles of water in public in the 105-degree heat, especially if she was alone. She was a little relieved that she wouldn’t get thrown in jail for eating and drinking in public, but we decided that if there was ever a time to escape the Islamic Republic, it was during Ramadan, even if for only a few days.

The Caspian shore is usually a good choice for a few days of R&R, but with everything closed during the day, it would be no fun during Ramadan, and since we would be traveling with an infant, a long flight abroad held little appeal. So we decided on Dubai. The temperature might be ten degrees hotter than Tehran, with humidity hovering around 100 percent, but at least you could get a coffee, an ice cream, or a drink if you’re not an Arab Muslim, all day and all night. At least that’s what we thought.

Flights to the Persian Gulf countries are inexpensive, as are hotels in the off-season, which is when few people—with the exception of German, British, Russian, and Dutch tourists—seem willing to brave the heat and humidity of the gulf coast. We discovered that the “warm waters” of the Persian Gulf is a misnomer, at least in the summer. Think hot, as in bath, no, Jacuzzi water. The pools at the hotels are filled with water cooled to be at least bearable, but the British and Germans and Russians happily frolic in the sea, leading me to decide that it isn’t only mad dogs and Englishmen but Germans
and Russians, too, who go out in the midday sun. Then again, I’m sure that no dog, if any ever appeared at the dog-phobic Muslim shores, would ever venture into the midday Persian Gulf.

Our flight to Dubai was full of Iranians who had business there (perhaps checking on their dollar bank accounts?), or were on shopping sprees (a number of high-end boutiques in Tehran replenish their inventories by taking empty suitcases to Dubai and returning with them full), or were, like us, looking to get out of town for a few days. And as far as Karri was concerned, being able to safely remove her scarf and undo the top button of her blouse after arriving at the Dubai airport was a good start. Khash was oblivious to the change in environment but happy on the plane for some reason and excited by the airport terminal, which to him probably looked the size of the universe with a million different objects to touch and play with and wide corridors to run down.

At our hotel, Karri hoped to get a cup of tea or a cold drink as she waited for me to check in, but she was dismayed to learn that the lounge didn’t serve food or drink during the day. During Ramadan, anyway. Were the restaurants open? she asked. Yes, but only for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. How about a drink? By the pool, but only nonalcoholic during Ramadan. Wine with dinner? Only after sundown. Room service, however, remained twenty-four-hour.

There’s not a whole lot to do in Dubai, especially if you’re traveling with an infant, besides hanging out by the pool and taking a dip in the heavily salted hot tub called the Persian Gulf. But one thing you can do is go to the malls. We went right away, first because on the Internet Karri had found an organic products store where she wanted to stock up on items unavailable in Tehran, and second because, well, there’s not a whole lot to do in Dubai. We thought we’d be able to get a Starbucks Frappuccino at the mall—legalized crack, as one friend calls it; we wouldn’t dream of ordering one back home, but a few months with no Starbucks at all had made us oddly nostalgic for it.
So we were hugely disappointed to discover that none of the restaurants, cafés, or bars in the malls were open during Ramadan either, not until sundown, which happened to be close to Khash’s bedtime.