Nesfe Jahan, pt 68

Late afternoon on a residential street in Eastern Tehran. A man tidies up the uncovered hair of his young daughter. A twinkling reflection on a motorcycle windshield, a businessman with a suitcase hitching a ride on back. An intense and confused look from inside a chador. The smell of roasted beet from a cart. Random conversations on the subway, every single time.

Autumn in Tehran. The gleaming rooftops at sundown. Sometimes, it lift you up when you are down. It turns the slums into mayfairs. You don’t need a castle in space.

A combination of sand and random punishment made my mp3 player function again. Mostly, Billie Holiday is piped into my consciousness. I’m slightly melancholic these weeks, something to due with a date to go home. 23d of December by the way. So much left to do. Courtesy visit to Kurdestan. The lure of Lurestan. A score of friends to say goodbye to, I have more here than in all the other places I traveled through. It makes me glad, just to be sad, thinking of Iran.