Reality Tours participant in Esphahan.

As the political and diplomatic crisis surrounding the Iranian nuclear agenda continues, Global Exchange invites you to travel and visit Iran on a Citizen Diplomacy Reality Tour.

We believe U.S. travelers to Iran can build people-to-people ties and foster dialogue and peace between the countries.  As past participant Alexa Stevens wrote of her 2011 trip:

“My journey does not boast military might nor invasive power; rather, I travel simply with the hope of bringing back knowledge”.

The exquisite ruins of Persepolis.

Citizen diplomats to Iran experience both the complex and engaging fabric of contemporary Iranian civil society while exploring also the tremendous historical and cultural sites in Iran. Travelers will visit the ancient ruins of Persepolis, the tomb of renowned Sufi poet Hafez, and the towers of silence in Yazd.

Interested in traveling to Iran?

Apply now! The application deadline for our September trip is this Friday, June 22nd, so please act quickly to join this life-changing excursion.

Jane in Iraq, Embedded with the Marines in Anbar

Our guest blogger today is Jane Stillwater, a woman whom the folks here at Reality Tours have known for over a decade. We might tease her as being a “serial tripper”, and tell her not to worry about sending in  her registration as she is in the database, but in all seriousness we honor Jane for her adventurous, compassionate spirit and for being a true citizen diplomat!

It’s wonderful to read on Jane’s blog about how each journey has impacted her. Her blog begins with: “Imagine a world where EVERY child is wanted, nurtured, protected and loved.” Jane is preparing to take her 6th Reality Tour this summer.

—

In the last ten years, I’ve participated in five different Global Exchange Reality Tours  and each one of them has been both awesome and jaw-dropping. GX has taken me to Cuba, Afghanistan, Iran, North Korea and Belfast! And I’ve gotten to see places and meet people there that nobody, not even the locals, hardly ever get to see or know.

Jane Stillwater, Reality Tours Alumni

And I’ve also been able to come back home and write about what I have seen and to help tell other Americans that Iran, Cuba, Afghanistan. etc. are not filled with evil terrorists and boogeymen but rather with just ordinary people like you and me, trying to make a life for their families just like we do.

So when Global Exchange recently announced that it was sponsoring a new trip to Uganda on July 2, I was SO there! Signed up immediately. The trip will focus on efforts in Uganda to stop human trafficking and eliminate the use of child soldiers — what’s not to like about that?!

—

Jane, you are a welcomed addition to any Reality Tours trip!

TAKE ACTION!

• You can read more about Jane’s hopes for our upcoming Uganda Reality Tours trip on her blog.
• Learn more about our powerful advocacy delegations that examine human trafficking, child soldiers and human rights.
• Interested in going on a Reality Tours trip but low on funds? Here are 3 free resources to help you fundraise:

1. Financial Scholarship Application  
2. Fundraising Tips
   
3. Fundraising Pack

My journey does not boast military might nor invasive power; rather, I travel simply with the hope of bringing back knowledge

Citizen Diplomacy delegates on this Iran trip will explore topics such as:

• Is the threat of war the best response to Iran’s nuclear program?
• Is the US media’s portrayal of Iran accurate?
• How do Iranians feel about the US government and people?

To learn more about this trip, visit this Reality Tours web page.

Alexa will be blogging about her experiences throughout her journey in Iran right here on our Reality Tours blog. As she explains on her own blog, “I always have a story to tell.”

Alexa’s First Post: “Excited and Expectant”

It’s comic how fast fear and anxiety dissipate entirely once routine and order is introduced. Yesterday our itinerary arrived, bringing with it descriptions of the sites we will see (Persepolis, The Friday Mosque, ect.), promises of the smells and tastes we will experience (shay under a 4,000 year old cypress tree, fesenjoon and bademjan in the bazaar) and the alluring dreams of people we might meet.

I can’t tell you just how anxious I was in the weeks between the time I mailed off my passport and yesterday. I had no time to be excited and expectant, instead I pragmatically researched what it might mean for an American to visit Iran.

The preparation for this trip really started a year or so ago, when my newfound interest of the region was strengthened with history books, pop music, a class aptly titled History of Iran—all of this information was gathered sporadically, from a myriad of sources, to help me understand Iran. And so it happened that I fell in love with a country I’d never seen.

But here’s the thing about those conventional courtships, where snippets of information are devoured with the utmost excitement—as the eventual meeting date grows closer, one begins to question just what exactly their enthusiasm has gotten them into.

About a month and a half ago I bought my ticket, and started to focus not on understanding my elusive paramour, but rather to prepare myself to meet it. I scanned the paper, researched the realities of the legal system, mulled over blogs and travel websites, and began to realize that even the most well-intentioned of tourists don’t always follow the rules of the Islamic Republic. I began obsessing, wondering just how much of me–my past, my thoughts, my opinions, my body–was now a public entity.

I’ve travelled far and wide, but I’ve always maintained the luxury of practically complete independence and autonomy, just as I do at home. I felt pathetic, like I was playing into the stereotypical fears of an ignorant, unaware tourist who assumed and generalized without a care in the world. I know better than this—after all, I had already proclaimed my infatuation with this remarkable place! How could I be wavering on the eve of my trip?

The truth is, I’ve never had to reconcile my somewhat romantic dreams of this country with the concrete realities of travelling there. I never thought I’d have to, so I tucked away my illusions of turquoise tiles, the soft, pleasing sounds of Farsi and mouthwatering kabob, along with my knowledge of the dress code, the awareness that the social is the political and the political is the social, and that the privilege of finally meeting that which I’ve fantasized will make reality better than dreams.

—

Stay tuned. Tomorrow you’ll find more from Alexa here on our Reality Tours blog.

July 4, 2010  Shiraz

Today we are leaving the beautiful city of Shiraz, known for its gardens, nightingales, roses, wine, and poets. When we arrived, the first person we saw was dressed in tight jeans, a figure-hugging manteau and Sex-in-the-City high heels! Shiraz is also known in Iran for being a very liberal city. And while unfortunately, the wine is no longer to be found, poetry abounds here.

Sa’di Tomb

Most Americans do not associate Iran with poetry, but it is essential to the country’s identity. From a thousand years ago, when Ferdowsi penned the Persian epic history, the Shahnameh, in verse; to the Rubaiyat poetry of mathematician Omar Khayyam, written around 1100 AD; the Masnavi of the Sufi mystic poet Rumi, and the Golestan and Bustan of Sa’di, both written in the 1200s; to the unparalleled Hafez, whose collection of poems from the 1300s speak of courtship and wine, the country has an illustrious history of world-renowned, mesmerizing poetry. In fact, the gorgeous mausoleums of Sa’di and Hafez, both of whom resided in Shiraz, are considered pilgrimages by Iranian school groups and tourists alike, as evidenced by the throngs of Iranians present and reciting verse when we visited!

Shiraz is also renowned for its lush Persian gardens, which we took great advantage of to escape the day’s heat. A refreshing mix of cypress, palms, sycamore, and other shading fruit and nut trees, mixed with flowering plants of honeysuckle, jasmine, and bougainvillea. Some of the gardens are run as public spaces where families picnic; others were the private gardens of the fabulously wealthy, complete with lavishly decorated mini palaces, now endowed to the Ministry of Culture for public view. It was easy to see how the famed Persian gardens inspired both the poetry of the region, as well as the exquisitely detailed miniature paintings we saw in the bazaar of Shiraz.

We also visited a teahouse. Our small group, a born-Catholic, a Jew, and a Muslim enter the Seray-e Teahouse in the Serai Mushir craft area of the Vakil Bazaar, a former caravanserai (a hotel for traveler caravans on the Silk Road). We ascend curving staircase, peek through beaded curtains, and see wooden picnic-style benches covered in Persian woven tribal kilim rugs. My eyes immediately fix on the polychrome tile representations of polo players, lovers and music, poetry and wine from the Shahnameh by Ferdowsi that cover the walls. Colored light passes above through the metal cut-out lanterns. We sit down at tables, covered in Shirazi woven red and gold paisley tablecloths. A waiter brings a porcelain tea set with small glasses bearing the image of the 4^th Qajar king. Nasser ol-D in Shah ruled from 1848 to 1896, and is known both as a great patron of the arts, as well as the shah who gave so much of the country away to Russian and English concessions. We dip hand-cut sugar cubes into the tea, which we then sip through the sugar held behind the teeth. After a moment, the prize arrives: a qaylan, traditional water pipe, through which we inhale delicious mint-scented tobacco and blow thick curls of smoke. It is another perfect moment in Iran.

We meet some young people in an Internet café. They are studying to be architects and engineers. Unfortunately, they don’t see future job prospects in Iran, and are planning on leaving to find a place where their skills can be put to good use. The recession has cut off many of those opportunities internationally, however. I ponder how much worse this situation will get due to the sanctions…

After a few amazing days of visiting gorgeously tiled palaces, green gardens, and perusing the bazaar, it is time to leave. I read Hafez and Sa’di in the car, while looking out at the lovely Zagros Mountains, seeing all the walnut, almond, pistachio, fig, plum, and apricot trees; grapes, eggplant, tomato, spinach, potato, wheat, barley, and rice farmland; along with the sheep and goat pastures.

Because of this rich bounty, Persian food has far exceeded my expectations! For breakfast we enjoy delicious fresh yoghurt every day, wonderful omelets with tomatoes and mushrooms, or eggs with tomato and cucumber and a feta-like cheese, and coffee. At lunch and dinner we eat like queens – first salad and yoghurt with flatbread, then a wonderful barley soup, and a mouth-watering roasted eggplant dish unlike any I’ve ever tasted. Then there’s grilled fish or lamb or chicken kebab, served with a bowl of fresh mint, basil, and other herbs, or national dishes like fesenjun (a rich sauce of ground walnuts and pomegranates). All very healthy and delicious!

Not many oil-rich countries maintain a focus on self-sufficiency in agriculture as Iran has, but farming here is far more ancient than oil. We hear from Iranians that because of the sanctions, many of the government subsidies that keep prices low are going to be reduced, and they are concerned about the impact this will have on food prices, particularly for the less well off…

Read the rest of Deborah James’ ‘Journey to Iran‘ blog posts.

Zoroastrian Fire Temple

Deborah James advocated for Fair Trade at Global Exchange from 1993 – 2005, and now serves as a member of the Global Exchange Board. She is currently the Director of International Programs at the Center for Economic and Policy Research. She recently participated in the Citizen Diplomacy Delegation to Iran with Reality Tours. In a series of posts, she shares with us her experience.

July 1, 2010 Deserts of Yazd

We spent the last few days in Yazd, an amazing desert town that according to UNESCO, is one of the very oldest continuously inhabited cities in the world (about 7,000 years). Because it was so isolated and dry, it was never made into a capital city, and thus was evidently never overrun and destroyed by foreign armies.

Yazd is the center of the Zoroastrian community in Iran. Zoroastrianism is one of the earliest monotheistic religions, based on the teachings of Zarathustra, at least 1000 years BC. It was the original religion of Iran until the first Arab conquest that brought Islam after 637 AD. The Persian calendar and many contemporary Iranian customs (such as the celebration of the New Year, No Ruz, on the spring equinox) are derived from this ancient practice. We even visited a continuously burning Zoroastrian fire temple dating from 470 AD!

To survive in such an arid climate – Yazd receives only two inches of rain a year – a water delivery system was developed, by digging underground tunnels, called qanats, from the local mountains to deliver fresh mountain water all year round. In addition an air conditioning system was invented using wind towers that cool and circulate the air, keeping buildings habitable. Impressive centuries-old appropriate technological innovations! A former mansion was converted into our lovely hotel; the rooms were built around a pretty pair of inner garden-and-pool courtyards common in Persian home architecture.

Yazd is now one of the most religious cities in Iran. Over half of the women wore chadors, the black cloak that religious women wear over the obligatory manteau (the knee-length jacket) and hejab (head covering or scarf). Generally so far, it is noticeable that choices about dress appear largely generational. Grandmothers near-universally don the chador, and middle-aged women mostly wear a loose manteau and hejab. But it’s apparent how young people seem to have an amazing ability to wear headscarves in a way that reveal more coiffed hair than they cover, and manteaus that show more youthful curves than they obscure!

It turns out that Iran and the surrounding regions have a long history of women (and often men) covering themselves, probably as much to keep out the dust and sand as to hide women from view, including before the arrival of Islam. Some Iranians lamented the opportunity cost of the moral police (ie, couldn’t state employees be put to better use by fixing potholes than policing headscarves!) Others felt more protected by it. I have to admit, since women’s bodies are not displayed, it was a relief to be free of images of half-naked women being used to sell commercial products. In the 110-degree heat of Yazd, I could have done well with out the scarf, but it is a sign of respect as a foreigner to wear it modestly. And at least you don’t ever have to worry about your hair!

I look forward to our next stop, Shiraz, and remember long ago reading Simin Daneshvar’s classic Savushun: A Novel about Modern Iran, set there.

Read the rest of Deborah James’ ‘Journey to Iran‘ blog posts.

June 28, 2010 Greetings from Iran!

The moon shone full the night we touched down in Tehran. The day I had left Washington, the U.S. Congress had just passed further sanctions on Iran, in the most bipartisan vote since Obama took office. I had gravely considered whether coming to this nation, despised by so many, was propitious at this time. And yet, I kept thinking, don’t Americans need to know more about this country, especially if our government is actually contemplating military action?

Traveling to Iran with Global Exchange has so far been everything I wanted it to be – learning about ancient history and culture, completely fascinating and beautiful, while getting a taste for as much contemporary life here as possible; a context in which to place current politics. In anticipation of the trip, I had prepared by reading Nikki Keddie’s Modern Iran, Ray Takeyh’s Guardians of the Revolution; Stephen Kinzer’s All the Shah’s Men, Shirin Ebadi’s Iran Awakening, and kept up with the incredibly insightful blog, theraceforIran.com, along with with Robert Naiman’s impressive postings on justforeignpolicy.org, including this excellent article on the UN sanctions. I also devoured about half dozen or so novels and about twice that many films by or about Iranians.

As Americans, we are obligated to be sponsored by a tour company in Iran, and are prohibited from having political meetings, so it wasn’t a normal Global Exchange Reality Tour. Still, the experience has far exceeded my expectations. Our guide, Bahman, is one of the very best I have ever worked with, possessing a deep knowledge and appreciation of the country’s history, a convivial personality and the patience of a saint.

First stop in Tehran was to shop for manteaus, the knee-length coat that women must wear over their clothes. Fortunately, I packed a supply of the obligatory headscarves! My roommate would be the adventurous and ever-curious Alice, a wonderful retired schoolteacher and current health care activist.

Cyrus cylinder

To gain an initial historical grounding, we first visited the archeological museum, where earthenware vessels from Iran dating back from the 5^th millennium BC were on display. A highlight was the Cyrus cylinder, known as the first Declaration of Human Rights for its prohibitions on slavery and affirmation of freedom of religion (dating back to 539 BC during the first Persian Empire.)

We also toured both the extravagantly ornate Green and White palaces of the last dynasty, the Pahlavis, who were overthrown in the revolution of 1979, as well as the Golestan Palace of the previous dynasty, the Qajars (1795-1925) who first made Tehran their capital.

We also visited the National Carpet Museum, to survey the great diversity and exceptional quality of this incredible art form that has flourished in Iran for centuries. Each city or region seems to boast its own identifiable patterns, some considered “city” and others “tribal”; quality is determined by the beauty of the design and harmony of the colors, but also by the knots per square inch, along with the materials used (wool, cotton, silk.)

I was delighted that our itinerary included an ethnographic museum, having learned in my preparations of the incredible ethnic diversity within Iran. The Turkomen in the northeast, Baluchis in the southeast, Arabs in the southwest, Kurds in the west, and Armenians and Azeris in the northwest mix not only with the majority Persians, but also with nomadic Qashqai and other tribal peoples, mostly in the southern regions. Many of these peoples speak their own languages, usually alongside Farsi, and many of them maintain distinct cultural heritages that have survived for centuries within Iran.

One evening we had the pleasure of dining with a young Iranian with whom I share a mutual friend. He was eager to meet Americans, and expressed his hope to gain a scholarship for post-graduate study, like so many people his age, looking towards the future.

Aside from museums and palaces, Tehran is mostly made up of about 15 million Tehranis going to work, taking care of their families, and going to school each day. And despite a new and growing subway system, it has the congestion and pollution of many fast-growing urban metropolises. Fortunately, it does not appear to have the same endemic poverty. Still, I barely feel like we are scratching the surface of this city – and tomorrow we fly to the desert town of Yazd in the morning!

Read the rest of Deborah James’ ‘Journey to Iran‘ blog posts.

Sunday was my first Mother’s Day without my mother. She passed away in March, her birth month. She was the daughter of Dorothy Day, Catholic convert, radical journalist, and co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement.

Both my mother, Tamar, and Dorothy continue to be a great influence on my life, and my recent trip to Iran with Global Exchange, a citizen’s diplomacy organization, was an outcome of that influence. As I traveled through the incredible landscape inhabited by calm, focused, hospitable, and physically beautiful people, I remembered my first introduction of appreciation for Middle Eastern culture coming from my mother and grandmother. They spoke of rosewater, pomegranates, mosques, geometry, the Five Pillars of Islam (especially charity), the Silk Road, sundials, and Persian carpets. In my childhood the seeds were planted for my pilgrimage to this land.

I am gravely disturbed about a possible U.S. military strike against Iran as part of the “war on terror.” Also one of our presidential candidate’s choice of words regarding her willingness as a world leader to “obliterate” this country makes my heart quake.

What did I see and hear in Iran? I saw beauty and a subtle daily thanks to God. I saw every day people dealing with inflation and working very hard to pay for food and housing. I heard of their concern about their president’s ability to lead. I felt their happiness at meeting Americans and listened to their praise for our country and for our pursuit of democracy.

Iran, or Persia, has an ancient history of civilization beginning in the 12th century BC. The people of Iran are very proud of their history and rightly so. Their cities had running water 7,000 years ago, and their ancient structures were earthquake proof. There have been many rulers, beloved and hated, endless invasions, and many layers of a rich history, one built upon the next. Much of our culture draws upon this “cradle of civilization” regarding language, food, architecture, and religion. One of my favorite examples is the word “paradise,” meaning walled garden. And the gardens! They are spectacular with water features, painted tiles, evergreens, roses, and symmetrical layouts.

We visited Roshyngar Girls’ High School, a high-ranking conservative high school in Tehran, where we were shown aspects of the educational system, which is supported by government funds, charities, parent donations, and endowments. The school consisted of 1,000 children from infants through high school. Several of the adults who worked at the school had their own children in their arms. Our meeting began nervously because the school administration was unsure of our motivations, due to the recent tensions between our governments, but by the end of our visit, we had to be dragged away by our guide.

We met a group of middle-school-aged girls out at recess, playing under shade trees with pup tents, and with their head scarves (hijabs) off. I struggled with the concepts of separating the boys and girls, and creating education with a religious focus. Also as an occupational therapist, I asked about students with special needs, and I was told that they are placed in special schools with well-trained staff. The overall impression of this school was one of happy, healthy-looking students and orderly, graceful classrooms.

In the city of Isfahan our group met with Grand Ayatollah Saide Hassan Emami, age 73, father of seven children, and considered a reformist. He was very soft-spoken and gave generously of his time. Our interview took place under a grape arbor surrounded by mulberry trees. A religious TV network that was to be broadcast to Iranians in Europe and America taped our discussion. (Look up salaamtv.com for further information.) When asked what he considered to be important characteristics of a spiritual leader, the ayatollah spoke of the need for a solid education in the sciences, sociology, all major religions, and the ability to teach people. He stated that it was important to be aware of the people’s condition and to care about improving their lives.

His son, who spoke to us before his father entered, also stated the need to work with opposition groups and to keep one’s own selfish instincts in check. On the question of what should we as American visitors bring back to the U.S. as a message from Iran, we were asked to spread the word about what the people were like. We were asked to think carefully, to learn more before making conclusions, to seek out information actively and not simply believe what mass media report. He also suggested that, when dealing with world issues, we consider the bigger picture, and that not using religious and political motivations could help resolve conflict.

On the question of war, the ayatollah stated that arming for war is haram, a sin. Seeking war, imposing war is unjust. If one’s rights are being threatened, they must be defended, but it is better to find nonviolent solutions. He said the American threat is not good for the minds of the Iranian people, but they have seen many crises and must carry on in their daily lives. When asked who he hopes to win in the U.S. election, he said he had no real knowledge of the candidates, but he hopes whoever wins will make the people happy and work for their well being.

On the question of Islamic teachings adjusting to modernity, he stated there is no threat as long as modern living doesn’t work in opposition to God’s teachings. I had to fall back on my understanding of those teachings in Christianity as well, the lessons of love and caring for one another.

My visit to Iran confirmed for me that this is a country with people like ours, with the same basic needs and desires in life, and that we share much of the same religious teachings. I also left feeling that there are attainable and viable solutions to our conflict. The people of Iran are ready for whatever comes. Are we?

Martha Hennessy is a resident of Weathersfield.

I recently returned from spending two weeks in Iran as part of a citizen diplomacy delegation organized by Global Exchange in San Francisco.

I am outraged that Sen. Hillary Clinton is perpetuating the warmongering approach of the Bush-Cheney administration by stating that if she were president, the United States could “totally obliterate” Iran in retaliation for a nuclear strike against Israel ["Iran condemns Clinton for threatening force," News, April 30].

As our delegation visited the cities of Tehran, Yazd, Shiraz, and Esfahan, we were consistently met with generosity, kindness, hospitality and friendliness from the Iranian people. Everywhere we went we were welcomed. The many Iranians we talked with in bazaars, tea houses, schools, shops and historical sites were excited to have Americans visiting and learning firsthand about their country.

When conversations ventured into politics, we usually ended up agreeing that both our leaders are crazy. The Iranians we met were sophisticated enough to separate a country’s government from its people.

It is outrageous for Clinton to suggest she would consider obliterating any other country on the planet; the fact she has recently targeted the 75 million men, women and children of Iran, some of whom I was fortunate enough to meet, is like a knife in my heart.

She obviously does not possess the wisdom required to be president.

I didn’t expect to be standing here, by these graves, tears rolling down my face. But then, I didn’t expect a lot of things when I came to Iran.

I didn’t expect Tweetie Bird, platform shoes and nail polish. I didn’t expect to see ex-Wildcat basketball player Richard Jefferson on Iranian state TV. I didn’t expect motorcycles on the sidewalks, dancing in the aisles or spontaneous cheers of, “We love America!”

I didn’t expect to give chocolate to an ayatollah, or to watch a young Iranian-American woman launch herself into the arms of an uncle she’d never met.

I didn’t expect flowers, music, colored lights.

Most of all: I did not expect joy.

* * *

“There is no joy in Islam,” Ayatollah Khomeini said, or is quoted as saying. I don’t believe him. Still, I’m apprehensive as the lights of Tehran rise up to meet me.

I’m exhausted, my makeup has worn off and I’m wearing a ridiculous outfit to meet the country’s dress code – fringed scarf and beautician’s smock. Looking just as ugly as my visa picture, I stumble into the glaring fluorescence of Mehrabad Airport. The get-up works. Waved into the country, I’m greeted by a man holding a “Global Exchange” sign. I stick out my hand, not knowing this is taboo.

Masood shakes it anyway.

There is a washing machine in the middle of the baggage carousel, a mystery I’m too tired to ponder. Another mystery: What are 40,000 wide-awake Iranians doing at the airport at 2 a.m.?

On the bus, Masood is speaking to 15 Americans he will spend the next two weeks baby-sitting: “When your plane landed in Iran, it also landed in our hearts.”

He is the first of many Iranians who will bend over backward to make us feel welcome.

* * *

My travel mates lean toward the left. San Francisco-based Global Exchange has a human rights, fair trade and environmental agenda. Our group has retirees, ministers, a nurse, a couple of lawyers, a city planner and a semilicit journalist. My roommate, Azita, is a 20-year-old student at William and imani. Her father is Iranian, but she’s never been here.

Our chief guide is Roxanna Shapour, a former expatriate raised largely in the United States, who returned three years ago. She has a simple solution to mandatory hejab, the covering of women to protect male virtue: Blind all the men!

She often wears her head scarf turban-style, exposing ears and neck.

I myself am a hejab geek, an Islamic fashion disaster. Thankfully, after a morning of palaces and museums, Roxanna takes us to buy manteaus – loose outer garments that fall to the knees, obscuring the feminine form. The clerks giggle, recognizing an emergency.

Head scarves or no, they are all gorgeous.

I find a baby-blue scarf in floral print and matching manteau, with long, loose sleeves that end up dragged through ubiquitous bowls of lunchtime yoghurt.

By dinner, I’m chic – and showing a scandalous amount of hair that won’t stay crammed under the scarf.

* * *

After two days in Tehran, we leave for the southern city of Shiraz, screened for the flight in separate security lines for men and women.

The separation is apparently for show; on the plane, I’m seated next to our group’s logistical wizard, Assad. Mount Demavand, elevation 18,386 feet, floats below me, a perfect snowcap on a blanket of smog. I study a phrase book (Farsi balad neestam: I don’t speak Farsi.) Though Assad’s English is 10,000 times better than my Farsi, it’s not as good as his French. So as he teaches me Farsi, we speak French – which in my case keeps coming out as Spanish.

By the time we land, I’m itching for a walk. Masood and Assad have been keeping a nervous eye on the group. They’re not spying; they’re just terrified something bad will happen to us. Outside the crowded capital, they sigh in relief.

I wander confidently, knowing I have a map. Unfortunately, I soon discover, it’s a map of the city of Isfahan. And I can’t remember the name of the hotel. But stashed in my money belt are my passport and a huge wad of 10,000-rial notes – “greens,” worth about $1.20 each – so I figure I’ll be OK.

Before I came, people asked, Are you afraid? I was puzzled: What’s to fear? Terrorists? Who would hijack a plane going to Iran? The only time I was afraid was trying to cross the street in Tehran.

Still, I’m not quite confident enough to get comfortably lost.

* * *

Soon I relax, into busy days crammed with sweetness. A pomegranate farmer beckons us into his walled garden, offering ruby fruit, and baby goats to cuddle. “Do you raise them for meat?” we ask. “These are my pets!” he answers, horrified.

We visit a Zoroastrian fire temple in Yazd, home of a flame that has been burning since A.D. 470. We smoke sheesha (flavored tobacco) at the tomb of Hafez and take tea under an ancient bridge in Isfahan.

At Ardashir Palace, near Firoozabad, we run into a group of tour guides in training. A digital orgy ensues. We take each others’ pictures. We take pictures of us taking each other’s pictures. When farewells finally must be made, the Iranians join hands, outside this dusty third-century ruin, and send up a cheer:

“We love America!”

That day, we lunch with nomads – women ululating, men firing rifles – then take off, nomads in tow, to find the tomb of Laleh and Ladan.

A long, low marble slab lies next to a village of mud bricks. The once-conjoined twins lie in two coffins, side by side. They bled to death in a Singapore operating room during a separation attempt in July. They were 29.

“This is their sister,” Roxanna murmurs, as a young woman approaches. And, as an older woman with immense dignity appears, “This is their mother.”

Roxanna translates as I tell the woman that her daughters were very brave and touched many lives. We embrace. She plants a kiss on my arm.

Then villagers want our picture for a mausoleum they plan to build. Relatives fetch photos to prop on the tomb. We smile, subdued.

* * *

It’s like Mardi Gras, but everyone is sober.

It is the birthday of the Twelfth Imam, a mythical figure reputed to be among us, unseen. His return will herald an era of peace. On this occasion, the people of Yazd consider it their religious duty to drown American tourists in lemonade. Colored lights are hung, recorded prayers drone from a mosque and families settle with picnics on the grass and around fountains. The streets – and sometimes sidewalks – are filled with motorcycles, carrying as many as five people, honking and yelling and carrying on. To add to the frenzy, the Iranian national soccer team has just beaten New Zealand.

I raise my camera and an official angrily gestures at me to lower it, as if such exuberance must be censored.

Near the Jewish quarter, someone tries to give Azita a chicken. “How cool is that?” she exults.

On a mountaintop where, until the 1970s, Zoroastrians took their dead to be picked clean by vultures, I find a mixed group of Iranian students, who push and pull me through a door to the Tower of Silence. They’re eating Cheetos, or the Iranian equivalent: Chee-Toz, it says on the bag. In English.

“What do you think of our culture?” asks one young man.

“I think you are very energetic,” I say.

“It’s because we are young.”

* * *

In Isfahan, a cool breeze blows from the Zayendeh-Rood river. It’s a lovely city, its tree-lined river flanked by flowers, its giant central square home to the ravishing Sheikh Lotfallah mosque and a seemingly endless bazaar. Our local guide is Scheherezade, a devout Muslim who dresses with faultless modesty – and who grins in delight when someone gives her a Frisbee. At our request, she arranges a meeting with an ayatollah. Roxanna fixes her head scarf, but still wears leopard-print pants.

He fields questions (“How do you know you’re doing God’s will? asks Paul, a nurse.) I have a simpler query: “Do you like chocolate?” “Of course,” he replies, “but I am diabetic.” “Will you share?” I ask, offering him a giant Hershey Special Dark bar. The junior clerics laugh.

At an Orthodox church, a young man named Joseph tells us, frankly and in perfect English, about the limits of tolerance for religious minorities – in his case, Armenian Christian – under an Islamic republic. Adrianne, a Congregationalist minister in our group, presents him with a “peace shawl” made by women of her church.

* * *

Today Azita will meet her Iranian family. Plans change hourly. At first, they agree to pick her up in Isfahan, to spirit her away to a cousin’s wedding in the north of the country, near the Caspian Sea. But as we leave Isfahan, she is still with us. Now they say they will pick her up in Kashan, at the end of the day.

Assad, as usual, has a cell phone glued to his ear.

Halfway to Kashan, in a town called Natanz, we visit a ceramics shop. I wait outside the bathroom to make a pre-emptive strike on a Persian toilet – a porcelain-lined hole, with a hose for washing up. Suddenly, in a courtyard, two middle-aged men, two younger men, a young woman and a little boy appear, bearing an enormous bouquet.

Assad, through 20 phone calls this morning, has timed the moment with military precision. Azita has no idea. She’s asleep on the bus. I attach myself to the entourage and sprint toward the bus, where sleepy Azita’s head scarf has slipped down to reveal her glossy black “Persian ‘fro.”

Then she’s wide awake, flying into her uncle’s arms. I’m taking pictures. And crying.

Minus the kidnapped Azita, we slice through the arid landscape, Persian music blaring through the PA system. Amir, the assistant driver, and Jack, an Armenian-American with my group, get up to dance. When a woman stands, Amir pulls the drapes to block the view from the highway. The party continues.

I use time on the bus to teach myself the Iranian alphabet. All through the country I study signs, many bilingual. Soon, even without the English, I can sound out the words.

“Ka,” I start. “Ka-b … Ka-ba … Kabob!” I’m thrilled. I won’t starve.

By the end of the trip, when we drive by the former U.S. embassy where hostages were taken in 1979, I know enough Farsi to pick out the words on a mural: “Marg bar Amrika” – Death to America.

But only because I’m looking for them.

* * *

Walking into the hotel that seemed so alien my first night in Tehran, I immediately recognize Azita’s uncle and smile. They brought her back, after all. I spend the day walking down Valiasr Street, a main drag, because I know I won’t get lost. The next day, I walk up the street, stopping at an Internet cafe.

In so many ways, I have been nourished these past two weeks. I’m full, even a little burned out. But greedy. There is so much I haven’t seen.

Roxanna fills the waning hours. A bookstore owned by the city of Tehran, where Paul finds a copy of “Queer Culture” and I spot a biography of Barry Goldwater.

Lunch at a restaurant run by Hare Krishnas.

A hurried interview.

Roxanna has faith in her country. She believes Iran will change, is changing, has changed. Freedom will come slowly, organically, and U.S. intervention will just get in the way. The people are not downtrodden, she says. It is a culture ancient and vibrant, dynamic and surging, messy and diverse, ceaselessly reinventing itself.

“It’s the most exciting time to be here,” she says. “Which is why people like me make halfhearted attempts to leave. We’re afraid we might miss something.”

Speaking of her circle of former expatriates, she says, “We all, at the end of the day, come to the understanding that Iran gives you a lot more than it takes away.”

* * *

In the lobby, I look up and see the Nets and the Spurs on Iranian TV. It’s a file clip, advancing the start of the NBA season. I catch a glimpse of Richard Jefferson.

Gifts change hands. Assad gets an “Arizona Rocks” T-shirt. I promise Masood a CD of favorite songs: “Folsom Prison Blues,” “The Night Chicago Died” and “Papa Was a Rolling Stone.” I collect saffron, and lapis to ward off the evil eye. We eat in a fancy restaurant, stocked with napkins, not Kleenex.

Mehrabad is mobbed. We jostle at the counter, relinquish our luggage, head to security. It’s happening too fast, but I can’t slow it down. Time to go. Masood sticks out his hand.

I shake it.