Landing in Tehran (nealry 35 hours ago) didn’t offer the usual celebratory cheering and clapping thats common. In fact, no one clapped. Heading into the airport, there were some other significant elements missing too. The usual magnitude of chaos, frantic rushing, excessively perspiring men and woman, confused faces were absent. It was spacious in here. Where am I?, I wondered. There is order, levity, SPACE. It then hit me that we’ve landed at Tehran’s new International Airport, the Imam Khomeini airport (which was originally planned out during Shah’s time some 40 years ago.)

I was feeling grrreat. High ceilings, smiling faces at the passport control, great ventilation. This was not the usual body order carnival I was used to. I heard “Amrikai!” upon passing passport control and noticed a few cheery caucasian guys standing around, built like machines, as an Iranian official looked at their visas. It must be American wrestlers, I thought. The Takhti Cup Wrestling tournament was happening over the next two days in Tehran. They did turn out to be American wrestlers and we exchanged a few words. One was a couch.

Going through customs and exiting the airport didn’t feel like the mountain of challenges it usually does. With the exception of a hunched over old woman poking me with a cane and cutting the whirlpool customs line before me, everything ran smoothly. ( She was the screamy hag from the Princess Bride flick I think. The one that screams “Boooooooo…it was true love..Boooooo”). A few moments later, she was confronted by an older perturbed man and the following exchange ensued as hundreds witnessed and seemed to communally accept as entertainment, (especially the hundreds caked up against the tall glass barrier to the left of us waving and smiling, but bodies reminiscent of Rodin’s Gates of Hell)

Iranian Danny Devito: “You’re the third to cut this line!”

Screamy old hag: ( in a fervent ocillating pitch) “What line? I don’t see no line. Mind your own business”

Iranian Danny Devito: “Thats not right. This isn’t fair. The line’s back there.”

Screamy old hag: “I didn’t cut”

Iranian D Devito: “I saw you cut”

Screamy old hag: (even louder) “No you didn’t”

Iranian D D: (removing his eye glasses) “Yes I did.”

Screamy old hag: (nearly growling) ” No you didn’t. You saw nothing.” A glare of epic length and quality proceeded, as if she was placing a secret curse. Phenomenol I thought.

Iranian D D: “Are you meaning to tell me you didn’t wander before my eyes and cut before that gentleman.” he pointed at me.

Me: “It’s ok, she’s um—“

Screamy old hag: “I’ve been here the whole time and you are hallucinating. In fact, I’ve been standing right here since late last nite. Right here.” She pointed at a spot.

Iranian DD: (mumbling in retreat mode) ” last night?….you old fraud.”He walked off.

Passing through customs generated a few more similar episodes. It felt like  Boalian Invisible Theatre.

None of our bags were searched. “This is remarkable,” my father said, “I always get searched. Shit, I should have…”

“It must be my beard”

I bought a $5 milkshake and walked outside. (The country’s experienced a 35% inflation hike in the last 2 years).Exiting the airport reminded me of leaving the airport at Boulder, CO. It was quiet and peaceful, not the usual loud crowd of booming variety shows of human behavior. We were about 45 min from the busy bustling areas of Tehran. My relentlessly hospitable cousin picked us up and we went in search for lamb tongue around 3am. It’s tradition.

I noticed the streets weren’t offering the usual all nite streetside BBQ’s, corn dipped in tubs of salty water, and food shacks that I recall. Apparently 2 years back the city banned the selling of food between the hours of 10pm-5am. We drove around aimlessly and recklessly down hilly cul-de-sacs blasting Iranian techno music. Then it was miraculously 5am.

We settled at a small shiny restaurant of white marble that served us lamb tongue, marrow, and various other lamb parts. We feasted as the Call To Prayer roused the masses for morning prayers.

Then I got a lift to the mosque and was washing up (ablution as they call it), when someone curiosly wandered up with, “You wash up like a sunni.”

“How come you say that?”

“Its rather disorganized.”

“Hmm.” I was in no mood for legalistic battles of methodology, especially at a mosque, where people love to chime in with their fervent opinions.

Iran, being predominantly a Shiite country (approx 97% I believe), asserts the Shiite identity at any avenue they could, emphasizing their multifaceted differences and particularities whenever possible. I never truly understood this ambiguos point of intersection among Muslims, which originated from a debate of the prophet’s lineage and visionary succession, and has managed to sow much strife in the Middle East. I mean, the Quran clearly and finitely states, “Do not break up your religion into sects.” (I forgot what chapter but I know it’s in there.)

Anyhow, onto lighter matters. The Mosque was a well lit wonderland, reminescent of Willy Wonka’s chocolate factory minus the chocolate. But this one also sported a feeling of Christmas too, with all its lights; it was special for a past Imam’s birthday. The spectrum of lights, immediacy of focus demanded, the intricate Islamic art and architecture, and the feeling of flocking to worship God evokes a unique gravity, a quality of sophisticated amusement and reverential awe. Mosques have been remarkable places to meditate, worship, or take a breather for me.