Welcome to Iran

Border crossing

Now it should start. Behind a fence, the Iranian flag gently swayed in the wind.

A taxi driver had taken me to the border. To enter Iran, I had to go through two passport controls on this side. For the third one, I was driven in a fancy golf cart, the driver put on a headscarf for me, and then I was sent the last 50 meters on foot.

Although I had already obtained my visa in Berlin, I was still nervous. Men who repeatedly scrutinize my passport and me make me nervous. I also felt poorly prepared for the announced mini-interview, in which I was supposed to be asked where I live ("Don't say Couchsurfing! Don't say Couchsurfing!") and what my profession is ("Don't say politics! Don't say politics!"). But all the sweat that ran down my back under my long blouse was in vain. After the lunch break of the border officer, the interview counter was so crowded that he only had time to ask for my father's name. "Mitschaell?" Yes, exactly, Michael. Aha. Interview finished.

Immediately, 10 taxi drivers swarmed around me. One was particularly energetic. The internet told me that a taxi ride to Jolfa, the next town, would cost about 6-8 dollars. Half-heartedly, I tried to negotiate his 10-dollar offer, but I was so unconvincing that I gave up after a few moments. We tuckered and raced to Jolfa for about an hour. The first question he asked was if I was married. I said no. Well, then he had a great idea. Since he couldn't get a visa in Germany, why not just get married? Seeeeeeeeeh funny, when he made the suggestion for the third time, I said we would do that tomorrow then. In Jolfa, it got a bit chaotic. He wanted 10 dollars, so according to Google's exchange rate, I handed him 500,000 rials. That made him angry. He wanted double the amount, but I didn't want to be taken for a fool (spoiler alert! The man was honest and his exchange rate was correct. I was the one haggling over the price.). He told me that there were no buses or shared taxis here, only taxis. Again, I relied on the quality source Google. Again, he was right and I was skeptical for nothing. Because there were indeed shared taxis, the only difference is that they are quite normal here. It's nothing special for strangers to jump into your taxi. After a relaxation tea in Jolfa City and multiple reassurances from different people that the taxi fare from Jolfa to Tabriz, which is three hours away, really only costs 2 dollars, I found myself in a taxi with 4 men. It still seemed a bit strange to me that I pay 10 dollars for 60 minutes and 2 dollars for 180 minutes, but so be it.

So there I am in the taxi, and a young Iranian leans through the window and says, "Are you single?" I briefly thought about giving a snappy answer, that it's none of his business and it doesn't really matter what my relationship status is, but then I decided to just say yes. The young man sat next to me for the next three hours. And what can I say, I kind of fell for him for a day. He was really nice. Although he could hardly speak a word of English, thanks to Google Translate, we had a silent conversation for three hours that didn't go public. But the third sentence, after asking if I was single, already gave me a very good impression of the country. More or less out of nowhere, he wrote in the translation that he no longer wanted to live in Iran, that there were no opportunities here, "I am depressed." It was difficult for me to find an answer to that, as I was already aware that I was on vacation in a country where people want to leave. But vacation is not the right word in this context, I'm traveling and it's not always a rosy unicorn world.

He looked at the map to see where in Tabriz I needed to go, and then I lost track. He stopped the taxi on the highway, grabbed me and my backpack, and said, "Come with me." We ran across the street, got into the next taxi, he took money from my hand, gave me change, and a little later, we repeated the same game. He told me he would take me to my accommodation. I naively told him that I couldn't take him into my host's place. He laughed, that's not what he meant at all, he couldn't do that. We took a bus and walked to my host family's address. The girl Mahdiyeh was already waiting at the door and welcomed me. A last dreamy look into the eyes of the nice Iranian man who had on his iPad "It was nice to meet you! Hope it is the start of a friendship." Behind the gates and well-secured walls of the house, I disappeared. With a little heaviness in my heart from this slightly magical iPad encounter. It seemed he felt the same way, as he quickly posted a picture of us on Instagram with a cheesy friendship quote, which his friends commented on with "Good Luck!" or "Congratulations." It almost sounded like we were already engaged.

Eve

From now on, I didn't have time to think about the boy anymore. A family atmosphere was waiting for me. The whole family was sitting in the hallway of the apartment. Mother, nephew, niece, sister, stepfather, aunt. Like most people in Tabriz, which belongs geographically to East Azerbaijan, Mehi's family was Turkish. I immediately noticed the long hair of the women, Mahdiyeh's belly-free leggings look, and the red lips of the loudly laughing sister. Everyone hugged me tightly, including the father. Everyone was beaming. There were no inhibitions, we sat on the carpet, showed each other pictures of our families, laughed when we didn't understand something. That's how I imagined life behind Iran's walls, but that it is really so free and uninhibited surprised me. What surprised me even more in the next two days, however, was the change in looks and behavior when the women went out on the street. Especially Mehi then only spoke in about 2 decibels, and mother and aunts wrapped themselves in layers of chadors. When I made a Steffi movement or noise on the street in the old way, they giggled embarrassedly into their hands.

After dinner, Mehi and I went to a park that already told me about my taxi flirt. There was not only an attached amusement park, but also the hotspot for young lovers. I already knew this kind of park from Egypt, but what was new to me was that you could also camp here if you couldn't afford a hotel. Seemed totally normal, so groups of Iranians sat together and grilled their kebabs on the side of the fancy and well-kept park path. The appearance is somewhat deceiving, as the morals police is also on patrol here and makes sure that unmarried couples do not sit next to each other in the tents. A balancing act, as Mehi confirmed, whose boyfriend lives in Turkey, where she hopefully can (and may) soon move for her master's degree.

Day 1

The next morning, Mehi invited me to accompany her to her English class at 8 in the morning. To her disappointment, I declined and slept a little longer on the hard bed. In hindsight, I really felt sorry, as she probably would have been really happy if I had gone with her. After breakfast with mother and niece, I asked the little girl who was carrying badminton rackets if we wanted to play outside. Oh yes, she loved that. We played badminton for almost two hours. The eight-year-old only knew the words yes and no, so we commented each shot with one of these words. No, it was too short, no, the ball was too high, no, definitely don't play over the fence to the neighbors. But then Mehi came back and immediately said that we could now go to the city, which freed me from a never-ending badminton game.

My only to-do for the next day was quickly taken care of, I quickly got a SIM card, which made me independent and reachable again. After that, we met with one of Mahdiyeh's friends, went to a café, and then to the bazaar. The café was beautiful! It was a garden in a courtyard full of paintings by the local artist. I bought a painting from his collection for my bedroom wall. The artist was visibly proud that someone was so interested in his paintings and called a friend living in Germany to introduce her to me via Skype. So the woman explained one or two paintings to me, their meaning, and translated them. Again, very nice!

At the bazaar, the girls couldn't stop giggling, they walked unbelievably slowly and kept looking at their phones. After a mysterious phone call, we turned around and got into a man's car. As far as I understood, we were going to have lunch with him, he was a friend. In the restaurant, we were all served a thick milky vegetable soup and a large plate of kebab with rice and grilled tomatoes. So much for my earlier wish for a "light" lunch. As we sat there, I noticed that Mehi didn't know the man at all, and he didn't really fit into her friend circle either. But what was really uncomfortable was that he talked about me for what felt like an hour without talking to me. He kept pointing to me with his finger and talking to Mahdiyeh, who gave only brief answers. I still don't know what he was talking about. Mehi only said that he talked about how interesting gingerbread tastes. But 1 hour? So intense? Either there was more to it or the guy just had a very energetic way of talking about gingerbread. Suddenly, he handed me his phone. At the other end of the line was a man who spoke perfect German and worked at the Goethe Institute, and he invited me to meet his students. I took his phone number, but at the same time, I decided that I didn't feel like meeting some friend of this strange man, even if he sounded friendly.

In retrospect, I learned that the lunch was a date between the man and Mehi's friend. For wanting to get to know the about 20 years younger and very self-confident and pretty (her Instagram account is really sexy! Heidabibsch!) woman, he talked quite a lot about me and gingerbread. I hope they don't meet again. The guy smells or rather stinks of patriarchy!

On the way back, Mehi asked me if I could cook something German for us in the evening. Uff, what should I cook that's German? Although I cook a lot, I cook less according to nationalities, and especially not according to German cuisine. I thought about it and then thought of Maultaschen. I've never made them before, but why not. I bought some vegetables and in doing so, I learned about the tradition of Tarof. When I offered money to the vegetable vendor, he waved it off. He and Mehi giggled. Again, I handed him 50,000 rials, he shook his head. But shouldn't that be enough for 2 potatoes and a zucchini? They giggled again. I shook the bill again. Mehi asked, "Do you want to pay?" Eeeehm, yes? Well, he took the money, thanked me almost effusively, and I was confused. Contrary to the impression of having done something terribly wrong, I had apparently done something right. I insisted on paying. Tarof is a form of politeness and a game that is played here frequently. It is offered several times not to pay, and after about three refusals, the money is accepted. Slightly confused, I stomped home.

At home, little Ali was already waiting for us, who wanted to apply his knowledge learned in English class. Although I had the impression that it is not normal for boys to cook, I took the boy to the kitchen and asked him if he wanted to help me. He wanted to. But first, he looked critically into my shopping bag. Onions? He doesn't like them. Zucchini? He doesn't like them either. Carrots? He doesn't like them at all. Great. I started chopping vegetables with him and Mahdiyeh and preparing the dough for the Maultaschen. Ali was at his best. He kneaded, stirred, kneaded, stirred, tasted, and carefully rolled out the dough. Finally, after about 2 hours, we finally had something to eat. By now, mother and her husband were also at home. The Iranian mother looked very skeptical at my dumplings. She tried them cautiously. Smiled. And asked Mehi to ask me if I wanted to stay a few more days. Ali stuffed one dumpling after another into his mouth and said, "This is so good. So good!" Apparently, I had converted him to the side of the carrot vegetarians.

Day 2

After Mehi and I slept in for a long time, she went to her violin lesson and I went to the Azerbaijani Museum. Because, why not. The entrance fee was about two euros and led me into a cool room with display cases. Full of stones and vases. A really boring museum. Well, it might be madness for archaeologists, but my enthusiasm for bowls from 700 BC has never been particularly pronounced.

After I visited the nearby blue mosque, I met Mehi again, who didn't have much understanding for my disinterest in museums. She dragged me to the next museum (which she also found boring) and then to another one that I refused to visit. Instead, I preferred to accept her sister's offer and go to the Colorful Mountains with her and her friend. Before we went home, she wanted to show me a mosque in which there is a shrine with a dead man who fulfills wishes. That's how she explained it. We had to put on chadors for the mosque, which reminded me more of bed linen. Then a grumpy Iranian woman led us into the mosque. It was AMAZING! Everything made of glass. I have seen quite a few mosques in my life. A lot of wealth in religious buildings, gold, marble, silver...but never so much glass. Women hung there and prayed deeply. I always feel a bit strange doing tourism among praying people, but...but...I wished for Mehi's dream to come true, to be able to move to Turkey (without her mother accompanying her). Maybe it will work out.

We went home by taxi and bus. Mehi was a tiny bit offended that I didn't want to visit the last museum and that I wanted to take the bus instead of a taxi. At home, we quickly ate something and then had a comfortable break of 5 minutes until her sister picked us up.

At the mountains, we met four of Mehi's friends, whom she knew from her Azeri guitar lessons (unfortunately, I don't know the name of the instrument). None of the women really spoke English, but at some point, one of them dared to formulate questions to me. The women briefly discussed what interested them most. They came to a conclusion: How do you like our toilets? Good question :D My answer that I find it somewhat alarming how little space there is between the nose and the toilet when squatting over the holes, they found Girls hilarious. After we had settled this question, we took a taxi up the mountain. Here we met even more friends and went to a magical yurt and slurped soup. In general, you eat a lot of kebabs in Iran. I'm used to that and it doesn't surprise me much, but the vegetarian soups still surprise me every time. I have no idea what they put in them.

It was selfie time! I think about 100 selfies were taken before the soup was served. With the soup, a group of about 10 more people joined the group. All musicians, including the guitar teacher (or as they call him, Master). Everyone asked me questions. My neck got a little sweaty again when asked what I had studied. I whispered, "Politics?" No cheering erupted, but it was probably okay. Mehi's sister told the group of about 20 musicians that I danced ballet at home. 20 pairs of eyes widened. "Really??? Oh woooowwwww!" I tried to clarify that it's only a hobby and not really ballet, but my popularity in the group increased immensely. The women said they thought it was great because it is not possible to dance in Iran.

The woman next to me approached me: She wanted to know if I like to smoke this bubble-bubble. Shisha, I asked back. She squealed, "No, no, no. This blub-blum with the foam and water." Shisha? Nooooo! She showed me a picture. Isn't this a shisha? Noooooo, shisha is forbidden, it changes the mind, she said. They smoke Ghaluyn. I tried to find out until the end of the evening what the difference between shisha and Ghaluyn was, as both are tobacco, both have flavor, both are not weed. No idea! I still don't know.

I had booked a bus to Tehran for 10 pm. Time passed very quickly while enjoying soup and chatting. I had to leave. But I wasn't allowed to yet, as I hadn't heard the master's guitar playing yet. It wasn't possible for me to assert myself against about 20 people, and I really wanted to hear it. Especially for me, the mini-concert that was scheduled was brought forward. It was magical! I was so sad to have to leave and felt guilty that my hosts had to leave, too.

Now it wasn't quite easy to get down the mountain. There was a long line at the taxi stand, which indicated that you had to wait at least 30 minutes to get down. But I didn't have 30 minutes of buffer anymore, maybe 3. Sometimes I like the white tourist bonus, though. It only took a short conversation between Mehi and the woman in the front row to convince her to let us go first. So we were downstairs in no time, schnupps in the car, schnupps back home. There, once again, the whole family was waiting. Ali really wanted to play football with me, the little girl stood in front of me again with her badminton rackets. But unfortunately, I didn't have time for anything anymore. I was really sad to have to leave, as I had really taken a liking to the children and everyone. I had a 5-minute time window to pack and say goodbye. Much too quickly, I was on my way out of Tabriz. When I come back, I will come back to the family, I had to promise that. And I do it more than gladly!