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misty water-colored memories of the way we were...


It’s funny how things work. I woke up to a cool and somewhat overcast beautiful spring morning in Los Altos. But as soon as I looked out into our French village inspired courtyard, I found myself back in another village, worlds away, on a spring day much like this.

When I was little, living in Tehran, like most other Tehranies, Fridays during the warmer months were about taking refuge “Birooneh Shahr” (Outside the City). Mostly it was in the cooler and greener Alborz mountains. And always accompanied by at least a dozen cousins, aunts and uncles of all shapes and sizes.

My aunt and uncle had a property in Sangan Village. Not too long of a drive northwest of Tehran, in the central Alborz mountains' protected area. We would park the envoy of cars at the end of the road. Everyone would grab as much of the gear as they could: pots of food, rugs, backgammon, playing cards, the kids and the elderly. And then we would slide/walk down a very steep and unpaved hill. At the bottom of the hill was a bathhouse and across the bathhouse was a wide river with huge stones. With all the pots, and rugs, and kids and elderly, we would somehow hop across the river, and set up camp on the other side, under the shade of the trees. I can recall the same sounds and conversations from my childhood repertoire of memories from these outings. The elderly, who were actually just in their early 50’s at the time, seemed to only want to marvel at the fact that they had escaped the flies from the city, and how lovely the cool mountain air was. From everyone else I remember the sound of laughter and lighthearted banter over who is a better backgammon or card player.


The locals would notice us on their walk home from the bathhouse. They would usually return with kind offerings of freshly picked fruits and freshly baked bread. They were always smiley and their cheeks, always the color of red rose.

Our visits became less frequent after the revolution. But we did return one last time during the spring of ‘87. This time to take refuge from yet another night of the Iraqi air force bombing Tehran…
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  1. AnonymousJune 17, 2010 at 2:50 AM

    ummmmmmm , how cute of you. writting such beautiful note and a nice picture of sangoon.
    since this morning , i am busy reading your posts and i just wanted to let you know . you are a great writer. Love you urban girl :****

    nahid oveissi

    ReplyDelete

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