I haven't found my home away from home yet.
I very rarely return to places I've been before, but here I am, doing just that.
I came here once before and my whole life changed. I fell in love. I met amazing people. I was fascinated with this place and these people. It was the first step into the next chapter of my life. I've come back to pay homage to that first journey. I'm here to be free in the world again after my long absence, and get my travel mojo back. I've missed you. I've missed myself. But I'm back. I'm in Iran.
And I'm here to take some kick ass photos.
The photos I didn't get last time.
It takes fourteen hours to get to Dubai, then a wait of around four hours and I'm on the two hour flight to Tehran. I'm totally relaxed. I'm heading into the known this time. Despite all the dire warnings of family, and the questioning looks of friends, I know this is a good decision. I know what I'm doing. This is not Iraq or Syria.
Passport control is the usual bureaucratic chilly reception. The young man looks at me, at my visa, and back at me. He frowns and tells me to follow him. There is a discussion with another official, and my passport is tossed on a pile other small multicolored books. Mine is the only blue one.
"Go wait," he says, and sends me to a line of gray metal chairs. There are others here. This is probably the waiting period for fingerprinting and perhaps some follow up questions. Everyone is allowed to go, or pulled into other rooms while I wait. Finally it is my turn.
"Mrs. Jillian?"
The passport man calls me over, and I see that they've made copies of my passport and visa. He and another man chat, and a ruler is passed between them so they can do some ad hoc paper cutting. One starts to ask me questions while the other one watches.
"Mrs. Jillian, what is your profession?"
"I run a bookstore."
"You run and have box?"
"Yes, books."
"Box?"
"Yes."
There is some discussion between the two men. Then the other one says, "Box?" He puts his fists up and takes a few jabs in the air. He has transformed into an Iranian prize fighter. He stares at me and then I laugh. "No, no," I say, "books!"
I take the passport papers from him and mime a book for them. They stare at me and question each other - wait, maybe this American lady is not a boxer? Then, I pull out a book out of my pack, and say "Book. Shop." Ah, book! All is well, and the smiling starts as we laugh about my boxing ability.
I'd like to see a Kindle get you out of that jam.
The fingerprint man comes to get me. I am told to wait with the others until he calls me to come into the little white room.
His head pops around the corner suddenly. "Mrs. Jillian?" I go into the little room with him and there is a woman at a computer screen. She does not look at me, but the fingerprint man is all smiles now. He says, "Mrs. Jillian. How you say correctly?" I tell him he is saying it perfectly.
He grins and says Jillian is an Iranian family name (I'm sure it sounds like Jillian, and the pronouncing and spelling would be entirely different). He asked if both my parents were from the U.S. or if maybe one was Iranian? He seems to think he's found a lost tribe member who accidentally grew up in the U.S. There is much smiling now, and the fingerprinting goes without a hitch.
Baggage claim has a glass partition separating it from the arrival hall. Pressed up against the glass are women all in in black, women with colorful headscarves and men in three piece suits and in blue jeans. Children run around behind the adults wielding bouquets of red roses, wrapped in pink paper. Cries of joy go up and tears start to flow as loved ones are spotted coming down the escalator. It is 4 a.m. in Tehran.
I meet my ride in the arrivals hall. He seems anxious that I'm comfortable and not afraid. I tell him I've been here before, and he covers his heart with his hand and beams at me, "then you are double welcomed back!"
Abdi Sami was the first person to introduce me to Iran. He welcomed us to his homeland and his enthusiasm for his country was contagious. I can hear his voice in the smooth Farsi that I'm immersed in as people mill about me in the airport.
"Bale, bale, bale."
"Yes, yes, yes."
When I'm out wandering around later on my own in downtown Tehran, I see an advertisement for Sami Sandwiches, and I know that I have indeed been double welcomed back.
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