Sherrill and I visited more than 60 countries and most of the United States during our 52 year marriage. This is number 50 of a series about our lives and travels, true stories of two people discovering the world, each other, and themselves through five decades of traveling together. If you scroll down, you'll come to earlier posts in this series. To start at the beginning of our marriage and travels look at the Archives list in the sidebar and start with May, 2017. Older posts are a previous series.
Wearing hijab wasn't much fun, Sherrill told me, but at least she didn't have to worry about what she was going to wear every day, since it always was the same. She didn't have to think about her hair much, either.
"I could be bald under the scarf and naked under the coat and nobody would know."
She said that when we were in the hotel room, but in desert country the outfit sometimes became miserable—especially when hiking on the cobblestones of a desert city such as Yazd, with every mud-brick wall and hard surface reflecting the heat.
"I could be bald under the scarf and naked under the coat and nobody would know."
She said that when we were in the hotel room, but in desert country the outfit sometimes became miserable—especially when hiking on the cobblestones of a desert city such as Yazd, with every mud-brick wall and hard surface reflecting the heat.
Yazd: let me tell you about the ancient city of Yazd in central Iran. The driest and hottest city north of the Persian Gulf, arid shadows creep between its mud-brick houses, play among electric wires dangling over alleys and passageways, and slide down the tall chimney-like, slotted airshafts built centuries ago to cool those houses. They lurk within the massive Zoroastrian Towers of Silence and creep around the hills on which the decaying round towers still stand.
A long bus trip across the Dasht-e Kavir Desert brought us here, one of the oldest cities in the world. After a needed rest in the hotel, a group of bungalows in an oasis-like garden, we walked through the hot, dry streets of Yazd's Old Town, protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Dusty desert spirits followed us around corners and through brick arches. Suddenly, a youth on a motorbike roared past, sending us against the dry brown walls.
A long bus trip across the Dasht-e Kavir Desert brought us here, one of the oldest cities in the world. After a needed rest in the hotel, a group of bungalows in an oasis-like garden, we walked through the hot, dry streets of Yazd's Old Town, protected as a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Dusty desert spirits followed us around corners and through brick arches. Suddenly, a youth on a motorbike roared past, sending us against the dry brown walls.
Wind towers, Yazd, Iran The hot breath of the desert whispered of Genghis Khan who chose not to invade across that great wasteland, of Marco Polo who crossed it and stayed to admire the fine cloth made in this remote city, and of the Zoroastrians who came with their sacred fire that has burned 3,000 years, carried from temple to temple, and that still burned in the Yazd Fire Temple.
Staying close to the buildings, their sides resurfaced with fresh mud, we passed heavy wood doors set into thick walls. Many of them still wore two differently shaped antique knockers, one for male guests and one for female guests, that made different sounds so the people inside would know if the visitor was a man. Walking through a walled persimmon grove, we spied a young couple strolling among the trees with their middle-aged chaperon, talking and laughing but never touching, always in her sight. Even married couples didn't touch in public.
Zoroastrian Tower of Silence, Yazd The Zoroastrians established their Fire Temple in Yazd because of its isolation. Winged Ahura-Mazda, creator of heaven and earth, god of wisdom and order, still gazes from above its door. The sacred flame that has burned since before Christianity crackles and dances inside, protected by a glass wall. Nearby, the Towers of Silence stand on their twin hills almost like buttes in the American West. Parking on a dusty road, we hiked up to them, passing the mud-brick buildings where bodies were prepared for sky burial. Zoroastrians believed that the earth shouldn't be corrupted by rotting flesh, so they placed the bodies on the flat roofs of the towers, around an opening into which bones that had been cleaned by vultures, wind, and sun were dropped.
Another long desert crossing on the way to Shiraz was broken by a tea stop under the wide-reaching arms of a cypress reputed to be 4,500 years old and later with a picnic lunch beside the massive step tomb at Pasargad of Cyrus the Great, the man who built the Persian empire. After traveling through barren desert, we were glad to reach Shiraz, known as a city of poetry, gardens, and nightingales. We heard a nightingale, but didn't see it, and did stroll through several gardens, although the roses looked sunburned.
Bedouin goat herders, Iran, 1999 A short walk away, we discovered a colorful nomad bazaar. About 700,000 nomads still lived in Iran, some in settlements. They brought their textiles and other wares to sell in the bazaar and bought what they needed, such as water pails (made from old tires), cooking utensils, and tools, but also tee shirts and toys.
Driving to a celebrated Persian garden, we discovered a gigantic column in the center of a traffic round-about: a copy of one from Emperor Darius's palace at Persepolis erected by the last Shah as part of his celebration for the 2,500 anniversary of the Persian empire. The garden turned out to be next to one of the Shah's several dozen palaces, with a helicopter landing pad bordering the roses. Later, we were surprised when several grubby boys came up demanding money or presents, which hadn't happened to us before in Iran. Our guide explained that they were Afghani children, refugees from the wars in Afghanistan.
Driving to a celebrated Persian garden, we discovered a gigantic column in the center of a traffic round-about: a copy of one from Emperor Darius's palace at Persepolis erected by the last Shah as part of his celebration for the 2,500 anniversary of the Persian empire. The garden turned out to be next to one of the Shah's several dozen palaces, with a helicopter landing pad bordering the roses. Later, we were surprised when several grubby boys came up demanding money or presents, which hadn't happened to us before in Iran. Our guide explained that they were Afghani children, refugees from the wars in Afghanistan.
Sherrill (center) with traveling friends & Ayatollah Khomeini, Shiraz, Iran We noticed while walking through Shiraz, Tehran, and other cities, that some young Iranian women pushed back their scarves to expose the hair above their foreheads, but several times when women in our group accidentally let their scarves slide back, older Iranian women came up and, with friendly smiles, adjusted the straying scarves. Young people who didn't remember life in Iran before the Islamic revolution and Iraq war apparently had more liberal ideas and feelings than their elders.
Monuments commemorating the Iran-Iraq War dominated many intersections. A young soldier strode forward with an anti-tank missile launcher against his shoulder atop one monument, but on another a flock of peace doves clustered on a giant world globe. Each city we visited had erected large portraits of its young men who had died in the war with Iraq. We were coming to understand the impact of this war. For eight years, Iran fought alone while Saddam Hussein used weapons provided by and financed by the West. Some 800,000 Iranians were killed by bombardments, 65 percent of them civilians.
Monuments commemorating the Iran-Iraq War dominated many intersections. A young soldier strode forward with an anti-tank missile launcher against his shoulder atop one monument, but on another a flock of peace doves clustered on a giant world globe. Each city we visited had erected large portraits of its young men who had died in the war with Iraq. We were coming to understand the impact of this war. For eight years, Iran fought alone while Saddam Hussein used weapons provided by and financed by the West. Some 800,000 Iranians were killed by bombardments, 65 percent of them civilians.
"Today's young people weren't born," our guide told us. "They need to be reminded of the sacrifices made then. Life is more than mobile phones, the internet, and pop music. I was an air controller. My wife and I lived on the fourth floor of a building in central Tehran—no elevator. Sometimes, there would be two or three bombings from Iraq in a night. We had to run down all those floors to the basement with our children, one barely four, the other two years old. Some nights, I was at work, so I had no idea if my wife and children were safe.
"One evening, my wife was alone downstairs when bombing began. When she ran up to get the children, she discovered that our four year old son had put a coat on his little sister and, sobbing the whole time, was trying to get her to the shelter. After that, I quit my job because I couldn't bear to be away from my family during the Iraqi raids."
"One evening, my wife was alone downstairs when bombing began. When she ran up to get the children, she discovered that our four year old son had put a coat on his little sister and, sobbing the whole time, was trying to get her to the shelter. After that, I quit my job because I couldn't bear to be away from my family during the Iraqi raids."
Our friend Hala on the way to Persepolis An hour and a half drive from Shiraz took us to a cypress-bordered avenue leading to the ancient city of Persepolis—the site we'd been most anticipating. The trees, our guide pointed out, were planted at order of the Shah as part of the huge celebrations commemorating the anniversary of the Persian empire. The major events of the celebration were held at Persepolis, the most famous and symbolic site in the country. In villages only 10 miles from Tehran and in towns around Persepolis people were dying from polluted drinking water, but this multi-day extravaganza in October 1971 cost 200 million dollars. A Golden City of luxurious tents was set up for the 600 invited dignitaries amidst gardens of plants and trees flown in from France. Catering was provided by Maxim's de Paris and 250 red Mercedes-Benz limousines chauffeured guests. Vice President Spiro Agnew represented the United States.
As we made our way across the huge terrace on which the great palaces of the Achaemenian rulers had been built, we got a sense of the enormous power of Darius and Xerses. It was exciting to see the great staircase with its bas-reliefs of envoys from other countries making tributes to the King of Kings and to walk through the Hall of a Hundred Columns and the Gate House of Xerses.
"Just think," Sherrill told me, "what it must have been like before Alexander destroyed it." She shook her head with an ironic smile. "Men and their egos!"
"Just think," Sherrill told me, "what it must have been like before Alexander destroyed it." She shook her head with an ironic smile. "Men and their egos!"
 Students at Persepolis |  Processions bringing gifts to Achaemenid King, Persepolis |
A different kind of adventure began a couple of days later when we started the long drive through the rugged Zagros mountains to Isfahan, often considered the most beautiful city in Iran, passing through small villages and sometimes following migrating nomads with their sheep and goats. We climbed higher and higher on narrow zigzagging roads. The views on all sides were dramatic, but the steep grades and sharp curves made me nervous.
"Relax," Sherrill told me. "The driver doesn't want to die, either."
Over the years, she often reminded me of this.
As we drove across the hot empty countryside, the women on the bus took off their scarves and unbuttoned their manteaus.
"Scarf alert!" Hala or the guide would call out when we approached a village, town, or military check point. Then Sherrill and the other women would make sure that they were modestly covered.
"Relax," Sherrill told me. "The driver doesn't want to die, either."
Over the years, she often reminded me of this.
As we drove across the hot empty countryside, the women on the bus took off their scarves and unbuttoned their manteaus.
"Scarf alert!" Hala or the guide would call out when we approached a village, town, or military check point. Then Sherrill and the other women would make sure that they were modestly covered.
Sherrill. 17th century palace, Isfahan Sherrill wanted to see Isfahan not only because of its beauty, but because British writer and gardener Vita Sackville-West had lived there in the 1920s with her husband, British diplomat Harold Nicolson, and had written about it. The architecture of Isfahan possessed a unique grace and elegance, especially the historic bridges that crossed the Zayandeh River. Sometimes, tea shops were tucked among the arches on their lower level. One afternoon, we cooled off under one of the bridges with glasses of tea and had a chance try the narghila water pipe that some men were smoking. I tried, but didn't much enjoy it, though Sherrill amused herself by photographing my experiment.
Surrounded by leafy trees like a queen guarded by courtiers, Isfahan's "Palace of Forty Columns" was one of the most graceful buildings we'd seen anywhere. Twenty slender wooden columns on its wide verandah, mirrored in a rectangular pool, gave the illusion of being twice as many and twice as beautiful. A 16th century shrine covered in blue tiles impressed us with its more traditional beauty. Inside, we found several black-garbed women kneeling before an ornate metalwork grill, touching it and murmuring prayers under their chadors.
Isfahan's vast Royal Square surpassed its reputation, even if it now was called Imam Khomeini Square. We were struck not only by its immense size, but by the magnificent buildings around it, including a 17th century mosque and an 18th century palace, from the balcony of which Vita Sackville-West watched polo matches. The new sport was braving the crowds in the bazaar next to the mosque. Merchants competed to lure us into their stalls, sometimes in German.
Isfahan's vast Royal Square surpassed its reputation, even if it now was called Imam Khomeini Square. We were struck not only by its immense size, but by the magnificent buildings around it, including a 17th century mosque and an 18th century palace, from the balcony of which Vita Sackville-West watched polo matches. The new sport was braving the crowds in the bazaar next to the mosque. Merchants competed to lure us into their stalls, sometimes in German.
Bruce, Royal Square, Isfahan, Iran
"Buy me some nigella seeds," Sherrill told me in the spice bazaar. She had become fond of the tiny black seeds used on Iranian flat bread. When I tried asking for them in one shop, I was handed a jar of Hawaiian poi, but was successful the second time.
Tile-covered minaret & shrine, Isfahan In other shops on narrow side streets we found men hand-stamping elegant patterns on cloth, covering boxes and picture frames with fine inlay work, and displaying exquisite Persian miniature paintings. We stopped at one shop to examine paintings, some expensive old ones and others recently executed on paper one or two hundred years old, with original texts in Farsi or Arabic surrounding the pictures. When we found one that we wanted to buy, we managed to bargain the price down to what seemed reasonable.
We visited many other cities and towns in Iran, all of them fascinating in different ways. We didn't linger in the holy city of Qom because we weren't allowed into the important shrines and mosques. However, we did see, in their turbans and robes, many of the fifty thousand mullahs who lived and worked there. The Islamic revolution started in Qom and it still was the most conservative city in the country. The women we saw wore the black chador rather than a manteau and scarf.
We visited many other cities and towns in Iran, all of them fascinating in different ways. We didn't linger in the holy city of Qom because we weren't allowed into the important shrines and mosques. However, we did see, in their turbans and robes, many of the fifty thousand mullahs who lived and worked there. The Islamic revolution started in Qom and it still was the most conservative city in the country. The women we saw wore the black chador rather than a manteau and scarf.
Eventually, we drove over the mountains to the Caspian Sea, climbing higher and higher into wooded areas, tea plantations, and rice fields. As we followed the winding roads, a light rain began to fall. The houses were like log cabins, many clinging to the hillsides on platforms, very different from the mud-brick houses we were used to seeing.
Sherrill in foggy mountain town of Masuleh Finally, as we drove into a silvery fog, we reached the yellow and ocher houses of Masuleh. For more than 300 years, the people of Masuleh had stacked their houses on the cliffs, using the roofs of lower houses for the terraces of the ones above.
"It's interesting, but I wouldn't want to live here," Sherrill said, as we hiked up and down the steep cobblestone streets.
"It's interesting, but I wouldn't want to live here," Sherrill said, as we hiked up and down the steep cobblestone streets.
The rain had stopped by the time we reached the Caspian coast, where we checked into a beach-front hotel and had dinner at an Armenian restaurant: eggplant relish, cooked garlic bulbs with cucumber and dill, spiced green olives, and sturgeon kebobs. We ended the evening hiking along the wind-swept breakwater, watching whitecaps in the dark.
Sherrill & group, breakfast at Caspian Sea cafe We woke up to a clear blue sky. Beyond the water, in the distance as far as we could see, the entire mountain range was cloaked with snow. Before Sherrill would go to breakfast she had to wade in the Caspian Sea. She kept a list of bodies of water she'd waded in, from the Pacific and Atlantic Oceans and Gulf of Mexico, to a Great Lake or two, the Great Salt Lake, the Adriatic, and so on. Now, she had one more on her list.
At last reaching the Ardabil plateau in northwest Iran, we drove between sea-like green meadows, snow-covered mountains around us. The city of Ardabil was patrolled by armed soldiers—because, we were told, it was so close to the Azerbajdan border. Ardabil was famous for its carpets, but the most famous of them was missing. In a large room next to a great shrine, we saw a gigantic structure on which an exact replica of the missing carpet was being woven using the ancient method. Sherrill and I had seen the original carpet in the Victoria and Albert Museum in London and had heard several stories about how it got there.
Tile-covered tower, Ardibil, Iran We crossed the high plateau toward Tabriz, one of the largest cities in Iran—and the western-most city, near Armenia and Turkey. We passed more migrating nomads, with their tents, goat herds, and supplies, and then some large marble works, slabs from the pink and purple mountains heaped against each other.
Back in Tehran, we visited the Pahlavi palace complex in the tree-lined western hills above the city. Leaving our bags and cameras on the bus, we walked into the complex, where we could see palaces of different sizes and styles among the trees, positioned on the steep hill for views of the city below. Mohammed Reza Shah, father of the last shah, had had an ancient village razed to build eighteen palaces in this wooded setting overlooking Tehran. The main palace and compound were the site of the 1944 Tehran Conference between Roosevelt, Stalin, and Churchill, although we saw no memorabilia of the conference anywhere.
Back in Tehran, we visited the Pahlavi palace complex in the tree-lined western hills above the city. Leaving our bags and cameras on the bus, we walked into the complex, where we could see palaces of different sizes and styles among the trees, positioned on the steep hill for views of the city below. Mohammed Reza Shah, father of the last shah, had had an ancient village razed to build eighteen palaces in this wooded setting overlooking Tehran. The main palace and compound were the site of the 1944 Tehran Conference between Roosevelt, Stalin, and Churchill, although we saw no memorabilia of the conference anywhere.
I've come to believe that travel remakes us in ways that we can't recognize at the moment. Traveling to new places changes us physically, mentally, and emotionally. We absorb not only their light and color, but also emotions hidden deep within them. Nowhere did I feel this as strongly as in Iran. People might try to persuade or compel, but it was the ancient buildings, the earth, and the sky enfolded around it all that had the power to change us. A carefully smoothed mud-brick wall, the cobblestones on a walkway, the plane trees along a street, the blue and yellow tiles covering a dome, the rough texture of a black goat hair tent, the reflection of a damaged palace in a rippling pool: all of these things and more spoke to us and continue to even now.
We flew back to London from Tehran on Iran Air. As our plane approached Heathrow airport, many Iranian women on the plane began to apply makeup and remove their scarves. One Iranian woman leaned over and told Sherrill, "It's okay. You can take that off, now!"
End of Part Two
To be continued....
End of Part Two
To be continued....
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