young men and wonder if I've taken leave of my senses. I become uneasy. Shouldn't I take a little more caution? But I quickly suspect that this unease is more out of obedience to mores I do not believe in anyway. Actually I feel secure in the present company. Unasked the driver says, "Earlier we weren't exactly honest with you. All the guys in the class want to go to Germany or some other European country. We all want to live in freedom. The few tourists here get all they need from their own guide books."
Is Esfahan really just a golden cage?
The Pole Jubi, the so-called wooden bridge, is where Kurosh and I get out. He takes me by the hand and, as though it were customary, tows me along the nearly empty night street. We step through an almost invisible door into a brilliantly colorful tea house tucked away under the bridge. We take off our shoes and sit in a window nook just over the waterline. The rushing river becomes our background music."Who are you?" Kurosh asks suddenly. "Why are you in Iran, why do you speak Farsi, and why are you so nice to everyone?"
Is that really so unusual? Myself, I just feel like I am in the right place at the right time and often can barely comprehend the awe I constantly encounter. The host is wearing the traditional clothes of the Bakhtiari and serves the tea and sweet dishes with a big dollop of charm. He exchanges a few words with Kurosh that I don't quite understand.

"A group of official guests, religious functionaries, are coming in an hour. We'd better be gone by then."
My hotel is nearby, and Kurosh accompanies me along the river. We sit down on some stairs with a view of the Sioseh Pol. It is almost midnight, but in this city that apparently does not mean that it is time to go home, as the many strolling people attest. I have never been out this late before in Iran, and I'm startled by the couples holding hands. The spring night on this clear river is filled with charms that tingle the body and soul, and the lights of the thirty-three arches are reflected in the peacefully flowing Sayande Rud. The finely hewn harmony of glittering water, soft arches and clear heavens is for me like the abandoned set for an old movie of the orient.
Nearby a family is sitting on the sofre, and the scents of their nocturnal picnic tickle my nose. They look over and invite us to help ourselves. "Befarmaid!" Little children are sleeping peacefully on carpets brought along because, besides the samovar, no Persian family outing would be complete without them. We politely turn down their offer so that we can continue our casual chat. In their eyes we are surely a married couple.
Kurosh loves the music of Phil Collins and turns on his Walkman with the speakers. I would rather ask him not to disturb the sounds of the night. Instead, I try to take a picture of the lit-up bridge, and using a rickety piles of stones as a tripod I can record the night scenery. Why am I still sitting here?