Gardens" the German traveler praised back in the seventeenth century: "A ... striking feature of the Chahar Bagh are the two rows of dense, towering sycamores planted there enabling the visitor to venture along undisturbed by the sun, even at noon, as though through a 'green cathedral'."
Even today it was pleasantly refreshing to wander through this cathedral, but many pleasures that once cheered body and soul along the way must be done without today. If it were not for the obvious clues of the architecture, many of the envoy's words would be barely comprehensible. The special charm of the Chahar Bagh comes from the waterway along its center, constructed from carved stone and five feet wide and one foot deep. Through it flows clear water that ends up splashing softly down stone steps then is divided up into artificial ponds or basins. "Tavern keepers have covered its stately edges everywhere with mats and carpets where the weary rest to smoke and drink as they partake in the offerings of the publicly performing poets, tale-tellers and wits and thus pass their time most pleasantly; finally, when it becomes too hot for them, they retreat to the shaded parlors of the taverns opposite them."
The thought of the tavern keepers of bygone days cheers me some, and I am looking forward to the next day in this treasure trove Esfahan.
From far off, I see the sign over the little shop in the arcade. I don't dare go any closer. Instead, I wander over to the Sheik Lotfollah Mosque. I sit down in

Lotfollah Mosque. I sit down in a little nook there and enjoy the peace and cool. When I put film in my camera, an older man addresses me.
"Are you German?" he asks after a brief Farsi greeting.
"Yes, I come from Germany."
"The verdict was right."
My mystified expression prompts him to explain further, "Mykonos ... Berlin."
With that he and his female companion walk on and disappear in the shadows of the Mosque. When I call after them, "I think so, too," they answer with a smile and a farewell. I have never heard anyone speak to me so directly about the Mykonos trial. Happily, I continue my walk. In the Mosque's lower level I run across two men who are apparently determined not to be disturbed during their tea.
Finally I do end up standing in front of the shop where Kurosh makes his living. The moment I stick my head through the door he introduces me to two men who speak excellent English just like his. Tea is poured, and I watch a deal being made with two British tourists interested in a colorful nomad carpet.
"Let's go," Kurosh whispers to me. And with that he whisks me off to the bazaar. After a few minutes, I have lost my orientation and am amazed by the narrow alleys and the many little shops. A tight, dark passageway brings us to an old color mill. The miller pours a sack of pomegranate peels into the millworks and turns on the motor. A big stone grinds up the peels, and a red powder