what is so funny and what keeps bringing on new gales of laughter. Finally curiosity drags me to the window. Down below, three men and three women are enjoying themselves, and I am, too, in this special place. I am dreaming with my eyes open and painting rose-colored pictures of this old city on the ceiling. I look again at where the sun went down over the Meidane Shah, and time seems to spin in circles. The polo players in their colorful robes battle for the ruler's favor in front of the Ali Qapu Palace, the air pungent with the scent of thousands of spices. Every breeze through the corridors of the bazaar fills one with heady strength. Is that a miniature sketch floating in front of me, or have I seen this scene before?It is Friday, but I am in a weekend mood this spring morning. Pedestrians are dawdling along toward the river promenade. I join the leisurely caravan and enjoy the sun's warming embrace. At the riverbank, I see a man with unusually long hair sitting cross-legged in front of one of the bridge tee houses. In front of him is a huge pile of cut sugar cubes. A hammer in his hand and a little anvil between his legs give witness to him hard at work chiseling away. The way he sits straight and concentrated by the rushing river in front of his sugar mountain piques my curiosity. I simply must get closer. Up a narrow flight of stairs and over a small bridge, I finally reach the tea house, and the owner lets me through a barrier to the "sugar cutter". I greet with the proper words for people one meets at work.
"Chaste nabashid, may you not grow tired!"

For a brief moment, he turns his blank face toward me and greets me briefly. Mutely I sit by him and feel I should say something. He keeps up his concentrated work, puts a big piece of sugar on the anvil and chips off mouth-sized pieces. Finally I ask him if it isn't difficult to cut such big amounts of sugar. And why this still has to be done by hand. He describes the key quality features for a good sugar cube that machine-made cubes can never achieve. He has been sitting here since the morning prayer. Finally, I overcome my shyness and ask him if I can take his picture. He does not mind, yet I still feel as though I would steal something from him. In the meantime a few onlookers have gathered at the balustrade to goggle at the chareji and the sugar cube cutter. I thank him and leave, and the owner of the tea house whispers to me, "He is a seyed, a direct descendant of the prophet Mohammed."
I meander along the shore and look back on the past few days. I almost laugh out loud at the many funny moments. By now I can even find a little humor in our flight from the morality patrol. Standing in front of the Pole Khajou, I look into the turquoise Zayandeh Rud, its wild current slowed down to a harmonious flow by the precisely ordered arches and columns; tranquilized and separated, it now winds in narrow forks between great walls, and its refreshing wetness cheers the people walking on the bridge's terraces. I become euphoric at the sight. A sudden stab in the breast, and Kurosh's picture appears before me. I try to erase it and fail miserably. He will wait for me, he said