and not a breath of wind disturbs its surface. The scene for me is the embodiment of harmony. It is perfectly still, only here and there the tiny peeps of birds like fleeting words of parting for the passing day. In this moment, I am ready for the perfection of this place. The two-storied arcades with their extravagant faience tiles, the brilliant turquoise and cautious yellow flower bands and vine decorations, the artful text friezes with their selected Koran suras and the perfect frame of arches are reflected in the water like the towering iwan in the middle. Wherever the eye lands, it finds the perfect patterns of glazed faiences. The half-dome with the dark, window-like hole in the background gives but a hint of the interior. One lone wooden, finely worked lattice throws a shimmer of light in the iwan reminding one of the world beyond this perfection. A glimpse into the depths of the water basin is also a glimpse into the canopy of heaven. The basin with the water of cleansing and innocence in the center of the mosque is not only the junction of the cardinal directions. The reflection also shows the otherwise invisible axis of nadir and zenith. Blue in blue, heaven on earth and earth in heaven; all dimensions are united in this silent place in the center of a bustling city.
"Haj chanum! Have you taken your pictures?"
As though awakened from a dream, I look into the face or the ticket taker.
"Are you OK? Is there a problem? Is everything alright?"
I dry my eyes and thank him.

"I'll be back again tomorrow for photos. I'm sorry you had to wait for me. And thanks again. May your hands never ache. God bless you."
"God bless you, madam."
The bazaar has become more and more familiar to me in the last few days, and I rarely get lost. Looks of recognition from merchants and their greeting with a hand on their hearts turn the enchanted paths into hometown places. The straight, wide sun rays that beam through the holes in the arched ceiling like spotlights turn the quiet noontime market into a perfectly lit stage. The workshop of Hassan, that gifted cloth printing artist, has become my favorite place in this labyrinth. Kurosh was very excited as were about to visit him for the first time. "I'm taking you to someone you'll like because I know how much you love honest people, good craftsmanship and dim workshops," he announced to me with a promising look.
We took a flight of wooden stairs up to the second story of a small caravansary. A narrow balcony gave access to the various workshops. In the first little store an old man sat on the floor holding a skillfully carved wooden block in his bare toes that turned out to be a printing template with a motif of the Pole Khajou Hassan's workshop is in the farthest corner of the floor and is barely more than a tiny room half-filled with printed blankets. Almost forty years in the trade have made him a master blanket printer. With wooden stamps his grandfather had used, Hassan conjures the most beautiful motifs on woven wool: plump