un-Islamic is in.
"I would like to photograph you."
"Take a picture, madam!"

Our last day dawns. Tomorrow morning I have to leave this city and Kurosh forever. I am overcome with the feeling that time is passing like a wilting birthday bouquet. Every morning shows the ever nearing end of lovingly arranged beauty that will soon be but a memory. I keep putting off my departure, but now I have to pull myself away from this place for good.
As every morning, I am sitting alone at a table at the small hotel restaurant and order tea, bread, butter, honey and cheese. And as always the young waiter in baggy pants and checkered shirt keeps visual contact with me as he leans against a column and waits. Sometimes it seems as though he is convinced that in a moment something very special will happen. When I spoke to him the first time, he could barely answer out of shyness. I wanted to know how he was, if he is a "bajeh Esfahani", a "child of the city", and how he likes his work. By now he always carries matches to give me a light for my morning cigarette after breakfast. He comes from a small village and had never spoken to foreigners before. When I softly complained in German about the requirement to wear a coat and headscarf at breakfast, he even had the courage to ask me to translate. I will never be able to get used to these clothes, I told him. I find it unspeakably absurd that women are forced to

absurd that women are forced to sit and eat in this getup in restaurants, especially in the expensive ones in Tehran where the elegance can be seen outside through giant windows and the scarves, framing perfectly made-up faces and covering elaborate hairdos, seem a mere farce. I look through my bag and finally find the notebook. The few sentences I have written the past few days form pretty pictures. They awaken memories of funny moments, and I have to try hard to keep from laughing out loud and not to confuse the young waiter too much more. It says, "Knowing of the unavoidable end of the romance with this city, in this city, makes me sad, but I enjoy what it has to offer down to the last blossom. The evenings beginning with breathtaking sunsets over the Imam square tug at me like a magnet." Yesterday evening an Englishwoman sat delighted at another table, using the roof terrace of the tea house for an exclusive view and said suddenly to me and to herself, "Who will believe me when I tell about this at home?" She was right. I had often asked myself this question and wrote in my Esfahan notes, "Pity for those who have never seen it and a great delight for us. How quickly I have grown used to this evening ritual. When the play is over, and the soul is drenched with the knowledge of beauty and harmony, Kurosh and I climb down the narrow stairs into the bustle of people on the square."
What an evening - and what a night - I've had! The breakfast table becomes the stage for my memories. It began in front of the Ali Qapu Palace