almost childish glee. The fantastic scents of herbs, spices and rice fill the room, and my mouth waters. The waiter makes an effort at stiffness that seems only recently learned. He, too, seems a bit put off by his folksy outfit. But he relaxes immediately when he registers Kurosh's Esfahan dialect.
"Bajeh Esfahan shoma?" Is Kurosh a child of the city, he asks surprised. Then he makes a few recommendations and points unabashed at the two men's plates on the next table.
"I don't want you to go. Stay a few more days. Esfahan will be empty without you."
"I'll miss this city, too."
"And me, what about me?"
"Let's talk about it later. Those two men keep looking at us."
Their way of watching us bothers me a lot, and it is not easy to ignore it. So I try to concentrate on this lovely moment in our last restaurant together.
"Do you think the tour group is from America?"
"Why not? I'll find out."
Before I can say anything, Kurosh is already standing at the long table talking to the tourists. He really seems to have no inhibitions. I stand up, too, and go over to him.
"We're from Connecticut," says a woman loudly as though she had to shout it home against a strong Atlantic breeze. "Oh, the people here are wonderful. So nice, darling. And when they hear we're from America they get all excited. It's so wonderful. Have you seen the mosque? And Persepolis, darling?"

darling?"
Rescued by our food finally being served, we go back to our table, fortunately far enough away from them that we no longer need to suppress our laughter.
"Don't tell me you understood them. What kind of accent is that? Where are they from? Kennedy or something?"
"Connecticut, near New York. I know it a little. Have I ever told you that I was in the US for a while? That's why I understand their loud accent."
"Can you imitate it?"
"OK, darling. did you see the bridge over the river? Divine, I tell you, darling. And Bam? Unbelieveable, a thousand, what, maybe two thousand years old. We saw Shiraz and Persepolis in one day. Wonderful!"
"Wow, that sounded like the real thing."
"They said they came through Switzerland. Suppose they got their visas there? After all, they came directly from the great Satan."
"I don't know how visas work with them. Are you surprised that Iranians don't have a problem with Americans?"
"Not really, but I'm surprised they feel safe here. In the lion's den, so to speak," and I add softly, "The guys at the next table seem fishy."
"You're starting to get paranoid."
"Bon appétit!"
"You too, Azizam."
While I chat with the darlings from America after lunch, out of the corner of my eye I see