of the corner of my eye I see the two men move towards Kurosh. He signals that we ought to go, so I say good-bye to the group.
Sitting in a taxi, he says, "Those were their bus drivers. They wanted to know if I'm your tour guide, what my name is and what agency I work for. These damn monitors are a pain. What business is it of theirs who I am and who you are? I just want to get out of here."

The monotone motor and gently gliding of the "super deluxe" bus rock me into a state between wakefulness and dreaming. The voices of other passengers drift away. Do I still control my thoughts, or is it the unknown power of the dream world stealing me away? In muddled fantasies Esfahan rushes by me like an enchanted landscape out an open train window. Images change too quickly, hair blows before startled eyes hardly daring to believe the offering of beauty. Other kind passengers share the moments of delight, bravely ignoring the knowledge of this chapter's impending end. This journey has another destination. The Pole Khajou is already fading in an evening sky sea of colors, a black chador floats through the Friday mosque, and the ruins of the fire temple of a nearly forgotten religion seem but an illusion. Did church bells ring? Did we drink an Armenian mocha? Who were the friendly people offering us wine? Did we really stand alone on the Ali Qapu palace balcony? Who let us in, painted woolly clouds on the sky and made Kurosh's eyes sparkle?