produced scraps of paper. The teacher tries to draw her charges away from me, but we are having a lot of fun together and laugh over the many worlds in this one.
"Aren't you hot in your coats, chador and headscarves?"
As though there were a secret recipe against this constant nuisance you can only escape in Yazd next to the cooler or a wind shaft, they look at me perplexed. Life without the formless black covering seems to defy their imagination.
"In Germany I don't wear a headscarf or a coat."
"Like in the foreign films?"
"Maybe like that. Each woman can wear what she wants. There are also women with headscarves, but they are mostly older or Moslem like you. In Germany there are many women from Turkey and Iran and other Islamic countries."
After we've had another ice cream in the middle of the mosque, I say good-bye to them and continue my look around. But it is disturbed again when four European tourists turn up. The two women are wearing broad Indian dresses and loosely bound headscarves. Their language sounds strange, but they greet me in English. They are Slovenes who have been travelling around the country for two weeks. They are the only Europeans who do not need an entry visa because of a bilateral agreement between their country and Iran. Why Slovenia of all places is a mystery.
The mosque closes for the noon break, and my new acquaintances lead me down a flight of stairs smoothed by centuries of countless feet to a traditional tee house with a roof terrace. I greet

roof terrace. I greet the owner, and my companions stare at me amazed.
"What are you talking about? Do you know him?"
"That wasn't a conversation, just a greeting."
Because they have no nowledge of Farsi whatsoever, they've never noticed this ritual. We order tee and sweetbreads, and I hear one of the young Slovenes ask about the price. It is a little embarrassing for me, since payment conforms to a certain procedure through which everyone is supposed to feel treated fairly. Plus, tee costs at most just a few cents.
"They always try to take us for more if we don't ask first," one of the men explains to me."Even with cab rides or paying our hotel bills we have to pay careful attention. We can hardly make ourselves understood since only a few people speak English. Besides, we're students and don't have a lot of money."
The host brings the tea and explains profusely that he did not want to cheat anyone and excuses himself for his countrymen who would do such a thing. In Persian style, he strings together explanations, apologies and polite formulations that sound unconvincing. When he goes on to declaim his self-sacrificing nature, my translation skills fail. He is one of many Iranians who unpleasantly exaggerate their friendliness toward guests. I write down transliterations of "formulas" for greeting, thanks and parting, and they are especially tickled by the sentence, "May your hands never ache!"