"The people rarely understand where we're from. They've never heard of Slovenia. Some know Yugoslavia, but when we're at a loss, we say Bosnia. They all know that, and sometimes it makes cab rides cheaper."
I can imagine that. The first time I was in Iran, there was still fighting on various fronts in former Yugoslavia. Every night, televisions told of the suffering Moslem brothers and sisters in Bosnia. No news show was complete without detailed reports from Sarajevo, Mostar, Bihac and other battlefields. Ruins of destroyed mosques were shown over and over, appeals were made to Iranian viewers to help their religious brothers and sisters. Iranian soldiers even served in one Bosnian Moslem regiment. Several hundreds or perhaps thousands of orphans and wounded found asylum in Iran and were treated to the peculiar pleasure of life under the sign of Islam that they had only heard tell of before. The subordinate role that religion had had for most of them back home led to a lot of mutual irritation. Thus came the unavoidable conclusion that Moslems are not all the same. Even then I was advised to pass myself off as Bosnian if I got into trouble or was refused entry to a mosque. Somehow the Slovenes' stories sound as though they had traveled through a different country. When they respond to my delight over Persian food with uncomprehending looks, I begin to understand. After two weeks of kebab, they are completely dissatisfied because the original Persian dishes in Iran are only prepared at home through the time-consuming efforts of the women of the family.

the women of the family. Food offered to me as a private guest is rarely seen a restaurants.
The "Bosnians" live in a real globetrotter hotel and pay only a fraction of what I pay for my room. They give me their address; maybe I'll visit them this afternoon.
With a satisfied smile, I wander through the bazaar when suddenly a mountain bike comes to a stop next to me. Surprised I look at the unusual vehicle in this oriental market and then at its rider. Frida Kahlo, my head signals at the sight of the softly arched grown-together eyebrows, but the rest of his quite manly face does not match my vision.
"Excuse me!" he addresses me, "May I ask you something?"
And then without waiting for my answer he asks, "Are you from here?"
"Do I look like it?" I ask surprised at his English.
"Yes...no, I mean yes at first, but this ring," he points to my big Indian malachite, "and this bag are not Persian."
"I'm not Persian either."
"I saw you walk out of a shop and made a bet with a friend."
"What? A bet? Why?"
"Well...how can I explain it? Your clothes, the coat, the scarf, the pants and the shoes look like they're from Tehran. From far away you don't look like a tourist. You understand? I bet that you're Iranian. When I got closer, I saw the ring and the bag and could tell you're a foreigner. And when I saw your face, it was obvious."