Astounded at this exact observation and irritated at this openness, I was almost amused at being the object of a bet. The way he looked me in the eye so direct and self-assured did not seem Iranian at all. "And what did you bet?"
"Excuse me...lunch."
"And you lost?"
"Yes, but that doesn't matter. You really looked Iranian, at least from a distance."
"I'm still sorry. I didn't know that I'm worth such a risk to total strangers."
"Pardon me! Maybe I shouldn't have said that."
"It's OK. I like honesty. The ring is from India by the way."
"India? I spent last winter there. In Goa. Do you know Goa? When were you in India?"
"A few years ago. Is that why you speak such good English?"
"Is it that good? Really? Thank you. I'm taking an English course and work with tourists."
"Yes, very good. I was in Goa once, but only for a few days. It was full of Europeans."
"Yes, that's true. A lot of Germans and English."
"I understand. And you spent the nights at all kinds of parties enjoying your freedom."
"Exactly, yes exactly. Can I invite you to tea?"
My hesitation draws charming exclamations of how special the tea house is. He knows many foreigners and I needn't be concerned. Besides, he feels we should talk a little about Goa because he spent the most

Goa because he spent the most wonderful time of his life there. His showy mountain bike from Japan is not the only part of his getup that startles me. With his Nikes, Levi's, a colorful sweatshirt and a small, modern backpack, he could pass himself off as an American student.
Narrow alleys lead us to an inconspicuous court.
"This was once a caravansary."
The tea house is set up traditionally, no windows, low tables and small carpets on narrow benches. Old photos of the city and famous people from the Qajar Era decorate the walls. A hundred years ago, at least the main square did not look too different. To satisfy the demands of the Islamic Republic, two unobtrusive photos of Khomeini and Khamenei hang over the door. I can hardly believe it when I also discover a photo of Adolf Hitler.
"Germans always get upset about that. For us there's nothing wrong with it."
Kurosh is a born Esfahani and has spent many years of his life in the bazaar. He knows every nook and cranny, he claims, and offers himself as a city guide.
I turn down his offer politely, but I become curious when he tells me about a German course he has been visiting for a few weeks. He invites me to take part in the lesson, and I am interested. We make a date for early evening at the Sioseh Pol, the "bridge of thirty-three arches".
Running behind schedule, I reach the bridge fifteen minutes late. I suddenly hear my name above the hubbub of pedestrians. A clear