Memories of Khiaban Pahlavi (Part II)
Although we had a car and a driver by the name of GholamHossein, summer evenings Papa and Mama preferred to hire a horse and open carriage that would drive us over the cobbled streets to Cafe Shahrdari. I loved going there. The cafe was in the middle of a park. There were water fountains that trilled away merrily. Accompanied by the orchestra which played Strauss waltzes, one could not help but feel thrilled deep into one’s soul. I loved the food as well. They served Kievsky, Boeuf Stragonoof, Wiener Schnitzel. They had the pomegranate gelatin desserts that I loved so much. They had crème caramel and Napoleons… The air was cool, the music was magical, the monde was even more so. Driving back in the open carriage that was waiting for us, I felt like a fairy princess as the horses trotted along the cobbled stone streets. I would lean against my Papa and gently fall asleep with the magical waltzes echoing in my head.
By the time my brother Jacky was born, we had moved. This time we moved further north on Khiaban Shahreza to a spacious apartment. It was at that time that Papa decided that Nora and I should go to boarding school in England. He was in England at the time. He called Mama and told her that he had enrolled us in a school in Malvern, Worcestershire. She was to send us the next week to London, where he would meet us. It was all too sudden. One minute we were two pampered little girls that were served hand and foot, the next we were in an alien atmosphere with lots of rules and regulations that we did not comprehend. Since we had come in the middle of the term, we were given a room for just the two of us. The morning after we got to school, I opened the window. The scene outside the window was grey and foggy. In front of us was a little cemetery! To girls from the Middle East, this was rather macabre. We were used to sunshine and people who sang as they walked through the streets. We had never seen a cemetery, except in scary movies! The school itself was a great stately building surrounded by acres of park-like grounds and a couple of swimming pools. Each summer the grounds were opened to the public. I loved the springtime there. I would take a blanket and lie among the daffodils. It reminded me of Wordsworth’s, “The Daffodils.” I would recite the poem to myself, “I wandered lonely as a cloud, that floats on high o’er vale and hills; When all at once I saw a cloud, a host of golden daffodils…” But to girls from Tehran, it was not a happy place. Winters were grey. There was rationing and sometimes the food was rotten. We bitterly complained to our parents. Mama consulted with one of her friends and the next year we were transferred to a boarding school in Sussex. That was much better. It was in the south of England and the sun shone more often. The discipline was not as rigid.
When I came back to Tehran in 1962, we had moved once more. This time we went even further north, It was a modern villa with lots of space and my favorite thing, a swimming pool! The swimming pool was shaded on one side with a weeping willow that almost reached into the pool. I loved to sit for hours underneath the tree, reading a book, with my dog Gino beside me. My aunt Semha and her family lived on the street next to us. She and Mama were cousins yet they were like two sisters and inseparable. In later years her daughter Ketty and my sister Gilda formed the same close relationship as my mother and my aunt had. To this day, even though they each live on separate continents, Ketty lives in London and Gilda lives in Los Angeles, they speak to each other several times a day. It is a very special relationship that was shared through two generations of cousins.
It was at this time that I met my ex-husband. I was nineteen. My parents were very strict with me. I was allowed to go to parties after many agonizing hours of pleading and begging. I was not allowed to stay later than ten o’clock in the evening. Sometimes I came back with a trusted male cousin. He would take me home and return to the party. Sometimes the brother of my very good friend would take me home and return to the party. At other times Mama would come pick me up at ten o’clock sharp.
It so happened that a friend of mine got engaged. I was invited to the engagement party. Promptly at ten Mama was there. I felt quite embarrassed. This was not a dancing party. There were adults here. “Mama,” I pleaded in a low voice, “This is an engagement party! They have not even served dinner yet! Please, Mama, please!”
“So who will bring you home?” she asked, stoically.
Behind me a tall good-looking man answered her. “I will. You know me. My sister Madeleine and you used to be friends. My name is Meir. We are related through marriage.” I looked at him closely. He was thirteen years older than me and he hadn’t endeared himself when he commented that I was smuggling diamonds in my chignon. I thought he was being forward since I really did not know him! But Mama had a big bright smile on her face. “Of course, I know your family. How is Madeleine? Thank you for offering to bring Stella back home.” And that is how I met my future husband. I was not smitten by him. I did not pay too much attention to him nor did my heart go thumpety thump when I was near him, but he kept showing up and although I kept rebuffing him, he would not go away. He was persistent. Finally, three years and something later, we got married. We had two children, a boy and a girl; Kelly and Jessica. I could not fathom how I could have to such perfect children! I felt as if we had created miracles.
Meir and I were of entirely two different characters. However, we had one thing in common. We loved the outdoors and picnics. On hot summer days and evenings we would drive up Khiaban Pahlavi all the way to the end and turn to the left onto a narrow road to Darband. Darband is at the foot of the Alborz Mountain. Wide mountain streams would roar into little crescendos that turned into tributaries that run into the city. They cooled the air. It was the favorite gathering spot for friends to meet. Different food vendors offered their wares. A man would sing out that he had the most delicious fresh walnuts. He would peel off the outer green layers of the walnuts and crack the inner shell. He then would arrange his little walnuts in little pyramids on a tray. They were fresh and delicious. I can still taste those walnuts. However hard I tried to recreate those walnuts, it is impossible, for I cannot find the freshness of the walnuts of Darband.
Another man would sell green almonds. They are called chakaleh badoom. They are green because the outer layer has not formed yet, and the inner almond is tender and sweet. He soaks them in slightly salted water. He scoops up an amount and places it in little paper bags, just like the chestnut men do with their hot chestnuts on the streets of Manhattan. Sometimes, I see the chakaleh badooms in vegetable stores. I stop and look at them and smile remembering days gone by.
Then there are the kebab vendors. These vendors offer different kebabs. There are chicken ones and various meat ones. There are liver, heart, kidney, and sweetbread ones. There are skewers of barbecued onions and tomatoes served alongside the kebabs in between taftoon or sangak bread. You have a choice of how you are served. You can be served on a bed-like wooden platform covered with Oriental rugs which sit on the bed of the mountain stream. You cautiously walk on stepping stones to reach these platforms. That was my favorite way to dine in Darband. I can still hear the mountain streams roar as they rush along! In accompaniment, haunting soulful Persian music floats out of the various radios. The sound keeps echoing in my head, each time I remember Darband. For the unadventurous, their meal was served on an aluminum tray that they placed on the hood of their cars. They would then gather around the food, leaning against the car while chatting and eating amiably.
Perhaps once a summer, we would arrange with friends to go even higher than Darband. Early in the morning, when the sun had just peeked her head through the disappearing night sky, we would rise and drive up to Darband, where we meet. We parked our cars and held our children close to us as we walked up to Sarband. Sarband was only accessible by foot. The paths were narrow, and there were swaying little bridges crossing the mountain streams. We would each firmly hold the hand of a child as we walked. I cannot recall how long we walked till we reached the place where we would hire sure-footed mules. As we climbed on the back of the mules, we would each hold a child tightly in front of us as we steadily climbed higher and higher. The air would become thin, and mist would surround us. The weather would become chilly. The mules would gingerly test each step they took. One wrong step and we could be hurled into the abyss below. I would hold my breath for a second. We would travel for what seemed forever until we reached a tiny little village nestled against the mountainside. By this time, we truly needed the woolen cardigans we had brought with us. Our guide would help us off the mules. We took a moment to adjust to terra firma. We were then led to long wooden tables and benches where we were served a steaming hot potage of mung beans and rice soup. We sipped it slowly and felt it warm our innards as it went down. They would bring pots of hot tea and fresh-baked bread and delicious goat cheese that they made themselves. Never had breakfast tasted more delicious. The feeling of the adventure, the hunger from rising up so early and the fresh mountain air, the taste of the simple wholesome foods made it a memorable event each and every time. The children would run and play with their friends. The parents would call out warnings. The adults would relax and chat.
Time passed, and all too soon it was time to head back down. Reluctantly we mounted the mules and headed back. The air grew warmer and less rarified. We stripped ourselves from our cardigans. We reached Sarband and walked to Darband. We drove back to the city. The air was hot. The traffic was snarled. The horns blared. The children grew impatient with all the raucous sounds and seemed to miss the serenity of the mountains. It was only ten o’clock in the morning. We felt as if we had returned back to Tehran from another time and another world…
What pleasant memories…