A Summer Morning in Iran
It is an uncomfortable muggy Fourth of July weekend morning. I come downstairs for my cup of tea. I open all the windows hoping for a breeze. I do not like the air conditioner and the frigid air it produces for a long period of time, if at all. I look out the window at the rose bush. There is barely a breeze to stir the leaves. The air is still.
I sigh as I sit and sip my tea. My mind wanders to my childhood. It was early in the morning, as it is today. The air is fresh and scintillating. It shimmers and quivers delightfully as it travels down the snow capped mountains that surround us. The sun is just breaking. The birds on the majestic plane trees flanking Khiaban Pahlavi, stretch their wings as they wake up and break out into song to greet the glorious morning. The cool water running down the mountain streams, rushes and tumbles in the jubes on each side of the wide avenue. They seem to play tag as they skip and prance along. They manage to sate the thirst of the trees residing alongside them on the avenue as they do so.
Two twelve year old girls merrily walk along the cobbled street, chatting amiably as they pass by, swinging their tennis rackets and their bags with their swimming suits, towels and tennis balls. These two girls were my friend and myself. Our parents were friends and we are classmates as well. We lived not too far from each other. We were going to Amjadieh, the state of the art sports compound. It has several tennis courts and an Olympic sized swimming pool. It has a couple of football fields as well, for football is taken very seriously in Iran.
The sky lightens as we walk along. You can hear the shop owners begin to roll up the metal clanking gates and unlock the doors to their stores. On the side that we are walking on, the ice cream store opens his shop. My mouth drools at the thought of having some of his ice cream on the way back. It isn’t just any ice cream. It is laden with saffron, rose water, chunks of frozen cream and slivers of pistachios and almond. He also makes faloodeh. Imagine an Italian lemon ice blended with tiny semi hard bits of vermicelli. It is served in a delicate stemmed ice cream dish. On top of it you can squeeze the juice of a fresh lime and sour cherry syrup. Delicious! So refreshing on a hot summer day.
Across the street the Armenian shopkeeper opens his laiterie. He has the thickest and freshest homemade clotted cream, keymagh. He also churns his own butter and makes his own cheeses and sour cream. He displays his butter and cheeses on slabs of marble in the refrigerated display case. Beads of dew like liquid quiver on top of the domes of butter which vouches for their freshness. The products are the very best and people come from far and wide to shop from him. The owner is a slightly stout grey haired man. He stands outside the door of his shop with a slight smile upon his face. He has a happy disposition. He is enjoying the start of the new day before the customers start to come. He sips tea from a thimble-sized tea glass.
The store next to him sells nuts and dried fruit. The store owner and his assistant drag large sacks laden with a variety of the goods they offer outside to display in front of the store. They have the freshest of pistachios and walnuts; almonds and cashews and other nuts. Their dried fruits are simply luscious. Their various thick sheets of fruit leathers make one drool just at the thought of tasting them. There are samples everywhere, but no one helps themselves unless they intend to buy, at which point the shopkeeper invites them to sample his wares. None leave his store empty-handed. Adjacent to him is the fruit and vegetable monger. Oh how lovingly and artfully he displays his wares. Every fruit and vegetable is carefully polished and tenderly displayed to tempt you to want to take some of them home with you. I remember these shops most vividly, for my family shopped there on a regular basis for so many years until we moved out of the neighborhood.
We walk on until we finally reach Amjadieh. We start our tennis lessons. By the time we finish practicing, the sun has warmed up the day. Hot, we quickly change into our swimming costumes. I loved swimming and still do. We swam back and forth frolicking like little happy fish. The water was ice cold and totally invigorating. It is crystal clear well water that is topped once a week. Every once in a while the pool is completely emptied. Several men work hard scrubbing the turquoise colored pool clean and then refill it.
And so the morning wore on; it was time to head for home. Breakfast was waiting for us. I knew what I wanted, especially since passing the laiterie. I was going to have hot barbari bread with clotted cream topped with sour cherry jam. Then perhaps there would be a dish of sweet white mulberries. Perfect.
But before we reach home, we first stop to have the luscious Persian ice cream sandwiched between two thin wafers. We daintily lick the ice cream as we trudge back home as we walk under the shade of the plane trees. The sound of the gurgling water in the jubes is a calm relaxing accompaniment to our morning walk.
A few hours have passed since I came downstairs. The world is still not fully awake. The birds are still singing their serenades. I have moved to the porch. I look out to the garden. The branches of the quince tree that never produced a single fruit, are lazily swaying in the breeze now. The breeze hums as it weaves through its leaves. The cicadas reach a crescendo in their song, they quiet down and then start again. A bird glides beneath the branches of the quince tree. In the distance, I hear the turtle dove coo to its love. An elderly grandfather gently pushes a tot in its stroller. The ever faithful clock strikes the half-hour at the entrance. The world is waking up. It is time to start the new day.