In Praise of the Turkish Dish Towel

I leave for the airport in about 10 minutes... back home, back home!

Yesterday I experienced the greatest Turkish pleasure of them all - the Hammami, or Turkish Bath.

Jane and I met up with Lisa, a friend from grad school who was also in Istanbul, and made arrangements to arrive at Sulemaneyi Hammami late yesterday afternoon, to wash away all of the grime and grit accumulated over the trip. The building is over 500 years old, ansd is heated by a great wood-burning fireplace several levels below.

We were led into an old, wooden changing room where we changed into cotton shorts, and a cotton sarong to wrap around our tops, in addition to these 500 year old version of Dr. Scholls. We scuffled down the corridor, and were led into a great marble hall with a domed roof, and asked to lie down on the large, heated marble slab in the center of the room. The fires below had made the hall about 100 degrees, and the surrounding baths had made it dripping with humidity. For about 20 minutes we lay there, feeling our muscles melt into the marble, and our skin soften.

Then the bathers arrived. I was quite surprised to find that they were men, wrapped in towels. They led us to individual baths, where they splashed us with hot water from silver bowls, removing, layer by layer, whatever sense of modesty we might have had. Then we lay down on smaller individual marble slabs, where we received a massage, and covered us with soap. They took these pillowcases made of terrycloth, filled them with hot water and suds, and pressed them down, covering you with soap.

This feels a little too personal... hmmm. Anyway, the end result was the three of us sitting in the "relaxing" room, sipping fresh orange juice, wrapped from head to toe in turkish dish towels. Don't ask... I just assumed that it was all part of an ancient tradition. That, or some Turks were cracking up behind the scenes at our expense.

At the end of the session, one of the employees brought us to the roof of the Hammami, climbing over domed rooftops and portal windows, revealing stunning views of the city.

All of this followed by a blowout sushi dinner.

A perfect ending to a fantastic trip.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY ELLEN!

Quakers Quake and the Dervıshes Whırl...

So I have joıned the throngs of tourısts here ın Istanbul... no more poıgnant, beautıful moments. No more sılent, catch-your-breath experıences ın the mıddle of nowhere.

Dodge the tram! Haıl a cab! Where can I buy stamps?

Don't get me wrong - Istanbul ıs a cıty that has taken me by surprıse. I normally try to avoıd cıtıes when I travel (as I feel that so much cultural authentıcıty ıs to be found ın the untouched areas), but I am so thrılled to be here, and can unequıvocally recommend that everyone should vısıt Istanbul before they dıe. It's a gorgeous, magıcal cıty, wıth thıs *feelıng* that I can't quıte descrıbe. It's the feelıng of Parıs ın the Mıddle East, of sıdewalk cafes decorated wıth magıc carpets... ıt's thıs blend of east and west that defıes categorızatıon or defınıtıon.

It's been cool, wındy and off-and-on drızzly sınce we arrıved, vırtually perfect weather for days spent wanderıng around (mınus the drızzle!). Yesterday we spent hours ın Sultanahmet - the area we're stayıng ın, tryıng to fınd the Galata Brıdge crossıng the Bosphorous Rıver ınto Beyoglu, the northern part of Istanbul. Galata Brıdge was teemıng wıth actıvıty; there are two levels of the brıdge - the upper level ıs open-aır wıth hundreds of strollers and fısherman... the lower level ıs lıned wıth cafes and shops.

Beyoglu ıs full of very steep streets, wıth staırs carved ınto the sıde, wındıng theır way through young, hıp Turkısh bohemıa, provıdıng for some excellent coffee and some excellent vıews.

Our goal was to fınd the Mevlevı Monaestary, where we would watch a relıgıous sema (ceremony) ınvolvıng the Whırlıng Dervıshes. Admıttedly, I knew nothıng about the Dervıshes. I vaguely chalked them up to unıque, local culture ın my mınd... men ın skırts... kınd of lıke the Phıladelphıa Mummers. As ıt turns out, the Dervıshes are members of the Mevlevı Order, and are whırlıng to create a closer unıon wıth God. The ceremony ıncludes a small orchestra of local ınstruments, a hafız - the elder shıek who has commıtted the entıre Koran to memory - and about 16 Dervıshes. The Dervıshes and Hafız enter the room covered ın floor-length black capes, wıth tall, rounded, moss-colored, felted hats.

They cırcle the perıphery of the room, kneel down ın prayer, stand, drop theır cloaks to reveal dresses rangıng from whıte to green to pınk to red... and then one by one, they step ın front of the hafız for a blessıng, and are sent out onto the floor where they whırl ın worshıp. It's quıte ıncredıble to see, as each dervısh whırls ındıvıdually, and then the group whırls together ın sync lıke a slow movıng machıne. It's hypnotıc and dızzyıng.

We also went to vısıt the Blue Mosque yesterday, whıch I found spectacular.

Today ıs slow. We had breakfast, and then napped untıl 1pm - and here I am now. We were thınkıng of takıng a boat rıde up the Bosphorous Rıver, whıch ıs runs through Istanbul, creatıng the border between Europe and Asıa.

A lazy day ın Istanbul. Sıgh!

Gaudi's Secret Influence

A quıck two day trıp to Cappodocıa ("Cap-a-DOE-key-uh") ın Central Turkey, before returnıng to the last 4 day stretch ın Istanbul... what a beautıful and strange place thıs ıs.

Cappodocıa lıes ın the regıon of Anatolya, ın central, southern Turkey. We flew ınto Kayserı at about 9pm last nıght, whıch ıs pretty much ın the mıddle of nowhere. From there, we drove an addıtıonal hour or so to Urgup, a small vıllage that somehow feels lıke 1950s Russıa.

Tryıng to guess people's ages ıs vırtually ımpossıble, mostly havıng to do wıth Jane's observatıon that so many of the people here "look lıke wıthered drıed-apple dolls." The women dress ın colorful gypsy headscarves and long skırts, the men ın cotton tunıcs and large moustaches. We have seen countless tractors drıve by, steered by weathered men, and the women sıttıng on top of large pıles of vegetables ın the rear.

We came here to see the famous rock formatıons. There are three volcanoes ın the area, all now dormant, whıch, over the course of mıllıons of years, have spewed out ash and lava, settlıng ınto these tall, slım rock formatıons, called "the faıry chımnıes" whıch I am now convınced were the ınspıratıon of the Spanısh archıtect, Gaudı. Volcanıc ash has petrıfıed over the mıllenıa, drıppıng and pourıng onto ıtself, lookıng lıke tufts of merengue, capped wıth volcanıc stone.

Over the last few thousand years, dıfferent cıvılızatıons sought out the safety of the Cappadocıa area, slowly carvıng rooms, homes and eventually cıtıes ınto the stone columns. We clımbed up ladders, and shımmıed over rock ledges to explore these nooks and crannıes, dıscoverıng nearly thousand-year old frescoes paınted on a plaster made of eggwhıtes, sand and whıte clay, wıth paınts made from vegetable dyes.

Tonıght, Jane bought Turkısh rugs, whıch I'm sure you can ımagıne; a long ordeal ınvolvıng endless conversatıon and pleasantrıes, many glasses of hot, apple tea, storıes of relatıves' vısıts to Amerıca, more tea, and then hard negotatıons, done wıth smıles on our faces, because, after all my frıend, he gıves us, hıs best cutomers, such a specıal prıce. Of course, of course...

I almost fell asleep on a pıle of prayer rugs ın the corner, but eventually, we left wıth a suıtcase full of thıngs, both partıes very pleased at the end result.

What else to say? The food here ıs flavorless. Every meal has had the same, curıous flavor of... absolutely nothıng. Somehow, the vortex of blandness seems to absorb any salt, pepper or crushed red pepper that I've been shovelıng onto my food, leavıng me wıth a meal absent of taste. It's really quıte amazıng. I've wondered why they don't just stıck wıth one dısh - let's call ıt the "Natıonal Dısh of Turkey" - and leave ıt at that. I mean, ıf ıt all tastes the same, why not? It certaınly would make shoppıng a lot easıer.

Turkısh ıs a language that ıs well beyond my reach. There are 29 letters ın theır alphabet, yet no word seems to have any vowels. Merely sayıng thank you consumes, what feels lıke, about 14 syllables. It's ınfluenced by Russıan, Arabıc and Greek, and ıs one of those rare languages unlıke any other, sımılar to Hungarıan and Fınnısh. It's truly the fırst country I've ever vısıted where I'm sımply unable to make myself known. Thank goodness I'm good at charades, and don't suffer from too much prıde.

Tomorrow we had back to Istanbul. I'm really lookıng forward to our fınal four days ın thıs magnıfıcent cıty. I've contacted my frıend Seref, from Ankara, who wıll be vısıtıng Istanbul thıs week for work... we hope to meet up for a meal at some poınt whıle he's ın town...

Turkish Delight

Last night we arrived in Istanbul. Let me pause for a moment to scrape my jaw off the ground... this is one of the most GORGEOUS cities I've ever seen in my life. I don't even know where to begin.

Well, first I should say that we're leaving Istanbul today (but will be back!) for a two-day trip to Cappodocia, an ancient city carved into, and under, a series of the most beautiful rock formations and caves, in central Turkey. I don't really know what to expect, as I can't really get finger on what this place is exactly. Tune in later for details...

Istanbul truly is the meeting place between Europe and the Arab world... it has the look of a European city, with its narrow, windy cobblestone streets and old stone buildings covered in brilliant flowers, but it has the sounds, smells, and feel of the Middle East, with dozens of mosques and minarets dotting the cityscape, women in head coverings, and the scent of turkish coffee, almonds and cinnamon.

On the west, Turkey is bordered by Bulgaria and Greece. To the east, is Syria, Iraq, Iran, Armenia and Georgia. Turkey basically serves as a bridge between these two worlds, with the Black Sea on the north, and the Mediterranean on the south. Istanbul itself, is surrounded by water, with the Sea of Marmara forcing its way through the city, literally creating the border between Europe and Asia.

I am so happy that we spent some time in Jordan before coming here. I've spent much time in Europe over the course of my 20s, and am familiar with the feel of its culture. Being in Jordan reintroduced me to the Arab world... and coming here is a weird, beautiful, lush and exotic combination of the two. It gives me the sense of having my feet in two different countries.

We are staying in an old, rickety, charming hotel, covered in tapestries and textiles, with sprial staircases taking you up and down like a maze, just below the famous Blue Mosque. When we arrived last night, the hotel clerk said to me, in broken English, "...write about my country on your blog." - - I had e-mailed him from the Dead Sea to see about arranging a room, and he clicked on the blog link at the bottom of the signature box, and read the whole thing! He said that it seems like we've had a great adventure. So funny! I hardly expect anyone to really read this thing anyway, and receiving comments from a Turkish hotel clerk makes me smile...

We have a few hours before we fly to Cappodocia, which I hope to spend in the Grand Bazaar... we passed through a smaller bazaar this morning as we were wandering, which was overflowing with beautiful rugs, hookahs, carpet bags, ceramics and textiles, spices and tapestries... I can only imagine that the Grand Bazaar, which has served as Istanbul's primary trading place for more than 8 centuries, will be an overwhelming delight for all the senses...

I hope you're well...

King Abdullah, (not-so-secret) Trekkie?

I just received a message from my cousin Jenni, an unabashed Trekkie, who shared with me the most fascinating bit of information about Abdullah, King of Jordan:


"...The one bizarre thing that I know about Jordan is that the current King, when he was still the Crown Prince, appeared in an episode of Star Trek Voyager once because he liked the show so much. That kind of trivia stays with you."

Now if only we could get Rumsfeld, Cheney and Bush into the transporter and sent to a galaxy far, far away...

I arrived at the Dead Sea yesterday. What a weird place! It's the lowest spot on Earth, famous for the healing properties of its sea mud and the buoyancy of its water. Well, it's true... large or small, you're tossed about like a cork, bobbing from side to side on the surface of the water- it's the strangest sensation! I was quite careful not to get the water into my eyes, because apparently it's incredibly painful, sending you, blind, to the shore, flailing about in search of a towel.

The beach is covered with people slathered from head to toe in black mud, baking themselves in the sun. Being the lemming that I am, I scooped up handfuls and layered it on, eager for the mud to change my life, and transform me according to the will of mystical sea gods.

The result? Pretty much a funny photo op.

And now I need a haircut because the salt dried out my hair.

Move over, Lawrence of Arabia...

A hokey title to an entry which will undoubtedly fail to give justice to what has felt like a wonderful, profound adventure into the desert... the desert of Wadi Rum.

Wadi Rum ("Rum Valley") is a desolate, bleak, shockingly beautiful desert, lying just north of the Saudi Arabian border. The area was made famous by T.E. Lawrence ("Lawrence of Arabia"), who who was based here during the Great Arab Revolt of 1917-18 and wrote "The Seven Pillars of Wisdom." Wadi Rum is also the site of the reknowned film "Lawrence of Arabia" - which I haven't seen, but I figure having visited the desert site must give me some credibility.

We first drove into the village of Wadi Rum; a cluster of small, one-story, adobe-like houses, surrounded by low walls. The Jordanian government has been making an effort to bring the desert nomads into these type of villages, so their children can receive an education, and to provide medical care and other services.

The village of Wadi Rum is inhabited by the Bedouins - a nomadic tribe that has roamed the deserts of Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and places east, for centuries. After visiting the village, I quickly noticed that there were no women to be seen. After asking after the women, I was told that they are kept inside - it is generally disrespectful to "them" and their family, to be seen in public. Therefore, the only people I saw were the men, in their long, white thobe and red, checked keffiyeh, who greeted us with "As-salaam alaykum" ("peace be with you").

In the village, we met Eid, a tall, 30ish year old Bedouin, who had agreed to house us in his bayt char - the goat hair tents that each Bedouin family lives in, out in the desert - for the evening. We got into his very old Toyota Land Cruiser, dodging camels and goats along the way, and drove several miles out in the desert.

Wadi Rum is a palette of dramatic colors from black to white, from brown to crimson, from gold to yellow, depending on the angle of the sun. Surprising cliffs dot the terrain, pushing their way straight up from the ground, falling over onto themselves, forming strange, moonlike peaks, crevasses, and craters... it's hard to remember that you're still on the same planet.

Driving through the dunes was like driving through fresh snow. The truck was rocking back and forth, jumping hills, skidding around, requiring a great deal of expert maneuvering.

On our way to the camp, we stopped to see one of the natural bridge formations of Wadi Rum. I asked for the way up, and Eid pointed out the best climbing route, so off I went. Parts of it were terrifying, but I was rewarded with a picture of me on top of the bridge, arms stretched out in triumph. (Fortunately, Eid didn't use the zoom, so you can't see my face, which was clenched in semi-disguised fear, as I thought "Oh. It turns out that I'm kind of afraid of heights!")

The rest of the day was spent visiting various stretches of dunes and desert, formations, and climbing cliffs with Eid. And finally, we arrived at his tent.

The tent lay at the base of a tall cliff, sheltering it from the wind. Inside, there were numerous rugs covering the red sand, and a long, low table, around which people sat on pillows and tapestry-covered mattresses. Lanterns were hung around the periphery of the tent to provide a dim light.

Dinner was prepared by Eid's cousin, including very strong, sweet tea, rice, vegetables and beef, eaten with pita, scooped up with our fingers.

Evening melted into night, as we lay around on the mattresses outside of the tent, watching the sun set, the moon rise, and the stars emerge. It was a spectacular show, and even though I was exhausted, I couldn't bear to close my eyes. I now know what it means when one says "the silence is deafening." I have never heard such silence in my life... and to have this silence, surrounded by thousands of miles of dunes, desert and cliffs, drinking tea with Bedouins, makes one forget about time and place, and want to just lie there forever.

I ended up dragging a mattress out into the dunes and sleeping in the sand. I had to sleep on my side, with my back facing the moon, because it was so bright. In the morning, I saw that there were fox tracks circling my mattress...

How do I say this, without sounding trite? It's easy to understand the profound faith of the people in this area of the world. They are surrounded by such natural beauty, that it's easy to believe in God...

And today, we drove to the Dead Sea. We have said good-bye to Minh, and will be staying here for a few days.

I hope you're well...

Shootings in Amman

Many of you have written, asking about the shootings today in Amman, at the Roman Amphitheater. Yes, I was there just last week by myself, climbing the steps to the top to take in beautiful views of Amman. And no, I was not there today. I heard of the shootings during lunch in Karak - a Crusader castle between Wadi Rum and the Dead Sea - while overhearing a conversation from some British tourists at the next table.

It is sobering, and made my stomach plummet. The rest of the day has been spent in kind of a disjointed silence, sorting out my feelings about this kind of extremism. I know that the Jordanian economy will suffer greatly from this attack, as so many depend on the flow of tourist money... things have been stop-start here since 9/11, then with the hotel bombings last year, and now with today's shooting. I remember the NYC tourist shootings this summer, and so many others incidents over the years - I, myself, have been carjacked - and I am reminded of how quickly we forget these things, and are lulled back into a sense of security.

I still say that Jordan is a safe country. It was regular passerby on the street who swarmed the shooter, and forced him to the ground...

However, I have sadly decided that I will not go to Syria on this trip. Life is long, and I'd like to keep it that way. I'll fly to Istanbul on Wednesday.

9/3 - HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!

PETRA

And now I am on the road. Jane and I shared a ride with Minh, a friend from school, through the desert, to southern Jordan, with the goal of visiting Petra.

About half-way into our three-hour drive, we pulled over to buy some water, and saw several dozen people who were returning from the Haaj - their trip to Mecca in Saudi Arabia. Ramadan is approaching, at the end of September, and thousands of people will come from all over the world, completing one of the seven pillars of Islam - to make a pilgrimmage to Mecca before they die.

Petra is an ancient city, carved into the clustered cliffs of southern Jordan, dating back to 7000 B.C. The exterior of the cliffs had rooms carved into them, like little caves, while the interior of the cliffs, which create a series of pathways and arches, features tombs, columned streets, monaesteries, treasury buildings, and spaces used by the hundreds of ancient inhabitants (FYI, "Raiders of the Lost Ark" was filmed in Petra).

The most breathaking building was The Treasury, which stood several stories high (and several stories below the earth, still in excavation), carved in the most detailed Hellenic style, with columns, and (all of those other Greek architectural features that I've forgotten). It is unbelievable to see this, knowing that it was built, from relatively crude tools, nearly 9000 years ago. The most spectacular aspect was the color of the stone, which ranged from white, to pink, to rose, to deep red. Petra is referred to as the "Rose City."

Petra just goes on and on. At one point, Jane, suffering from jetlag, turned back, and Minh and I committed ourselves to hiking the 5+ miles to the monaestary ... a feat that was much more challenging than we expected. For hours, we climbed, shimmied and hiked up rocks and steps, arriving at the most spectacular view overlooking Jordan and Palestine, over the desert, as far as the eye could see. Being rather ambitious in our adventure, we hadn't fully considered how much time it would really take us to get to this summit... the sun was starting to set, and light was dwindling, with miles still in front of us...

So what does one do in such a situation? You ask for a camel ride of course. The remaining miles were spent up high in a camel saddle, tied to a Bedouin, who wound our way through the dark caves and stone pathways, singing strange, beautiful songs Arabic the entire way...

Today I am driving to Wadi Rum, further south, just north of the Saudi border, to explore the desert and sleep in a Bedouin camp.

I hope you're well...

The "Wedding"

Friday night was the "wedding." Well, acutally it wasn't really the wedding... it was a series of rituals and traditions, leading up to the most grand reception...

At about 5:00 we all piled into taxis and wound our way through the streets of Amman in a caravan, arriving at Salma's house in a tumble. We were all priviliged to be invited to attend the "asking of the hand" ceremony, which is normally reserved for family and the closest friends.

Salma lives in an apartment building, occupied by her aunt and uncle, and other family. We were ushered into her aunt's home, presented with tea, and stood around chatting (and checking out the unbelievable dresses and hair and jewelry and makeup of the Jordanian beauty queens... we didn't hold a candle to them... I think it must be genetic).

Finally, we heard the crash of drums, and the shrieking, throaty songs of singers approaching the home. The groom's family was arriving in a procession, to formally ask for Salma's hand in marriage. People crushed to see, as a half-dozen traditional singers and musicians from Northern Palestine approached, announcing the groom's arrival. The noise and energy was rising with every second, as the women started ululating (a high warbling, trill sound, rolling your toungue back and forth over your teeth, ending with a "HIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!").

Basel and his family arrived, asked for Salma's hand, which was approved (I mean, they were already married!), at which point Salma's entered the room, and the room simply exploded. People were dancing and singing, the musicians were pounding, flashbulbs were popping, and smiles were cutting everyone's faces in two.

Then the procession began... we were all to follow each other in cars, honking and singing and clapping, to the Amman Grand Hyatt (yes, this where the bomb exploded last November) for the reception. "How do we find a ride? Should we call a cab?," we were asking among the din. Cars would reel by, and if there was space, they would throw open their door, and you'd do a running leap... all in keeping with the celebratory spirit!

The Grand Hyatt had extremely tight security. Our bags were x-rayed, we walked through a metal detector, and everyone was frisked and patted down (the women behind a wooden screen). When we arrived, it turned out that we were actually sending Salma and Basel upstairs to rest, and we had about 2-1/2 to ourselves before the reception.

I sat down, to relieve my feet, when all of a sudden I was whisked away by Basel's sister, uncle and aunt, brought to their home, fed tea and cranberry juice, and made to feel like one of their family. The people here are so wonderfully gracious and generous.

At one point, the conversation turned to politics, which turned to George Bush, which turned to 9/11. This was so pointed and heated, and I had to remind myself to just listen and ask prompting questions, that I wanted to understand their perspective and narrative. The long and the short of it was that if Al-Qaeda sliced open such a superpower, doesn't that in fact make them a super-superpower? They feel sorry for us because our rights are being taken away one by one, and we don't seem to realize or care. The reason why Bin Laden had not been caught was because it was actually the American government who orchestrated the attacks... Rumsfeld actually, and Bush was too dumb to know. This sort of attack requires so much information, and so much expertise, that it was obvious to them that the American pilots' machinery was jammed, and the planes were directed remotely by the American military. An interesting point was that they were certain that there was no plane that actually crashed into the Pentagon.

It was heated, but fascinating.

At the end, we stood up, embraced each other as people, and left for the reception. The division here between people and politics is unlike anything I've ever experienced.

After another search and frisk, we entered the ballroom, which was decorated to befit royalty. There were hundreds of guests, sitting at tables with centerpieces of several-foot high white branches, dripping with strings of crystals and orchids. Napkins were wrapped in crystal prayer beads...

In an effort to make a very long story, only slightly long, the highlights were - Salma and Basel descended the staircase amid clusters of Northern Palestinian musicians, hundreds of dancing, singing, clapping and warbling guests. The wedding cake was at least 5 feet high, and cut with a sword. The food was laid out in a separate courtyard, under the stars, with more than a dozen tables serving every Middle Eastern delicacy and treat you could ever imagine... But the most noticable thing, to me, was that after a week of festivities, events, and celebrations, lasting all day and night, each one attended by more guests and becoming more elaborate, Salma and Basel had nothing but joy in their faces the whole time. It was contagious, making my face ache from smiling, and my eyes brim with tears.

This morning, Sunday, I believe they are leaving for their honeymoon - two weeks in Malaysia. I would imagine that they'll fall into a deep sleep for the first week...

And now my dusty, dirty travels begin...

Disco Dancing in Amman

Thursday night was the night before the wedding, and everyone gathered for a party at Lana's home - a friend of Salma's, who works with the Bedouins in an effort to preserve and promote their culture. This evening was particularly special, because this was the night that everyone from school had finally arrived from near and far, to celebrate Salma and Basel. Khaled had arrived from Palestine, Sergey had arrived from Russia... it was a wonderful reunion.

We were sad to learn that Sepideh from Iran, and Aminu from Nigeria were unable to come, as they were not able to obtain visas from their countries to come to Jordan. We were all thinking of them, and talking about them all night long though...

Walking in to the party was like walking into a dream. We were led through her palatial home, into the back terrace. There were round tables with chairs all throughout the garden, sheltered by arbors dripping with vines and flowers. In the middle of the terrace was a white, frosted glass dancefloor, which was lit from underneath. To the side of the dancefloor were several clusters of white couches, placed around low tables. I realized that the white, frosted glass floor was actually a series of panes which were laid over a wooden lattice frame, over a very large pool... it was quite dramatic to realize that we dancing and sitting over water...

Arabic dance music was playing throughout the evening, encouraging the nearly 100 guests to sway and bellydance. Dancing here reminds me of Greek dancing (thinking of you Dimitri!), as people form a circle around a dancer, clap their hands, and hit the floor, while the dancer twirls and weaves back and forth.

Salma and Basel were actually married in a small, private ceremony this evening, and for the first time, we saw them being physically affectionate with each other. Both of them were beaming throughout the whole evening.

Around 10:30pm, dinner was announced, so we climbed the small, stone steps to the second terrace, where there was a 50-foot-long buffet presenting hundreds of traditional Iranian dishes, served in oversized inscribed and carved silver bowls. Grains, vegetables, sauces, shwarma sliced from a spit, salads... things I recognized, things I didn't... taking a small spoonful of only half the dishes would leave you with an overflowing plate.

At about midnight, there was a smattering English-language songs, and all of the KSGers swarmed on to the dancefloor, leaving all inhibition behind, dancing, jumping, shaking and reviving a comraderie that had been deeply established from 2004-2005. I saw some of the older guests watching us with intrigued curiosity, but the night just went on and on...