It smells of oranges, for example, near the fortress in the center, which was built in the eighteenth century during the reign of Karim Khan Zand. He made Shiraz his capital and went down in history as a comparatively peace-loving, just, and even modest Persian king.
Laila and I are waiting for Hamed on some grass between beds of flowers in front of a leaning round tower and some massive fortress walls.
This morning at ten o’clock I posted a message on the Shiraz couchsurfing forum: Hello, we are 2 incredibly nice Germans, and we would be incredibly happy to wander through the city today with someone local. I added my cell phone number, which wasn’t particularly clever, at least in view of the resulting problems of organizing the meetings offered.
From: Unknown Number
hi.i would be happy to hang out with u, any time you say.
Negar CS Shiraz
From: Unknown Number
Hey Stephan. This is Soroush from Shiraz. I’ve just came back from a 6 months hitchhiking trip around Iran and Iraq. I’ll be more than happy to meet you and hear about your stories. I impressed by your profile by the way.
From: Unknown Number
hey stephan, i can meet u around 6 pm. Reza
From: Unknown Number
Hello Stephan & Laila Hope u enjoyd Shiraz so far This is Amin frm CS. would be nice if u join me & my guests to get to go fr something fun this aftrnoon:-)
What is the opposite of shitstorm? Lovestorm? Four text messages in only two hours. Slowly, I get the feeling that a secretary might be useful for organizing our schedule. On top of the messages there were two phone calls. One of them I didn’t understand a single word, and I wasn’t even sure which language the man at the other end of the line was speaking. And one from Hamed, with whom we arranged to meet at noon in front of the fortress. Once again there is the usual blind date problem. We haven’t the faintest idea what our new friend looks like or even how old he is, but we are continuously approached. “Welcome to Iran. Where do you come from? Are you enjoying your trip?”
But also: “I’m a registered tourist guide. Ooooh, Germany! I have friends in Frankfurt and Berlin. What would you like to see?” Friendliness with ulterior motives. In many other destinations it is so commonplace that you automatically quicken your pace as soon as you hear, “Hey, Mister.” I wonder whether tourist money will one day corrupt the natural Iranian warmth, leading to the melodramatic “my friend” affectation of a sunglasses vendor on a sandy beach. Every year more visitors arrive with more wallets, exchanging money for the magic of the country, and all of them will take a bit of this magic home, so that in the end less and less magic will remain.
Recently, this has happened in Myanmar as tourism skyrocketed, thanks to political stability. Now, possibly, it is Iran’s turn, also because countries like Syria, Libya, or Iraq, countries that were similarly attractive to people interested in the Middle East, are no longer options because of terror and war. Since 2013 the number of people visiting Iran has reached new records every year, and today there are not enough hotel beds for the tourists.
Hamed has no trouble recognizing us. The only other foreigners in front of the fortress is a group of Taiwanese tourists. Hamed is thirty-one, with brown leather shoes and an expensive shirt. The tourist in me is overjoyed about his enormous expertise on buildings and plant life in Shiraz. The husband in me registers the brown bedroom eyes and the hand that time and again casually brushes against Laila’s back while the son of a bitch explains the significance of symmetrical structures in Persian architecture or makes remarks like: “Sadly, at the bazaar nowadays there’s far too much ‘Made in China.’ You have to know where to find the good stuff.”
So he shows us a stall selling ornately carved backgammon boards, and then two gardens are on the program. In the first one, on the grounds of Qavam House, it smells even more orangey than in the rest of the city. One look in the mirrored porch reminds me of the necessity of shaving. The skin on Hamed’s face by comparison could be used in a Gillette ad. I console myself with the beautiful women on the upper level, the ones painted on the wall and framed by ornamental flowers. They wear robes, their shoulders bare, and have luxurious locks of hair and white lower arms. No Islamic dress, no headscarves—I catch myself, for a fraction of a second, feeling slightly outraged.
POETRY
FROM THE ORANGE garden we take a cab to Bagh-e Eram. Eram translates to heaven or paradise, but Cypress Gardens would be just as fitting. Tuscany would be proud of such specimens. The paved paths between artificial ponds and streams serve as catwalks for youngsters, with their Justin Bieber hairstyles and perfectly groomed beards (the boys) or their expensive scarves, perched way back on their heads, and bare ankles (the girls). And tons of makeup. “What shall I bring her? A beautiful face needs nor jewels nor mole nor the tiring-maid’s art,”[1] wrote Hafiz, the most famous of all Shirazis, in the fourteenth century. The statement is still valid today.
Flute music lilts from loudspeakers, nightingales sing in the trees, and date palms sway in the evening breeze. Sometimes Iran lays it on a bit thick, and so it is in this “Paradise Park.” At the entrance there is a man with two budgie-sized yellow birds who pick out colored cards with Hafiz sayings from a small plastic tub. It is a much-loved way of reading your horoscope. There is a wonderful tradition in Iran whereby many people use Hafiz tomes rather like fortune cookies; they randomly open the book and select a saying. I give the man twenty thousand rial, and the beak of destiny selects a purple note. Hamed translates:
Beneath it there is an explanation of the verse: It is better to stick to your path than always trying something new and deviating from the right way. Only those who adhere to the words of the wise one will succeed. For me and my travels I manage to put a different slant on his wisdom: As I’m not a clever dervish and don’t know the way, I will continue to deviate from the path and knock at any Iranian door that pleases me. He’s a good man, that Hafiz.
The mausoleum of the poet is in a walled compound in the north of the city. Hafiz, whom Goethe considered his twin brother, rests in a pavilion with eight pillars beneath a white marble slab. Today there are many elementary school classes here. Kids in lovely school uniforms lay their hands on the gravestone and recite verses. Laila and I are not the only newlyweds. Hafiz is a kind of patron of lovers, which is why many Iranians make a pilgrimage to Shiraz shortly after marrying. Our conversation is presumably untypical of the usual whisperings of couples.
The dress regulations are getting on Laila’s nerves. “I’ve been wearing the same stuff for five days now, always this red scarf and this dumb, wide frumpy robe.”
“Before we were married you made more of an effort with your outfits.”
1
1.Browne, Edward Granville.
1
1.Hafiz.