The view from another city

It's a dead calm on the black, wet streets of Seattle's Central District when I walk through the alley and enter the Twilight Exit on the evening of Christmas. I love this about Seattle--how everything is so sinister and cold and raw and smelling of ocean and pine on the outside, but then you go inside old haunts, to warm places where everyone knows you. This is the third reincarnation of the Twilight Exit, but it still feels good. I sit at a table with Nikoel and ask her if she remembers those old parties at the first Twilight, those endless summers. She does.

It's Christmas karaoke and it always feels like this warm, fuzzy, big family. There are many greetings, much hugging. This is my home, where I am from. I love New York, but Seattle is who I am. My parents may be from Iran, but this is where I was born. Seattle is that little part of me that people can't put their finger on when first meeting me in the City, it's that inexplicable question and raised eyebrow when people say, "You like camping?!" They look down at my insensible shoes, assuming these heels say I'm from the East Coast, and they realize something is off, not right. It is always drizzling outside.

I run into Andy & Ingo, old friends from "the scene." Oh, the scene... Ingo asks me how I'm doing and I tell her I'm great, the usual stuff. I look around the bar, our friends singing, the passed drinks, and I say, "But we don't have anything like this in New York." She asks me about guys and dating. I tell her there is someone new, someone I actually like.

"It's weird," I tell her. "I know I usually write about the guys I'm dating. There's always a story. But ever since I started seeing this one, I haven't been able to blog." I'm enveloped by this foreign sense of... privacy. "And it's terrifying too," I reveal.

It is in these moments where wisdom implicates itself. She says, "Maybe it's scary because you're not writing a story about this one, you're not removing yourself from the experience--you're actually present, which is scary."

After a few years of using men like kleenex, I feel like I've met someone who might be part of my story, not someone I can write about, not a situation where I am in control. It's a new feeling. Or maybe a very old one. I don't know, and that is the problem and the gift: I don't know. I am not the author.

It takes coming to this gray, dank, mossy place by the water to realize things like that.

(Please note: To those who have been reading me since the early aughts, during this time, I may return to posting in the old place that you are all familiar with. You know where to find me.)

Quick update because I know it's been a while

Well, I'm back from Puerto Rico! Hope you didn't miss me too much. It was a blast. And now I'm back in cold Manhattan.

I'm dating someone I really like... and it is freaking the shit out of me, mostly because he seems serious, and if he's serious, then who knows where this will go? AHHHH!!!! (I will tell you more once we are over the jinxing stage.)

My dad was in town last Saturday and we had dinner at the Kebab Garden in the East Village (because it is the only place he will agree to eat at in the entirety of New York City). After we finished eating, he found the manager and decided to give him advice about how he could run his restaurant better. It was incredibly humiliating and it reminded me why I love him so much. It was awesome to see him. He says he got to see the school that he is building near Tabriz in Iran while he was there. I had no idea he was even building a school there! He is naming it after his dead father.

And I saw my cousin on Sunday night (who was in town for a movie premiere). Her 5-year old is best friend's with Matt Damon's assistant's 5-year old, which is why she got comped the ticket and the hotel room. So there we were on Sunday night hanging out in the Mandarin Oriental in what should have been Matt Damon's mother's room (the mom decided last minute to stay at "Matt's" house instead), ordering room service in her name (we were told to do so because Universal was paying for everything anyway). Afterwards, I took my cousin down to my neighborhood and we had dinner at Momofuku. And it was actually fun. And it was nice to see family, someone who has known me since I was a bebe.

The President & the homeless man

Last night, walking home, I noticed an unmarked police car blocking my street, East 12th. Film crews have chosen my street before, so I assumed that's what it was. Just a few months ago, they filmed a scene of Boardwalk Empire at John's, the Italian place at the end of the block, and they cordoned off the entire street and turned it into a huge tented buffet of food service for the actors (my apartment stoop was turned into a technician's hangout). But, this time, I turned the corner and saw that two tow-trucks were busy towing all the cars parked alongside our tiny little road, and two more cop cars were driving up and down the street directing a garbage truck, which was picking up garbage off the sidewalks.

A woman was poking one of the garbage bags looking for recyclables (a popular occupation in New York for those trying to make extra cash) and she turned to me wild-eyed and said, "The President is coming down this street! Down this street! We gotta clean it all up!" I figured she was just a crazy homeless person, so I kept walking.

The President of the U.S. driving down this tiny street? No way. A woman was selling tortillas out of a cooler perched on a shopping cart in front of my stoop and a cop car pulled up and bought a tortilla then told her to move. "The President is coming down here soon." Whoa, Obama was really coming down this street?

For the next two hours, more cars and more garbage was moved in preparation. I had no idea that it took this much effort to prepare for the president just driving by. Apparently, he was at a fundraising dinner at Gotham Bar & Grill on the other side of 12th St, so his motorcade decided to make a clear shot across the island, passing my apartment. I waited on my door stoop for an hour, reading a magazine. Then it got cold, so I went upstairs to my apartment. I went downstairs to check up on the street scene twice more (which is a lot to say considering I live in a 6-floor walk-up), but each time, it was still too early and the president had not yet finished dinner. Then I fell asleep on my coach. When I woke up, I sprinted downstairs only to catch my neighbor exclaiming, "I saw him! I saw Obama!" By the time I got outside, the train of black cars was gone. Damn!

*

This morning, on the subway platform (why do so many of my posts start out that way?), a rotund homeless man wearing a santa cap sat on a bench and began hollering the words to "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Things like this are always amplified in the morning because normally nobody talks and, despite hundreds crowded on the platform, there is usually no noise at all. So the homeless man kept singing "White Christmas" and he started making up nonsensical words to the tune, echoing loudly, causing those of us on the platform who desperately try to ignore each other to turn and smile in conspiracy: Yes, this is our city.

The season

On the subway platform to work today, I hear a scream. Morning commutes are always devoid of talk, hundreds of people totally silent, so the scream is cause to look. Maybe someone got scared by a rat? Instead, an older woman with 80s-style glasses runs down the platform and grabs another woman from behind and says, "How dare you?" The other woman, a young hipster, turns around surprised. "How dare *I*? Get your hands off me old lady!" The older woman stands shocked and shakes her head, disgusted. I wonder which one is at fault and who to side with. The train pulls up.

We cram into the train. I am positioned under a man's armpit, between a woman on one side and the seat on another. Sitting in the seat, a black man lips the words to gospel that is playing on his portable DVD player. He is not using headphones so we can all hear the gospel. Me and him are the only ones that can see it on his screen though. I begin to wonder if he is part of the choir or if he knows someone in the choir, because why would he be so passionately into the songs? And why would he know all the words?

Up on the street, Macy's has its windows decorated. They have put up a giant inflatable elf above one of the entrances. I pass by three Salvation Army collections--all ring bells, one has a french horn. Homeless people congregate outside K-Mart and tourists gather outside the popcorn store ("one of Oprah's favorite things!"). Every store I pass is pumping holiday pop. Our office building has strung politically-correct purple and red lights on the trees outside and on a large wreath hung in the lobby. There are signs saying the building management is doing a coat collection for the homeless but, last year, I actually brought a coat to donate and the guy at the front-desk had no idea what I was talking about and sent me to the local police precinct instead. I figure the sign is just for public relations.

Thanksgiving was spent at my recently-engaged friend's place in Queens. Saturday night, I went to the Russian & Turkish bath house, which is quickly becoming a favorite spot. I was introduced to the manager, Dimitri, who complained about cheap Russians. In the biggest steam room, I realize I am sweating next to Jonathan Ames who is apparently a regular here.

On the phone last night, my parents inform me they have returned from Iran now. They have come and gone, and I still don't have my papers. Part of me is relieved, but the other part feels time passing.

The Finale

My web series about dating Persian men is over. Read the grand finale here.

Apple + Pumpkin

He brings me a gigantic apple as a present, instead of flowers. He places it next to my miniature pumpkin that I’ve had out since Halloween. “Look at how cute they are—a pumpkin that isn’t normally little and an apple that isn’t normally big. They're so different. It’s like you and me,” he says. We snap a picture.

“You’re just like a pumpkin because I’m convinced you turn into one every night when you go running away so abruptly,” he says.

***

I take him out to dinner. We ride to 58th Street from St. Marks on his motorcycle, weaving through cabs as he flicks them off (“they’re a menace to this city!” I hear him yell over the wind) and I hold on for dear life, imagining I am going to die any moment in these ridiculous high-heeled boots I’m wearing.

The restaurant is very proper with chandeliers and plush red walls and roses and candles on every table. We walk in with our helmets and everyone in their suits stops to stare at us. For effect, I accidentally knock a vase over with my helmet. The owner comes by to discuss motorcycles and his youth and he comps us a bottle of wine.

***

But there is a destructive side of me, so I ask, “Do you really believe in conspiracy theories? Like, do you earnestly and honestly believe in them?”

“I don’t believe in theories,” he says. “I believe in science, proven things. What you see on the media is the real ‘theory’. Your parents are from Iran. You should know this.”

I try not to let him see me smile. I hold myself back from debating. I change the subject, willful amnesia.

One radio is running NPR in the back of his place by the kitchen. Another radio is running a different talk radio show in the front of the apartment, in the living room. Both are talking about how Zuccotti Park was evicted. We stare at the books that line the shelves on every wall.

Temporary

The Russian & Turkish Bathhouse on 10th Street in the Village looks like its been frozen in time in the 1980s. You walk into a dining-room with linoleum floors, fluorescent lighting, faux wood paneling, and a surely Russian chef behind the counter who seems personally offended any time anyone orders anything. Fat, hairy men sit at the tables in their towels. The hallway is sopping with wet footprints. A Turkish boy with a peach-fuzz mustache hands out threadbare brown towels and strange black hospital-like robes that don't really work. Portly naked women in the locker room warn me about bathing without the robe that is handed out. "Watch out," one says in a thick Russian accent. "These men like to stare at pretty young skin like yours."

He said to meet him in the "big Russian room." So, when I descend into the subterranean warren of steam rooms and saunas, I peek my head into every room, each time eliciting awkward moments in which numerous people lift their heads up to stare at me through the steam. The "big Russian room" ends up being the last one, the one with stone walls, the one where men lay on wooden planks being kneaded by other men, where some women unsnap their bikini tops, where people stand in line to throw buckets of ice-cold water on each other. He smiles at me when I enter, his big charming shiny smile.

After the first date, I was certain I would never contact him again. But he offered to cook for me, so I decided to go on one more date. He's a "filmmaker" and an "art-handler." In New York City language, that means he has a rent-control apartment and he moves things as a day job. I've been dating all these rich jerks for a while, so why not try someone poor? For variety. He's interesting at least: His mom was a Jewish bohemian who settled in the East Village and had three children by three different men in three different countries. They grew up in a ground-floor apartment on St. Marks, which he now lives in with a cat named Max (yes, rent-control). It's between the Yaffa Cafe and Cafe Mogador next door to a second-hand bookstore, and it hasn't been renovated since his mother lived there. The bathroom is in the kitchen, the wooden floors are painted red, the kitchen cabinets are just shelves. The thing is: He's an amazing chef. He has one of those CSA shares so the wooden table in the kitchen is always piled with vegetables. We spend Friday nights peeling potatoes and carrots, drinking red wine and laughing, and later eating. I've never dated anyone so poor, so healthy. I've eaten at a lot of fancy restaurants, and I would say his cooking is way up there, sometimes even better.

He's been going to the Russian & Turkish baths since he was young ("only the co-ed nights," he assures me). He introduces me to the other regulars, gnarled old people with crazy city tales. He remembers a time when Madonna made it fashionable for women to walk outside wearing only their bras. He remembers his mother's gay friends dying of AIDS at St. Vincent's. He listens to music the same way he has all his life: By turning the knob on the radio until there is a signal. He is passionate about rent-control and water-quality and organic food. But he is also a conspiracy theorist, which means this will not last forever. But that is sort of the beauty of it: knowing there is an end, only enjoying the moment.

Part 8

The next installment will be the last in this web series about dating Persians, but for now, here is the next-to-last installment!

In the meantime, you have to check out this hilarious thread titled "Persian and Jewish Girls." Some gems include:

• "In my experience, [Persian and Jewish girls] are the worst, especially persian girls. This one Indian guy straight up told me persian girls are bitches. Money hungry, bitches, gold digging, pretends to be a virgin and has sex with black guys. Worst character traits ever."
• "Persian women are loyal to their men, they cook for them, they adore them... theyre really sexual women also. but i have yet to meet a persian girl who cheats or hooks up with black guys" 
• "Yeah Im a freaky sex addict but only with my man. I never lie nor do I cheat. In business, you bet Persians are known to lie and cheat. They're good at that, maybe thats why they have so much money."

Status Report

I'm going to Puerto Rico with one of my girlfriends in early December! It was a last-minute thing and I can't wait to sit on a beach with nothing to do.

Last weekend, us ladies (and a few select boyfriends/husbands) had dinner at the Hotel Gansevoort and then commenced to hang out in the cheesy club/lounge upstairs. I went to the Mercury afterwards to catch a few songs by Freezepop before heading home. Did I mention Halloween yet or not? Well, three of us actually joined in the Village Parade affair... and had a blast. I went as a legitimately scary zombie. There were so many great costumes--someone dressed as an Oscar trophy, there was a whole gang of WWE wrestlers including the Hulk, a pair of surgeons who wheeled a gurney the entire length of the parade (the gurney held the words "Economy" and it was attached to a heart monitor that was flat-lining). Strangely enough, the Occupy Wall Streeters were there "occupying" the Halloween parade in earnest (I'm assuming that they saw the party was at the parade, so they couldn't resist). That's the only parade I love, and I don't know why we don't do it every year, so maybe this is the beginning of something.

Work is truly awesome. I hadn't noticed that the only thing keeping me from enjoying work were two people in particular. Then those two people got canned and now I am happier than ever, so go figure.

Guys are consistently dumb. Their total cluelessness is the bane of my existence. I can't even call them "assholes," because that would be giving them too much credit for actual premeditation. I think they're just dumb. Or that I'm smart(er). Now I know why some cultures try to keep their women uneducated.

Both my parents are still in Iran. They called me on the train back from Mashad where they made a religious offering. Still no sign from the Iranian government about the status of my identity papers...

Yes, Part 7

If you're still reading along on my Persian dating adventures, Part 7 is now live.

Black sheep

On Friday, my best male friend got engaged to his girlfriend of five years. My other close male friend became engaged a few months ago.

I'm happy for them... but I can't help feeling a little left behind too, like I'm losing a friend. My girlfriends got married in a wave that came a few years ago, and they're already in the baby-making stage, but it seemed I always had my guy friends to help me feel normal by comparison. Now the guys are getting married too. I realize that is a totally selfish feeling on my part.

Over lunch at Spring Street Natural on a slushy Saturday (snow, this early?), one of my girlfriends consoled me. "But you're totally satisfied. You have a fireman in L.A. who writes you every day, and a guy you sleep with here in New York, and probably a bunch of dates on top of that.Why do you need anything else?"

She was right of course, but I have so many decades of human culture baked into me that I can't shake the notion that Single Woman=Unwanted Woman. Look, I know that isn't the case with me, that it's a million times better to be single right now than to be married and divorced with kids and forever tied to any of the people I had feelings for in the past. I just haven't met the right person yet. That's what I tell myself.

Still, now that my best guy friend is getting married, some sort of alarm just went off inside. I can only hope our friendship doesn't change. That's probably what I'm most anxious about: I don't want to lose my friends just because I'm not following cultural norms at the moment. This isn't about me fearing not getting married and remaining alone. I like my life just fine, probably better than fine. It's a fear about all my friends getting married and leaving me alone.

Part 6 is up!

Yes, Part 6 is up. By the way, these are just excerpts from much, much longer pieces, just so you know.

Tail end of the party

My parents left for Iran yesterday. They go about once a year, which was always a weird thing when I was growing up. It was one of those inevitable and necessary things that had to happen, but it was always a bad time when one or the other parent had to be gone for an extended period. When my mom's parents were alive, she'd be gone for three-month chunks and I'd forget what she looked like and sounded like until I saw her in the airport again. I hated it when they left while I was growing up. In fact, I think I still hate it. Even though I don't live in the same American city with my parents, I still miss them when they go to Iran. What gets me more though is that I should have gone with them. I should have gone months ago. But my damn papers are still being processed and I'm still just waiting, and soon it will be busy season for me and I won't be able to take time off at all. In the meantime, spring and summer have come and gone, and we're mid-way through fall.

I was always jealous of other kids at graduations and Thanksgivings when their grandparents would come. I probably got to see my grandparents less than ten times in my lifetime because they lived halfway across the world. I used to worry who from my family would even come to my future-wedding since it was just my mom and dad. When I was ten years old, I decided that the solution to that problem would be to get married in Las Vegas. I think I saw a movie about it or something and found out that all you needed was a witness. I've always had a chip on my shoulder about people who got to see their extended family on a regular basis, especially the people who complained about it.

The past few weeks have been pretty normal. I could name all the art galleries and art shows and restaurants and bars I went to, but there's no point. I could talk about this Atlantic article which purports that all of us unmarried successful ladies out there have only "deadbeats" or "playboys" to choose from, but again: There's no point.

"What my mother could envision was a future in which I made my own choices. I don’t think either of us could have predicted what happens when you multiply that sense of agency by an entire generation. But what transpired next lay well beyond the powers of everybody’s imagination: as women have climbed ever higher, men have been falling behind. We’ve arrived at the top of the staircase, finally ready to start our lives, only to discover a cavernous room at the tail end of a party, most of the men gone already, some having never shown up—and those who remain are leering by the cheese table, or are, you know, the ones you don’t want to go out with."

In fact, maybe I'm having an existential crisis. Maybe there were no points at all. And yet, I'm surprisingly... content. Isn't that all we wanted to begin with?

Yes, the saga continues...

Part 5 is UP!

It's up!

Part 4 of my year of dating Persians is out! (For those that already know the story, I never did get the heart to re-sell the diamond watch. It continues to sit in its pretty little box under my desk where I keep all my self-help books that I don't want people to see on my bookshelf.)

What a country!

I wish I had more to report. Work has been very dramatic lately, but ultimately good for me. My romantic life continues to be in the "it's complicated" category. I have gained two pounds, mostly from eating out at restaurants too much. And I spend too much on giltgroupe.com. So... nothing new in other words.

My dad came to visit last Sunday (he works in Jersey sometimes, so he was close by) because he wanted "to see what was going on with the Occupy Wall Street thing." You have to understand that my father went through the Iranian Revolution of 1979 and his youth will always be imbued with the excitement of revolution. Anything that smacks of it makes him excited. Of course, the result of the Iranian Revolution totally jaded my father (and many Iranians). He thought that the revolution was a good thing, but then--since the protesters had no leader or agenda--it got hijacked by religious fundamentalists and the state of Iran got even worse than it was pre-Revolution. If you know anything about history, that's always what tends to happen with revolutions. So, now, my father saw what seemed like a repeat of what he'd witnessed in his late 20s and he had to come to New York City to see what was going on. He hoped it would be different. That this time, it would work.

We walked South along Broadway arguing with each other. "This could turn into something," he said. "Now the U.S. government will listen to the people."

I am contrary with him, so I said, "No it won't. It's just a bunch of dirty hippies who have nothing better to do." I cringed a little bit. I sounded like a Republican. "Nothing will change. We're finished. They have no agenda. They don't know what they want. There is not a single respectable person down there. They spend more time making puppets."

We argued like this all the way down to Zuccotti Park. I was disappointed to be right. You could hear hippie drums from a block away. The park where everyone had gathered looked like a homeless encampment or the aftermath of Burning Man. Garbage was strewn everywhere; the stink of marijuana filled the air. Tarps covered parts of the ground where unwashed people took naps or begged for money. Cops stood around staring in bewilderment at the scene. Everyone's signs said something different. There was a table marked with "Press" where several people hovered with BlackBerries. And, everywhere, there were people like us just gawking, taking pictures with video-cameras and cell-phones in hand. Some kind of exploitative evangelist screamed something, hungry for attention.

My dad pushed his way through the crowd to a water jug where he poured himself a cup of water and exclaimed with magnanimity, "Can you believe this water is free?" He shook his head, proud of something, "Somebody is paying for this water. What a country!" He took a dollar out of his pocket and put it in the communal donation box. I complained bitterly that I wanted to leave, but he insisted he wanted to hang out a bit and walk around more. We walked through the melee, stopping occasionally so he could take pictures. "If this happened in Iran, all these people would be arrested and shot by now," he said. "What a country!" I shook my head and rolled my eyes, a portrait of another generation.

Arab Spring on Wall Street?

The "Occupy Wall Street" rallies (and accompanying brutality against protesters) have been getting undue media attention in Iran. I suppose the Iranian government is doing that on purpose to deflect criticism of the way they handled thier own uprisings after their botched presidential election. That's why this article about Iranian student uprisings in support of Occupy Wall Street is so fascinating:

The protesters [in Iran] shouted “Down with America”, “Down with Israel”, “Liberal Democracy is finished” and “Confronting Islam is the Last Nail in the US Coffin.” They also set the US flag alight at the end of their peaceful march.

The last time Iranians chanted "Down with America" and burned an American flag was during the whole American hostage crisis when the Iranian people themselves actually hated America. This time is different. They are chanting "Down with America" in seeming solidarity with protesters in America. They see the American protesters as extensions of the protesters in the Arab Spring--as extensions of their own community.

It's a strange predicament... While the Iranian government certainly doesn't want to encourage its people to follow the Arab Spring against their own government, I'm sure they are allowing this particular protest to occur with gleeful satisfaction. I do wish the rhetoric wasn't "America" though, and that Iranian protesters weren't linking this to anti-Jewish sentiment. Iranians more than anyone else should understand how offensive (and erroneous!) it is to talk about "Iranians" and "Iran" as if the people and the government are one. In the same way, I highly doubt "Occupy Wall Street" is about hating America--it's actually about having faith in America, and wanting to make things better. You don't yell "Down with America" to people who are fighting for America.

Victory?

We got an urgent call from Iran this morning from a dying relative. "Quick, turn on the TV!" he yelled (this is a man who has been bed-ridden with constant chemo therapy). We flipped on the satellite TV and turned to the Iranian channels. "The men's volleyball team is winning!!!!" he cried. Oh brother, I thought, let down. Here, I thought something important was happening. It was just the men's volleyball team winning. I didn't even know men played volleyball. Or that it was a world sport. I guess when all your other sports teams are banned from world competition, that's what you hold onto.

My mom--who knows absolutely nothing about sports--held the remote control in her hand and started tearing up. Seriously? Over volleyball? A sport she has no idea how to even play? Then she turned to me, totally off subject, "Do you have any friends?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, knowing exactly what she meant. "Of course I have friends."

She was silent. I took pity on her and continued, "You mean 'boys'? You mean, do I 'date'?" Never in a million years could my mom utter those two awful words.

"Yes," she said, the remote control still shaking in her hand.

"I do," I said. "But obviously nothing has lasted."

"What does that mean?" she asked. "How does that work?"

She was honestly curious, I could tell. She married the first man she ever kissed. "Well," I started, not knowing how to continue, slightly embarrassed, "You sort of go on a date and see if you like each other. And if you like each other, you keep seeing each other until you decide you don't like each other." That was the simple answer. "This usually lasts a few months for me," I added, so as not to simplify it too much.

"Are these proper men?" she asked.

I sighed. "Yes, they are 'proper' men. They have jobs. They're not homeless."

"Then I don't understand," she said.

I let it stay at that. Because, let's be honest: I don't understand either. We watched in silence as the men's volleyball team received a bouquet of flowers.

Seattle!

I'm in Seattle for a week staying with my parents. I came here because I'm attending my ten-year college reunion this weekend. It's so strange to be in the home I grew up in, the city I was born in, the weather I was raised in--cloudy, gray, drizzly. My old room hasn't changed much. The same books are the shelves, the same posters on the walls. It's like a time warp.

Here's an obligatory baby picture (because, of course, all the baby photo albums are here too):

I believe this was taken on the north side of the Montlake Cut overlooking Portage Bay in the university district. Fifteen years after this was shot, I'd be on a crew team and I'd regularly row through this canal, dodging sail boats. This land has since been turned into a parking lot. For all my talk of heritage and lineage--at heart, I'm a Seattle girl, and this is what I know.

Third installment is up!

The third installment of my Persian "sexescapades" is now up here! Your links, "likes," etc. are always welcome! There will be seven parts in all.

Passing time

This past weekend was another Classic NYC affair--in which you do lots of random things that are amazing and that you wouldn't be able to do in any other city. I have a MOMA membership, so I went and saw the members-only preview of the de Kooning retrospective. It was much huger than I expected, spanning his work all the way from when he was 12 in the early 1900's all the way up till his death in the 1980s. It took up more than eight rooms and was absolutely gorgeous in breadth. I felt like we could really see the evolution of the artist. After that, I caught a train to Queens where I met up with an old friend and we had brunch. We sat in the outdoor patio area since it was probably one of the last times we'd be able to do so before fall really sets in. Later that day, I went on a date at Ten Bells, this great wine bar in the Lower East Side. It's really dark in there and the sommeliers are sort of snooty, but they have no problem pouring you taste after taste until you decide what's right. Saturday ended at Lolita, a bar not too far away.

Then, on Sunday, I did my usual routine of going to Cafe Ost to finish reading all my magazines, then getting my nails done and walking around town getting errands done. This was a walk to remember though: For one, I just sort of accidentally happened upon the Feast of San Gennaro in Little Italy, which is a huge scene of heart-attack food and Jersey accents. Then, as I was walking home along Bowery, I saw a familiar face walking towards me. He was tall and wore all black and had blond hair. The sun shone on his face and he smiled and I thought I'd die on the spot because now I recognized him: IT WAS ALEXANDER SKARSGARD ("Eric Northman" from True Blood), the hottest man currently alive! I am not one to regularly be starstruck, but this time, I had to literally stop walking and catch my breath and ask myself if this was really happening. His smile! His radiance! His strut! Usually, stars are not as hot as they appear on screen, but Skarsgard was at least ten times hotter in person. And here he was, just sort of casually walking down the street. It took the rest of the day for me to recover, at which point I decided it was time to take myself on a date to a movie. Being very romantic, I chose "Contagion" and had nightmares all night.

*

I've been talking about dating and romance a lot on this blog lately, just because it's a part of my life, I guess. I've lately been thinking about how alone it makes me feel because my family doesn't understand it and I'm figuring out the "rules" on my own, but I read an article yesterday about sexual revolutions in past centuries and how each revolution has been able to occur because the current generation is egotistical enough to think they're doing something for the first time.

"The reason sex can be revolutionized again and again is that we're reluctant to believe our ancestors could have known and felt what we know and feel. Yet what has been will be again; what has been done will be done again; there is nothing new under the covers"

~Ariel Levy, "Novelty Acts" (NYer, 9/19/11) 

The main gist was that it's all been done before. We're not the first to feel the way we do. Past generations have probably dabbled even more than us. And, for some reason, that actually makes me feel less alone. Yes, people didn't "date" in Iran, but if my grandmother was murdered for some sexual dalliance, I have to think that there have been sexual adventurers for generations in my family past, and that I am not embarking on new territory but only furthering a tradition of longing that makes my blood mine.

Part 2 of Don Juan Perversion's Adventures

And also... "Part 2" of my sexperiment is here. (I must warn the girls that I went to Vegas with that there is one slight exaggeration because there was a space limitation: I know the guys we met did not stay at the club with us and that I met with them later, but in order to cut wordy explanation, I had to make them present at the club. EVERYTHING ELSE IS TRUE. You've been warned.) Once again, please "like," "comment," share, whatever... I'd be very appreciative.

Wayward acts of commemoration

My mom called on Sunday.

"I'm about to call the embassy to check up the progress of your papers."

"Thanks," I said.

"How are you?" she asked. I told her I was okay. I tried not to reveal how upset I was, because I can't talk about guy stuff with my mom. She wouldn't understand. Nobody ever "dated" in Iran. I never even told my parents I had a "boyfriend" until I was 21 because they forbade it. Now I am alone with these kinds of problems.

This probably isn't the place to write about it, but it is a part of my identity and very much a major part of What I'm Doing While I'm Waiting To Go To Iran. I always say I want to be in a relationship, but then I find myself going on dates and eventually becoming infatuated with guys who are totally not ready for relationships. I think I do it on purpose because I'm the one who is scared of a relationship but if I can say that I'm physically going on dates and "trying", then I can tell myself that I am doing "my best." This latest guy is a total WASP in the most J.Crew catalogue/I-weekend-on-Cape-Cod-and-wear-loafers-without-socks sort of way--not my type in the least. But he was creative and funny (and he had a washer/dryer!) and we had this very electric tension and I loved the shear improbability of it. So I went over the cliff until he--inevitably--pushed on the breaks. I think I've been lying to myself that I can do this casually, secretly thinking he will change his mind, but this is an awful situation for a woman to put herself into, ultimately making one feel worthless and low.

Last Thursday, I went to a Friends of Firemen fundraiser with my girlfriend. Firemen from around the U.S. had come to New York for 9/11. The L.A. firemen contingent struck up a conversation with me and my girlfriend and, before I knew it, I was seeking a little therapy in the form of community service (a.k.a. I took an LA County Fire Department captain home). I know this sounds incredibly cliche, but what is a girl in distress supposed to do? He was the sweetest, gentlest, nicest guy I've ever met and if I never had a thing for firemen, now I do. (I'll be the first one to laugh at the fact that an Iranian hooked up with a fireman for 9/11.) And this encounter reminded me what it's supposed to be like. (He leaves back for LA this evening, despite his infatuation--again, did I pick him on purpose because I knew he wasn't going to be around?.)

Me and the WASP are not exclusive, so I told him about the fireman to get it off my chest. He suddenly became jealous and quickly made plans to hang out (after avoiding me for a week). Of course, the day we were supposed to hang out, he blew me off and said he was sick. I got upset. He repeated that he was "not in a place to be in a relationship" (when I have children--IF I ever have children--I will tell them that this is a line that means, "I am not in a place to be in a relationship with YOU"). I accepted this. Then he texted me that we should get together and work it out (adding a smiley-face emoticon to the message). So up and down goes the roller coaster. This is an addict's behavior, constantly seeking the rush.

I'm a confused person romantically. I often wish I could plumb the collective wisdom of the women in my family for their advise, but that is impossible culturally. I wonder what they would have been like if they had lived in the U.S. in my generation? Would we have shared some of the same traits? Were they ultimately happier in their arranged marriages, avoiding all dating nonsense? I'm the first female on either side of my family for all of known history to have these options, and I feel compelled to take every route possible to make up for it. Things have not turned out as black and white as I was raised to believe: There is no such thing as "bad" girls who are sluts or "good" girls who are angels. Sometimes, good girls have wayward sex. Sometimes bad girls want commitment. If only I had the stories to string it together.

Fall arrives

It's an awesome day in the universe when you can get arrested for organizing a waterfight.

"This is not simply a game with water [said spokesman of the Iranian judiciary, Gholam Hossein Mohseni Ejeh]. This act is being guided from abroad!"  

Ha. Totally. In fact, water guns were specifically invented as a covert strategy to topple foreign governments. Anyone can see that, right?

The days have gotten dreary and rainy in New York--one day it was summer, then bam! Autumn. I don't feel okay about it, I'll be honest. Suddenly, I'm buying coffee from my donut cart guy in the morning instead of the usual iced coffee. What happened? Where did it all go?

The Year of Persian Dating

Last year, I conducted an experiment in which I dated only Persian men. It's a long story, and I promised a friend I'd chronicle it in abbreviated form in a series of anonymous installments on his website, so here's the first of what promises to be a dirty adventure. Don't judge! Help out a lady and "like" it!

Post-Hurricane

Wow, this has been a week of DRAMA in New York City--first an unprecedented earthquake and now an unprecedented hurricane. As soon as the City announced it was shutting down all subway service, a cascade of harried activity ensued: groceries sold out of flashlights and bottled water, restaurants and museums and gyms all sent out messages that they'd be closed too, various well-meaning morons scotch-taped their windows in lieu of boarding them up, the City was divided into zones and low-lying areas were told to evacuate, police drove down streets with loud-speakers like they do in blockbuster movies, and pretty much everyone everywhere was talking about THE HURRICANE.

Saturday night was probably the most boring night of my life. All of New York shut itself inside waiting for the impending apocalypse, and dammit did it take a looooong time coming. Like many other New Yorkers, I had overpurchased food and I immediately began over-eating in anticipation of THE STORM. Bored out of my mind, I just read my Twitter feed obsessively (and a star was born, entertaining thousands of desperate New Yorkers), periodically glancing out the window. Sometime in the middle of the night, yes, it did start raining and, yes, there was wind. But by morning, the storm had passed and I was left wondering if I had slept through it or dreamed it all.

I met Alice down on the street and we did a quick scout of the neighborhood. There were a few downed trees in Tompkins Square Park, but it seemed the main damage had struck my NAIL SALON on 1st Ave.! A branch had fallen on it, downing the awning.

Otherwise, all was good: No loss of power. No flooding. No broken windows (bless your scotch-taping!). Thousands of rats ran through Tompkins Square Park creating gawking crowds of humans staring and pointing in disgust, "What makes them come out in droves after a storm?" One only had to back away from the scene for a bit to watch the humans in droves to figure it out.

Emergency Events

Yesterday, a little before 2p.m., we felt the ground shaking on the 32nd floor of our building near Madison Square Garden. Our building sways in the wind a lot and we can sometimes feel subways under us, but this was different. The water in our glasses quivered. The blinds clanked against the windows. Doors yawned open. I've been in earthquakes before (having been born and raised on the West Coast) but I've never been in an earthquake while in a skyscraper, so that wasn't my immediate thought. My immediate thought was (funny in retrospect, I guess), The building is crumbling. I guess I wasn't the only one. Suddenly, everyone had come out of their offices in panic and were asking each other what was going on. Then there were swarms headed to the elevators. Nobody had any idea what was happening, but we all had 9/11 in our minds. Hundreds had come out into the lobby of the building. We poured out onto the streets and started walking away from the building, staring back at the skyscraper, watching for something. The streets were full of other people and we soon overheard that we weren't the only building that felt "it." There was talk of an explosion, but then slowly, the rumor turned into earthquake, and shortly thereafter, it was confirmed: a measly 5.8 in Virgina. Still, most people were too shaken to go back into the building.

This got me thinking of other emergency events I've been in. The one that always comes to mind is a time when I was visiting relatives in Iran and there was a bomb raiding. It was in the mid-1980's during the Iran/Iraq war. I was at my cousin's apartment, playing with them for the day while my mom went shopping in the bazaar with my grandmother. I was in my youngest cousin's bedroom constructing a mini city out of several blankets and pillows. I was still in elementary school. My cousin, who is four years younger than me, suddenly perked up and said, "Listen!" I asked her what it was. "It's the bomb siren!" I said there was no way. Then, whatever she heard got louder and turned on in our neighborhood and it was inevitable--the slow, high-pitched drone. The prick of fear and panic crawled up my spine. I had never been in a bombing before. I had never been in an emergency before. "Girls, come here!" my aunt screamed from the living room. We ran to the living room. "Get away from the windows!" she screamed, ushering us into her arms. My aunt's mother was elderly and was sitting right next to a window in the kitchen, peeling a cucumber. "Maman, get away from the window!" my aunt begged, throwing her body on top of us kids to protect us. I peeked out from under my aunt and caught a sliver of the elderly lady sitting at the table in the kitchen, not missing a beat on her cucumber peeling. All the while, the bomb siren kept wailing. The old woman didn't look up from her task, saying in Farsi, "Fuck it. If they're going to kill us, getting away from the window isn't going to help." My aunt started crying and screamed for her mother to join us against the wall away from the window. I could feel my aunt's sweat. I could hear her breathing, holding us tightly. And then, just as suddenly as it had begun, the bomb siren ended. It was a false alarm. No Iraqi bombs were going to fall. The planes that flew over had just been spies. We hadn't even needed to go to the basement. My aunt slowly let go of her grip on us and stood up. Me and my cousin unwound ourselves from our fetal positions on the floor and raised our heads, blinking. Then my aunt's mother looked up and said, "Does anyone want any cucumber? I've peeled a few."

Ugly American... no wait, Ugly Iranian-American

There have always been two Irans, or at least two types of Persians. I mean, this was the whole basis of the 1979 revolution, right? There were the super traditional Persians, and then there were the super materialistic Persians. When the revolution happened, most of the latter moved to L.A. Today, with the advent of websites like http://www.uglypersianhouses.com/ and now the upcoming reality TV show about Iranian-Americans living it up in L.A., "Shahs of Sunset", I guess it was inevitable that there would eventually be a backlash from within Iran against Iranian-Americans, all using the medium of the Great Satan himself: television.

Azadeh Moaveni (the author of "Lipstick Jihad") wrote an article about Iranians' TV obsession with a comedy show called "Satellite" about a family with 900 illegal channels (but really more about how much real Iranians should hate Iranian-Americans).

Iran has long had its highly publicized version of the Ugly American; now, it seems, the country is embracing something else entirely: the Ugly Iranian-American. . . Most of the clips focus on ordinary Iranian-Americans, portraying them as drug-addicted, promiscuous, amoral loons. The show is busy with flamboyant gay men who cause the family much alarm as they wiggle their hips and flap their hands on-screen, speaking in screeching tones.

I find this all hilarious, of course, especially because I'm one of those "drug-addicted, promiscuous, amoral loons." I'm also friends with lots of "flamboyant gay men" (although I admit that I haven't seen any of them wiggle their hips or flap their hands lately). To me, the bigger message here is that even Iranians are recognizing the existence of Iranian-Americans--us formerly non-existent beings. They may hate us and stereotype us (I certainly am not the L.A. type!), but they acknowledge that we are here at least. This is also what I tell people about "Shahs of Sunset": Yes, it's probably going to be awful, but I'm just glad this will be out in popular culture and that a dialogue can begin.

Anyway, here's a clip of the controversial show:

This generation

The fact that honor killings have a place in "integration debates" in Europe is ridiculous (it is not exclusive to Muslim cultures and it is certainly not condoned), but this article does have some interesting statistics about the current generation's views:

According to the recently published study on “honor-related homicides in families and partnerships between 1996 and 2005 [in Germany]”, 32% of perpetrators during that time were over 40 years old . . . Second and third generation immigrants almost never commit honor killings.

Progress

I picked it up yesterday.

A FedEx package from The Embassy of Pakistan's Interests Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran. My U.S. passport would hopefully be inside, as they promised ("we are just going to check it and send it back to you," they had said on the phone).

I tore it open right there in Union Square and, sure enough, my U.S. passport was there.

Then my father called. "I just got an email message saying you picked up the package." I love that my dad is being updated of my every movement by the embassy. It's such a nice, condescending feeling. I reached inside the package and extracted more papers: My application, and some kind of form letter written in Farsi, check-marked with a red pen.

I don't read Farsi. So I took a picture of it and emailed it to my dad to read. I feared that perhaps I hadn't filled out something right, that they were sending my application back because they wanted me to fill it out again, that they were writing me to say what was missing. I scanned the document to see if I could figure out if it was a reprimand or just a confirmation.

"It doesn't say anything important," he said, after opening his email and reading the image. "It just says that they've sent your application to Iran and now it's in the hands of the Iranian Republic."

Resigned to my mission by now, my dad then added, "Now, you just wait."

Patriarchy in Action

As you know, in order to apply to have my identity papers updated to match the new regime (so I can renew my Iranian passport, so I can go back to Iran), I was asked to provide my American passport. The Iranian government said they would simply look at my American passport to make sure it was real, then they would FedEx it back to me.

Yesterday, my dad forwarded me this email with the message "why is this being mailed to me?":

Subject: FedEx Shipment Notification
______________________________________________________________________________
This tracking update has been requested by:
Company Name:Emby of Pakistan - Repb Iran
Name:Mailroom
E-mail:'not provided by requestor'________________________________________________________________________________
Mailroom of Emby of Pakistan - Repb Iran sent to [THE PERSIAN PERVERSION]1 FedEx Standard Overnight package(s).This shipment is scheduled to be sent on 07/29/2011.
Reference information includes:
Reference:xxxx
Special handling/Services:Direct Signature Required
Deliver Weekday
Status:Shipment information sent to FedExTracking number:xxxxxxx

NOWHERE on my application did I provide my father's email address!!! There was a line where they asked for my father's name, so they must have connected his name to previous emails they've sent him and then sent my American passport to HIM! I know that fathers are considered the legal gauradians of thier daughters in Iran, but this is just ridiculous!

Honor

I noticed a man's tattoo on the train to work this morning. I squinted to read it.

Surrounded by flames and written in cursive, it said, "Death Before Dishonor"

It reminded me how deeply rooted the idea of "honor" can be in so many cultures, how glamorized, how very paramount to existence. Perhaps it is one of the few things that separate humans from other animals: the engineering of reputation, the protection of ego, a lust for brands, the potential for warped depictions of loyalty.

The beach

On Saturday, the ladies and I went to Long Beach to beat the heat wave. I wore a bikini for the first time in my life. My parents are super liberal, but wearing a bikini was always considered a no-no, something only "Americans" did (by the way, I am an American!). At the beach, after situating ourselves, I pulled my shirt off and took off my shorts and: voila! History was made with a little black Red Carter number. It didn't make me as self-conscious as I thought it would. It was definitely much harder to actually do activity in though--I flashed everyone (full boob!) at least three times, thanks to the ocean waves. Every time a wave hit me, my top flew off. I finally learned to just hold my chest every time a wave came by, considerably immobilized. So the question is: "liberalization"? or not?


When I was in Iran in 2001, we went up to the Caspian Sea for a little getaway, an area which we call "the North" in Iran (or "Shomal" in Farsi--the equivalent of saying, "We're going to the Hamptons!" in New York). The weirdest part about Shomal though is that... you can't really use the beach. We arrived at the beach wearing full-length black overcoats and dark headscarves (as per the law). The sea was divided with this huge plastic sheet: one side for the women, and the non-enclosed side for the men. As a woman, I had to stand in line to go into the section of the beach that was covered by this huge plastic barrier. The "bouncers" at the entrance consisted of gnarled old ladies in full chadors who chastised anyone with an inch of flesh showing. Once inside the enclosure however, it was Girls Gone Wild--Islamic Style. In their vast resentment, the women gave no heed to what they looked like. They let it all hang out. Half of them went naked because they figured "who really cares?" (and I'm not talking in a sexy way, I'm talking we-are-savages-who-have-no-regard-for-our-bodies kind of way). Some of them just walked into the water with their clothes on. Everybody was acting like they were on drugs, screaming wildly in reckless abandon. 


On my way exiting the beach, I forgot to put on my socks (people: socks? sand? really?!) and I was wearing those hideous sandals that flourished in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S. for a while (a.k.a. Tevas). The bouncer hag at the entrance to the women's beach pointed at me and raised the alarm. Suddenly, the crows were descending on me, yelling. I felt my heart pounding through my overcoat and the fear crawl up my spine. I didn't want to go to jail! So I ran as fast as I could, and I didn't turn back. I'd heard all the horror stories before and I wasn't going to wait till one of them caught up to me to give me a verdict. I hid behind a building where I could put on my sandy socks and walked the rest of the way back to our rented villa alone, boys jeering at me. Later on, we would all gather back at our villa and laugh at the story of how I out-ran the beach police, but it was a seriously disturbing moment and one that still sticks with me.


Last weekend, wearing my bikini for the first time, I waded into the cold water, thankful to cool off in the extreme heat. Nasty old men were looking at me, checking out my chest, waiting for the next wave so I'd be dis-robed. I held my bikini top by crossing my arms, folding into myself to be as invisible as possible. That wasn't necessarily comfortable either, and I could see the germ of why a country might have a womens-only beach. But still, ultimately, on this day it was my choice what to wear. Not the hag bouncers on the Caspian Sea. Not my parents who come from a different reality but meant well. 


Later on Long Beach, I studied our pile of gossip magazines, the spreads on "hottest beach bodies." Me and my girlfriends quibbled on so-and-so's abs and so-and-so's boob job and the first inkling of it began: But what if it wasn't my choice to wear the bikini? What if I only thought it was my choice and I was doing it only because my peers were, because everyone in the media wore one, because of this silly magazine? I returned home that night with the coveted bikini-line tan, no closer to a conclusion except that my one-piece swimsuit would be taking a permanent hiatus.

Baby #10

Those of you have been reading this know that I've been trying to get to Iran before my paternal uncle passes away and I can find out what happened to his sister (my grandmother). As you know, I was born on the day of the 1979 revolution when Khomeini landed in Iran, so the regime wasn't set up yet and I received birth identity papers that were from the Shah's time, stamped by the Iranian embassy in D.C. before they shut down. Because my identity papers are from the old regime (even though I was born in the new regime, technically), I can't get my Iranian passport renewed until I switch out my identity papers. I scanned my old identity booklet before mailing it to the Iranian government because it was such an interesting artifact. My mom was visiting earlier this week and we were looking at the scan and she noticed something...

On one of the middle pages, a stamp bears the symbol of the Islamic Republic! The booklet is from the Shah's regime, but the stamp inside is from the new regime... so maybe the papers were legit afterall! We got excited. Maybe I didn't have to wait many months!!

We called to find out if we were right. My mother explained to the man on the line that the booklet was stamped by the Islamic Republic and begged to allow the papers to be legit so I could renew my passport without waiting the several months it would take to destroy my current papers and re-create my paper identity. The man listened and empathized, but he said it was necessary to change the entire booklet. As long as the symbol of the Shah's regime--the "lion and sun"--were anywhere on the booklet, they had to switch it out... even if there was an Islamic Republic stamp inside.

I was born in a strange limbo time: the new regime wasn't set up yet (even though they had time to at least make a rubber stamp!) and the old regime was gone (even though they still used their stationary). My identity booklet was numbered "ten," the tenth Iranian baby born in the U.S. (?) on that fateful day between bureaucracies, the tenth baby who would be typing in English today.

It's coming

It's coming, it's finally coming! A reality show about Persian-Americans! And I am sooooo scared.

Soon the entire nation will know about "Tehrangeles," the tight-knit and stereotypically wealthy Persian-American community of Los Angeles. Ryan Seacrest and Bravo television are developing a series called "Shahs Of Sunset" (a working title), that will center on a group of young Persian-American adults living and working in Los Angeles.

Honestly, I know a lot of people will be up in arms about this, but I can say as an individual that I would really welcome more Persians in mainstream pop-culture. "Jersey Shore" opened our eyes to a whole sub-culture of guidos and "juiceheads" and sexist horrors, but even though it's totally raunchy and not representative of the entire young Italian-American population, it still made me more aware that they existed. I think people in America generally have very little understanding that there are Persian-Americans living in the U.S. right here, next door, and that we aren't all veiled Islamic fundamentalists. I'm sure the show will depict only the most obnoxious people, but I for one will be the first person watching, hoping this sparks a dialogue.

Weekend with mom

Proof that there is a real Persian in the vicinity:

That's a flower watering pot... that my parents use as a bidet when there is no bidet to be found. I am totally grossed out by it and mock them endlessly about this (seriously, this was packed in a suitcase!). In turn, they think that people who use just toilet paper are totally disgusting. Go figure.

*

I took my mom to see Phantom of the Opera on Friday night--which she loved. She had never seen it before. On Saturday, we got our nails done and I took her to my pilates class and we watched the sunset at the High Line and ate lots of food. 

*

I "broke up" with my fake boyfriend (can one break up with a fake boyfriend? I guess you'd term that a "fake break up"?). I am mildly upset, but it was inevitable and the only fair thing to do. He was a cork that plugged up that empty spot for a while and, even if he was a place-holder, the flood was kept at bay for that period.

Being mom to mom

My mom arrived at JFK airport last night around 9, but it took her another two hours to get to my apartment in the East Village because she insisted on taking the train and talking to strangers along the way. When she finally got to my place, I was a mess of worry and I chastised her for talking to random people at night on the subway. "Don't you know someone recently got abducted and chopped into pieces because they asked for directions?" I told her. It was at that moment I realized that the roles had switched and now *I* was the one staying up and being worried about my mother's safety.

I'm really excited to have my mom here and to show her the City. I often wonder what her life would have been like if she was not culturally restrained to a certain path. Would her life have looked like mine right now? As I watch the way she marvels at all the little things--the fruit stand! all these people on the streets! cleaning your own apartment!--I have to think that she is living vicariously.

It was a little over 30 years ago that she flew to the same airport--John F. Kennedy International--to meet my father who had matriculated into a Columbia PhD program before transferring to the University of Washington to be closer to his aunt in Seattle. They had gotten married a year before in Iran and he had come to the U.S. first to stake it out. He met her in the airport at the gate like we used to be able to do before 9/11. "He brought me a dozen roses," she remembers. "And he had rented a convertible, which I thought was so American." Now they sleep in different beds. And she takes great joy in taking the subway to Manhattan to meet her daughter.

The spoils

I love New York summers because there are always days like the ones this past weekend where it’s awesomely sunny but not terribly humid or unbearable. Me and the boyfriend had burgers at Dumont in Williamsburg on Friday night, bratwurst at Wechslers in the East Village on Saturday night, and carnitas tacos at Mayahuel on Sunday—that’s the beauty of this city. We sunbathed in Central Park on Saturday, lunched at Via Quadronno on the Upper East Side, and watched the sun set on the High Line Sunday evening. ...And, around 11p.m. on Friday, I illicitly met up with an ex on the Upper West Side.

I realize these things are not congruous (and I really am a good person!), and I often wonder if my grandmother died so that I’d have the "right" to be a duplicitous, dishonorable and accidental practitioner of polyamory (it runs in the family, right?). It doesn’t make any sense and I admit to being terribly confused (and simultaneously thankful to have the luxury to feel that way), but every day feels like getting away with murder. Oh wait, that already happened.

Fourth of July

I woke up and finished my magazines at my favorite coffee shop on the corner of East 12th Street and Avenue A. Then I met the fake boyfriend and we had pork belly Vietnamese baguette sandwiches at Num Pang (because the only true way a Persian can celebrate the Fourth of July is with ample amounts of PORK!). It was a sunny day without being sweltering or humid; I wore my floppy black straw hat. We walked the High Line, the utopian elevated rails-to-trails park on the West side, enjoying the new section from 20th St. to 30th St. There's this little popsicle cart near 23rd where they sell these ridiculous odd-flavored homemade pops like cucumber-lime-mint with cayenne, and hibiscus with paprika. We had some of those, made fun of the inflatable art installation at 30th St., visited BeerParc, sampled the chashew micheladas at Empellon, then headed over for dinner at the Spotted Pig (roquefort cheese hamburgers!). Usually, my apartment building sets an alarm on the door to the rooftop, but for wise reasons they chose not to set it last night, so we were able to see the fireworks.

While on the rooftop, I couldn't help but think about another rooftop scene though... "Andy" is one of the biggest Persian pop stars out there. I mean, HUGE. He was actually on one of the floats at this past year's Persian New Year Parade down Madison. He's a little washed up now. But you HAVE to check out his music video. It will make you spit out your coffee. Persians LOOOOOOVE Andy.

I think it's the white headband coupled with his perm that makes him so sexy. Here's a picture of Andy from the parade a couple of months ago:

People, this is my culture. Some of us are more emancipated than others. Happy belated independence day!

Back home

I'm back from Canadia! Sadly, I left the hotel only once the entire four days I was there. It was just conference conference conference 24/7. The steakhouse we ate out at (the one night there wasn't a planned dinner) was even connected to the hotel! So the only sunlight I got was by sitting out by the pool during breaks.

It's always fun mingling with folks in your industry because then you can geek out about stuff that would bore anyone else. "Wow, take a look at that paper stock!" or "Check out the spot-coating they got on those photographs!" just doesn't fly in the normal world. I get to quibble about what makes good market writing, and I get to debate about the tone I want to use versus "the company tone." Being the one & only at my company who does what I do, gatherings like this help keep me sane.

I won "Best of Show" in my category (don't get excited, it's nothing glamorous--we're talking annual reports here), and I got to spend quality time with my fake boyfriend (who coincidentally has my title at a different NYC company and was already going to this conference (picture me sneaking back to my hotel room on the 18th floor from his room on the 27th floor in the early morning hours, and then having to swing an emergency escape down the stairs in order to thwart scandal when I saw a fellow conference-goer coming my way!)).

When it was all done, I put the crystal trophy thing in my carry-on luggage and headed for the Toronto airport. Walking through immigration, the man on the other side of the counter took my U.S. passport and opened it to where my picture was. He looked me up and down. There was a pause of some insecurity and nervousness, as I am wont to have by experience. He asked me why I was in Canada. I told him I was here for business. He asked me where I had stayed, and I told him that as well. "You live in New York?" he asked. I told him I did. Then he closed the navy booklet, handed it back to me, and wished me a safe journey home. I have no logical reason to feel this way (as I am a law-abiding citizen and was born in the U.S.), but every time I pass through airport security or customs, I breathe a sigh of relief as if I've just gotten away with murder. I hide the smile, not wanting to be suspicious.

Club Persia: TORONTO!

I leave for Toronto to go to a business conference this Sunday! In the meantime, I will leave you with this golden nugget: The cousins of my cousin's cousin's cousin's cousin tell me that Toronto is on its way to becoming the new L.A. (referred to popularly as "Tehrangeles" by fellow-Persians).

OMG! I CAN'T WAIT!!

Just kidding. I will probably never leave the Hilton where I'm staying. NOT EVEN FOR CLUB PERSIA! Sacrifices!

Making other plans

Okay, so I know this blog is supposed to be all about my experience getting ready to go to Iran and related subjects... but the truth is that it's never All Iran All The Time--people are complex, and I'm very American too. John Lennon said it best: "Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans."

Village life

I love New York because I feel like I live in a village way more than I ever felt… even when I’ve lived in villages. By the time I walk down to the ground level of my apartment building on Saturday mornings, the Italians from the pizza place downstairs are already hosing off the front sidewalk, washing it of debris, waving hello. At the Mexican laundromat around the corner, I bump into the Korean woman who does my nails down the street. Walking to my local coffee shop where everyone knows me, I run into the Indian pharmacy shop-owner who is parking his car, stops to say hello to me and reminds me to get my refill on time. I finish my magazines at the café, sipping ice coffee (The New Yorker, New York Magazine, The Atlantic), before heading to the nail salon for my weekly manicure (and to catch up on the latest edition of US Weekly and In Touch Magazine, deliberating over Essie colors). Outside the salon, I pick up a box of blueberries from the Muslim boy who runs the fruit cart. This is my weekend routine. I’m not sure why these little interactions and familiarities make me so happy or give me such immense pleasure. In a city that is known for its impersonality, I can’t explain it except to say that anyone who thinks New York is impersonal has certainly never lived here before. And, at the center of all our being—ethnicity, tribe, family—the thing that makes us most who we are is where we live.

Parents

I finally cracked open the newest issue of The Atlantic last night and read an article by Lori Gottlieb which essentially asks the question, “Could it be that by protecting our kids from unhappiness as children, we’re depriving them of happiness as adults?”

Big Brother

My father's late sister convinced my mother to abort her first child, a boy. She wanted my mother to have a girl first, to honor her own mother who had died prematurely. When my mother went into labor with me, my father was working, so she walked by herself three blocks to the University Hospital from student housing (which has since been demolished and is now a parking lot across the street from Agua Verde in Seattle). My mother had her abortion a few years earlier at the Planned Parenthood in the Central District (which has also since been demolished and is now, I think, a Safeway grocery store or something like that?). She didn't tell me about my potential older brother until I was in college; she says she deeply regrets it, and she blames my father's sister for convincing her.

All magickal things

I'm back from the Wizarding World of Harry Potter in Orlando, Florida. Don't laugh! It was soooo fun! The designers at the theme park did such an amazing job with Hogwarts and the village of Hogsmeade. Moaning Myrtle's voice could be heard in the public bathroom, we walked through a portrait hall of speaking paintings, we dined at the Three Broomsticks, we perused the candy selection at Honeydukes ($10 chocolate frogs!), and we had Butter Beer that made us nauseous. I was even able to check into my flight without getting pulled aside for "special treatment" due to my name (usually, I'm never able to check in using the automated kiosks). Alice got her yogurt confiscated though because it was obviously dangerous. I felt so much safer since the TSA caught that. They don't mess around.

Jobs

There was a rooftop party in Tribeca last night. It was so hot that the Chinese fans they handed out as favors barely did anything. Everyone there was involved in one startup or another. I had no idea so many startups even existed because, as a commoner, I haven't heard of any of them. These days, I feel like all my friends work for startups. It's like the dot-com gold rush all over again. As night fell and the Christmas lights were turned on and the first keg ran out, people got more talkative over the chip bowl (or maybe just I did). I felt pretty lame telling people I was a "communications director." Nope, no sexy, endlessly cool startup--just a stable, well-paid, behind-the-scenes wordsmith.

Certainly, nobody in my family understands what I do. There isn't even a Farsi word for it. All they care about is the amount of the paycheck, which my Persian mom and dad are happy about. They don't understand how people could want anything more. Relatives kind of nod their head and smile when I tell them what I do because they have no clue what it means. It's a well-known fact that Persian parents always want their sons and daughters to be doctors, engineers or successful entrepreneurs. It's always doctor doctor doctor. The latest thing is the dentist craze. Kids who don't want to go through the whole medical school thing go to dental school instead because it's shorter and you still get "Dr." in front of your name. I know way too many Persian dentists. And it's gross! Seriously? You are going to dedicate to spending half your life inhaling other people's bad breath just so you can tell people you're a "doctor"? I don't even think you make that much money with all the insurance and equipment you have to buy, not to mention the glut of competition. It seems like a big sacrifice to make. But anything for a Persian mom and dad...

Me? I guess I don't care much, as long as I'm invited to the parties. That is the one Persian thing about me.

Other reasons to change your identity papers

I told my mom that when I called the embassy and told them I wanted to renew my identification papers, they were surprised since identification papers aren't typically "renewed." She thought for a moment then gasped, "Maybe they thought you were getting a sex-change!" Aside from changing identity papers to reflect the new regime, Iran will also change identity papers if you are switching sex. I had forgotten about this.

The contents

The FedEx envelope addressed to the Interest Section of the Islamic Republic of Iran at the Embassy of Pakistan in D.C. contains:

1. Form #423 [filled out in Farsi by my mother]
2. Four (4) passport-sized photographs [wearing headscarf, no neck showing]
3. $64 U.S. dollars [money order]
4. My original U.S. passport [which they say will be mailed back as soon as they confirm it is authentic]
5. My original Iranian identity papers ["Renewal? What do you mean? Everyone only gets one set when they are born," says the man on the phone. "Identity papers aren't renewed: You are only one person forever." I explain that my identity papers are from before the revolution. "Ah," he says. "Yes, of course you need to mail that in also. Form #423."]

Even today

It made me so sad to hear that the Iranian women's national soccer team was banned from an Olympic qualifying tournament recently because they were required by their country to wear headscarves.

The Iranian government won't allow the women to play without headscarves, and FIFA won't allow them to play with headscarves. FIFA: You suck.