May 5, 2010
Take 7: On this day in 2009...
I hadn't been that happy all year long.
Delightedly gliding my hungry eyes over the stark nakedness of my room, I called a friend to let him know I was ready. Ready to take flight; ready for nights full of warmth and laughter, music and dancing, friends and family, tears and passion, glances and stares; ready for nights which started late and ended too late; ready to sleep in my own bed again, surrounded by my red walls, books I've cherished as uncovered hidden treasures, overt yet subtle hints of friendships and acquaintances sliding in and out between the memorabilia covering every inch of the dark rick cherry-colored wood...
I was ready to go home.
I still remember the cropped pants and boots; the long argyle socks I'd made sure to pack somewhere easily accessible, to cover with the few inches of flesh peeking out from between the two; the blue shawl and gray shirt tucked away to be taken out before boarding for Tehran; the frilly smock that I planned to substitute for a manteau; the caramel macchiatos and blueberry muffins; the unbearable humidity which had brought with it the warmer weather I had longed for, yet been denied since the moment I stepped out of O'Hare on 9/3/08. It was May, the 5th, 2009, and I had a million pieces of luggage and not enough hands, my travel backpack that was dangerously close to dragging on the ground, and a return ticket to the arms of my dearests, to a city I love.
The flight to Istanbul was pure magic: A gorgeous and kind flight attendant who taught me to say "teşekkürler," switched my meal with a vegetarian one without complaining about my negligence in requesting one when making my reservation, and tried to make conversation despite his broken English during the 12-hour, nearly empty flight. I was so well-rested by the time I stepped out into Ataturk Airport that I merely smiled when I was told of the increase in my layover time. I found a small cafe, bought me some caffeine, and sat down to, well -um- homework. Pathetic, but I'd been in such a rush to get out of Northwest Indiana, and to make it in time to work at the Int'l Book Fair that I left well before the semester was over. Luckily, I realized that I hadn't packed my notes, couldn't write the paper, and started a random conversation with the stranger sitting next to me (a move I later paid back for with the single A- that ruined my 4.00 - yes, I'm a geek).
The book fair just started today in Tehran. Tehran, one of my two city, the one which I found myself crying rivers for, in anticipation of it's gripping embrace.The same city that I couldn't even walk around in when I was first forced to move there, despite my continuous bickering... An over-populated, highly-polluted metropolitan sprawl with no clear architectural planning in its design... An ugly city... home to 15 million people every day. The same city whose trees I'd fallen in love with once I lowered my guards and moved past my knee-jerk reaction of dislike for the non-pretty.
The plane's descent was accompanied by my inexplicable, dizzy tears, chocked back and silenced. I pulled my shawl up to my head, using its soft tassels to cushion my tears' suicidal falls... A billion shimmering lights twinkling in the valleys and mountains down below, the buildings seemingly stretching on infinitely... The faint smell of smog evading my soul once again...
I was home.
But, this year, there is no home. There are phone calls from home, talks with all the usual suspects. My dad who told me it's just this one year, and promised they'd come visit me instead. My mom who still insists I shouldn't worry about money, that they'll pay for everything, and that financial independence is overrated anyway.
My sister who spoke to me of her first day at this year's Book Fair, and of all my former coworkers: Davoud, the philosopher, who had added a beard to the mustache I absolutely loved on him, and will maybe one day decide to marry; Elham, my beautiful, dainty partner in crime with whom we sold the classics and the poetry; Javad and Sadra who'd been joined this year by their brother Reza; Mahya who was working alone in Saba's absence this year; and Momeni, aka Meimoon Derakhtiye khodemoon, who is still as annoying as, and this year more protective of her than ever.
I wonder if he'll be back. The boy who I sold Camus' "The Stranger" and Constant's "Confidence for Confidence" to, along with a copy of Homer's "Iliad and Odyssey" for his cousin. The one who came back the following night and bought a second copy of Homer's masterpiece, then held up a book for me to see, asking if I'd read it, and proceeded to leave it on the counter while walking into the crowd, telling me he'd bought it for me. I ran after him with my flip-flop-less feet, the same ones he'd commented on a few times... I asked him his name. Young and foolish, he promised me we'd meet again, that names meant nothing.
He said he'd be back this year. I wonder if he really will...
I won't be back. I'll be here, packing my things, anticipating another empty apartment, feigning permanent residence till the day I pull on my traveling backpack, denying the simple truth that I'll have to bid farewell to the people I've come to love out here...
There's nothing sweet about parting. There's just something very sorrowful to those sweet moments of reunion.
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On this day in 2010, I finally changed the timestamps, so they'd reflect GMT -06:00 instead of GMT +03:30... I'm now living on the wrong side of the equation.
Labels: nostalgia, Tehran, yada yada
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