A Trip Down Memory Lane: My Tehran Summers

Today’s post is another more personal one. A trip down memory lane to my childhood when we spent summers in Iran. Last summer, I revisited my aunt’s old house in Tehran where we stayed for a few days every year. And for about 15 months now, this post has been brewing in my head. I don’t typically like to post too many personal things here, but I guess if this story has been in my head for this long, it may be worth writing, at the very least for myself. So here we go.

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Summer 2019

It’s the last week of July. The dead of summer when the heat has been so unbearable that even evenings and nights are hot. My cousin and I had plans to hang out somewhere, but in the end, we decide to just drive around the city that night, staying in the car with the A/C on full blast. We drive all the way down to the cobblestone Baharestan Square when she points to a street and says, “That was the way to Khâleh Parvin’s.”

“Wait, do you still remember where she lives?” I ask all excited.

She furrows her brows. “Are you kidding me? I was there all the time in college.” 

“Oh my goodness! Can we go? I’ve been wanting to see it again forever!” 

And that was the truth. Ever since I arrived in Iran 6 years ago, part of me has wanted to visit these places where I spent so much time as a kid. The places where nearly all my best childhood memories come from. But I kept conveniently “forgetting” to get directions. The truth is, another part of me was too frightened. Frightened of the massive disappointment I’d feel if I saw her house had been demolished and rebuilt as some 5-story apartment. But most of all, I was frightened to step back into the past. To have all those memories come flooding back. Let’s just say it’s bittersweet. But it somehow seems more manageable with someone by my side.

“Sure, if you really want to go. We have nothing else to do.” 

And so we drive.

Back in the 80s

When I was a kid and summer was approaching, I used to ask my parents exactly what day we had our tickets to fly to Iran. It was the single thing I looked forward to all year. We never really spent much time in Tehran, but the few days that we did are forever imprinted in my mind. 

In those days, Mehrabad was the international airport. The descent into Tehran was one of the highlights for me. Shortly after midnight, Lufthansa flight 600 would fly over a Tehran glowing with lights. I loved looking out at the city and unsuccessfully trying to find my aunt’s house. Once I spotted Azadi Square, I knew that the final landing into Mehrabad Airport was only seconds away. 

As soon as the wheels hit the tarmac, passengers would break out into applause. Everyone would get up and take their belongings out from the overhead bins, only to have the rightfully annoyed German flight attendants insist that they remain seated until the plane came to a full stop and the seatbelt sign turned off. What the flight attendants didn’t understand, though, was that we were all very anxious because we knew the beasts that awaited us next: the lines for passport control and gomrok (customs). People would claw their way out of the plane trying to be the first to get on the bus that took us to the terminal. Once the bus stopped in front of the terminal and the doors opened, it turned into Wal-Mart on Black Friday. Therefore, a strategic plan was required: one person would handle the carry-ons, the other would run for dear life and save a spot in the seemingly never-ending line that moved at an absolute snail’s pace. Then you’d find each other.  

At baggage claim, there was the task of finding your suitcase while someone else got a bârbar (porter). Then came the line for customs. Seeing as we always had 8 suitcases for our 2.5-month-long stay, our place was in the red line. I used to look up through the window onto the second floor where you could see the passengers in the departures lounge. I knew that in a short two months, I’d be right up there, looking down with envy at the people standing exactly where I was, thinking how lucky they were to have just arrived. 

While authorities checked our suitcases, we’d look behind the glass wall at hundreds of excited Iranians holding gelâyol (sword lilies) and eagerly searching for their guests. Those who spotted each other frantically waved. Then I would finally spot them- my aunts, my uncles, my many, many (many) cousins. They all used to come. Even at 2 am. And our frantic waving began, too. Once we’d cleared customs, we’d make our way over to the exit while my relatives made their way over to the Soul Train line where passengers came out. Endless hugs, kisses, and ghorbun sadaghe followed. 

That first step out of Mehrabad onto khâk-e pâk-e Tehran (Tehran’s pure soil) is a memory in and of itself. There was something distinctive and comforting about the smell of the dry, warm air mixed with a hint of airplane fuel and dust that made me realize I was in Iran. 

In the parking lot, my uncles’ tomato-red Hillman and mustard-yellow Paykan awaited us. The men would pack the suitcases into the car or strap them to the bârband on top while the rest of us somehow managed to pack ourselves into the cars. Upon exiting the airport, Azadi Tower officially greeted us. And off we went to Khâleh Parvin’s. 

When we arrived, us kids would immediately run up the spiral staircase to the bâlâ posht-e bum (roof) where my dear khâleh had the mattresses all laid out and ready for us to sleep in. But there was an order in which we slept. Early risers slept on the farther end of the roof since it caught the morning sun sooner; those who wanted to sleep in, on the opposite end. Snug as a bug, under the cool Tehran night sky, falling asleep to the sound of my mom and her sisters whispering and catching up was a feeling of pure joy unlike any other.

In the morning, we’d wake up to hot châi shirin, the best fresh barbari bread in the city, and my khâleh’s homemade âlbâloo (sour cherry) jam. A bit later, it was snack time, aka fruit- sour cherries, donut peaches, champagne grapes, and of course cucumbers. Then came lunch preparations. My aunt, mom, and cousins were busy in the kitchen cooking, talking, and gossiping. The kids would help set the sofreh for lunch. There was the daily argument between two of my cousins over the bone- they loved to eat the marrow, a concept which absolutely horrified me. After lunch, it was siesta time on the second floor. A few pillows and shamad were all we needed. There were many afternoons where after falling into a deep sleep, I’d wake up in a sweat because the power had gone out and with it, the A/C (there was a war, after all). But then my aunt would come down the stairs carrying a giant tray of Darjeeling tea and estekân. Her smiling face is inked in my mind. We’d turn on the giant Pars TV that only had 2 channels in those days and watch the dove pull the red curtain across the screen as the little boy flapped his arms with joy in anticipation of Barnâme-ye Kudak, the children’s program.

While my uncle was out in the afternoon, my cousins and I would take advantage of the extra space in the carport. We’d run to the corner store and buy chalk (and maybe some ice-cream or chips, too) from Âghâ-ye Azizi. The garage door at my aunt’s had an aluminum finish, so we could draw all sorts of things on it. When my uncle came back with the car, we’d store the leftover chalk in the wall next to the gas meter. He’d hose down the carport and wash the garage door clean of our chalk masterpieces. As the sun set for the day, we’d head back upstairs. First, there was spraying the roof with the hose (the water quickly evaporated) and then laying out the rugs. There was more tea. Fruit. Sweets. Lots of talking. And dinner. As the day came to a close, we’d once again lay out the mattresses, sleep according to order of waking up, and repeat. 

30-odd years later

“That’s the one,” she tells me. My cousin and I sit there on the corner staring at where Khaleh Parvin’s house had once stood. Just as I had suspected, it had turned into a 5-story apartment. The entrance was on the opposite corner of where it used to be. The carport, gone. The beautiful red brick now replaced with shiny white marble. On the corner, I spy Âghâ-ye Azizi’s store. At least that was exactly how I remembered it.

My cousin pulls out her phone to call my aunt. She’s surprised and happy that we’ve gone to see her old place. They’re talking, but I’m lost in thought. I’m looking up at the roof, remembering how afraid I used to be of the metal stairs that led up one more level. They always seemed wobbly. I remember every last detail of the basement, the bathroom, the kitchen. My uncle’s meel in the corner of the room. The giant old radio. The peach-colored bedspread. And the stairs. They are the stairs that all old houses in Iran have. But I associate them with my aunt’s house. When I see those stairs even today in hip Tehran cafes that were once old houses, I think, “These are like Khâleh Parvin’s.” I remember the closet on the roof with the iron door where all the mattresses and bedding were stored. And I can almost hear my mom and aunts whispering on that first night as the rest of us slept. It makes me think of my niece and nephew’s first trip to Iran. They arrived just after midnight, and I realized my siblings and I were doing the same thing my mom and aunts once did. Catching up, too excited to sleep. Only instead of the rooftop, it was my apartment. Instead of sleeping on the floor, it was my pull-out sofa. Regardless, I wonder if they found it comforting.

I turn my gaze to Âghâ-ye Azizi’s store, wondering if it had always been so close. Somehow the walk seemed longer back then. One time, we were coming back from there when one of my cousins bought zoghâlakhte (cornelian cherries) from a vendor pushing his cart through the kucheh. He poured a scoop into a newspaper funnel and sprinkled salt on top. It was the first time I had ever seen or tried them.

After some time of lurking in the car in the dark, staring at this one building like we’re two undercover narcs waiting for the perp to come out, we finally drive away, both of us quiet. Then she breaks the silence. 

“Life is crazy, isn’t it? If someone had told me then that 30 years later, my parents would be living in the US, I’d think they were crazy! I’d never have believed it.”

“If someone had said, ‘Your parents would be living in the US, and Pontia would be living in Tehran…,” I say.

“I would have laughed in their face!” 

She adds a couple more. And so do I. Who would have thought that 30 years later…

We drive around the nearby park where we used to take a walk some evenings. Save for the modern playground equipment, it looks the same. Area locals chatting on the benches. Street-side grilled corn. Faloodeh. Balloons.

We continue driving and get to the part of town where my uncle lived. “Wait! Was it nearby?”

“It’s somewhere around here, but that’s enough for one night, Pontia. Just… not tonight.” I’m a little dejected, but she’s right. There’s only so much nostalgia my little heart can take, too, before it gets a hairline fracture. 

Which is why I speed through Mehrabad these days when I return from a domestic trip. The emotion I feel really leaves me choked up. It’s so much smaller than I remember. The giant TikTak clock is gone. The bank in the back left corner is no longer there. The steps from the door to the escalator so few, I’m in awe as to how an entire international flight even used to fit in there. After baggage claim, there’s no more customs line. No more glass wall. I haven’t seen a sword lily in ages. The people waiting for passengers are all looking down at their phones. Not one of them is my relative. Instead of taking the Soul Train line through the dense crowd, I zip through a few scattered people and out the door. The smell of the dry air is already familiar. No need to go to the parking lot since there’s no Hillman or Paykan waiting to take me home. Instead, I wave off the men loitering around the door asking, “Taxi, khânum? Taxi?” 

I’ve already requested a Snapp. So I walk past the metro station and wait for my ride to pull up. And as we leave Mehrabad, I eagerly wait for my favorite silent sentry, Azadi Tower, to welcome me back to my beloved Tehran.

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