Encounters with Strangers: 5 Stories from Iran

Updated: 4 January 2022

When people ask me why I like Iran, I never have a solid answer. To tell you the truth, the question itself (along with the tone it’s usually asked in) bothers me to begin with. “Why do you like Iran?” It implies that it’s hard to believe that anyone would. It implies that it’s wrong to like it. That I shouldn’t and that I’m an oddball (to put it nicely) for liking it and choosing to be here. When I lived in Europe or South America, no one ever asked me why I liked those places. It was just “cool.” End of story. But Iran? I hear it from Americans- “Why on earth would you want to live there?” (A verbatim quote) And I hear it from Iranians (who are the most critical)- “Why are you still living there? What do you like about it?” (Another verbatim quote) It’s not fair. I never ask others, “Why do you live in/like Hicksville, USA?” But, ok, let’s give them the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they are genuinely asking to gain a different perspective.  

I suppose I’m not helping matters by being utterly incapable of forming a proper answer, though. My mind goes completely blank which seems to say to them, “Huh, in fact, I don’t know. Thanks for bringing it to my attention. I think I’ll mosey on back to the US now.” But the truth is, it’s not that cut and dried. I can’t say that I like X or Y or Z. 

We mostly ask this why question when we have a negative association with something. And it’s easy to rack up reasons as to why we don’t like something (and believe me, when it comes to Iran, I’ve got my fair share of responses lined up and ready to fire!). But rarely do we ask why when we have a positive association or feeling toward something. If I like NYC, and you say you like NYC, I’d never ask you why. Of course you do! Who wouldn’t? (Or maybe I would ask- just to see if your answers match mine.) But in the case of Iran, you need a reason because it goes against your expectation. And I need a reason because everyone says I’m crazy.  

Then again, I don’t think I owe anyone an explanation. If it makes me happy, who cares? But since I don’t live in my home country, I think it’s worth digging a little deeper into that question to explore it for myself. Because at the end of the day, some of you dear [Iranian] readers will get it, and some of you won’t. I’ve been on the receiving end of sneers and scoffs more times than I can count, and like a good spouse, I’ve learned that sometimes it’s best to smile and say, “You’re right, dear.”

So here are a few stories for you that I think help illustrate at least one thing I’ve been able to pinpoint regarding “the why.” And that’s a sense of warmth and human connection that I get in Iran that I don’t necessarily feel in the US. There’s more intimacy with total strangers- admittedly sometimes more than I’m comfortable with. But it makes me feel less alone. Like I’m part of a whole and that we’re not actually strangers. And that’s saying a lot for a city of… what?… 10 million or so? These random encounters aren’t by any means a complete answer nor are they the sole reason to the question why. But maybe in a box of a 5,000-piece jigsaw puzzle, I’ve finally found a corner piece that I can begin to build upon. In my mind, at least. 

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Daffodils and Coronavirus

Plants and flowers seem to be conversation starters in Iran. My mom always used to say that you could tell how tasteful a person was based on the flowers on their balcony or windowsill. I still think about that every time I see a nice one and believe it’s 100% true. But I digress…

Any time I’ve bought a plant and walked around town with it like I was Mathilda from Leon the Professional, people always ask me about it, the price or where I got it, or simply compliment it. Maybe it’s the Iranians’ love of the Persian Garden. (They are UNESCO-listed, after all.) Regardless, I like how they make people open up.

Pre-pandemic and when COVID was still relatively new, I bought some daffodils and then hopped on the metro. A woman on the platform asked if they were for sale. Instead of giving a simple yes/no, in true Iranian form, I taarof-ed her bunch, saying ghâbel nadâreh. She refused, of course, and asked if they were narges-e shirâzi. The narges part was accurate, but I wasn’t sure about the shirâzi part. She asked if she could smell them. She took a whiff and smiled at me. “They say it’s good for corona.” I have no idea where she got that idea from, but it was the first and last time I ever heard it. 

I then got on the train, and another girl beelined toward me. “Can I take a picture of your flowers? I won’t get your face. Promise!” She snapped the shot and showed it to me, assuring me that she didn’t get my face. I peeked over and noticed she posted it on Instagram with a long caption. Maybe something about how it’s “good for corona”? I guess we’ll never know…

How much was your bamboo?

More recently, I had a similar experience with bamboo. Like I said, plants are conversation starters. As I was approaching ValiAsr Square, I kept seeing people with stems of bamboo. Maybe I should ask them where they got it- you know, like a real Iranian would. But my introverted tendencies kicked in and I decided if it was meant to be, I’d come across the vendor.

It was meant to be. The vendor immediately pegged me as “a good customer” (I’ll let you interpret that as you like). Another customer came and looked at me excitedly. “How many are YOU getting?” 3. “Oh, I see you’re getting the big ones! I’m getting the little ones.” To say this lady was excited about buying bamboo would be an understatement. After paying, I once again went underground to catch the metro.

Below ground, the lady who approached me not only invaded my personal [American] space but also violated all COVID protocols of social distancing. (The concept of “personal space” is very American in my opinion. So while the intention of social distancing exists, the practice is often somewhat different. Old habits die hard.) She asked me how much they were. “I have to get some new ones. Mine died. You know they say if bamboo dies, you have to replace it. Otherwise, it’s bad luck.” I smiled and told her not to think like that. “It’s true! Someone all but emptied my bank account. I sold the land I had in the north for 250 million. Right after that, the value rose to 3 billion. And I displaced my hip. Look! It still hurts.” I could think of nothing else to say other than a generic azizam. She gave me a gentle warning before walking off. “All I’m saying is that if they die, make sure you get new ones.”

Back above ground, a polite, young gentleman walking behind me caught up to ask, “Excuse me, miss! Where did you get your bamboo?” He seemed disappointed when I told him ValiAsr Square because he then crossed the street in the opposite direction.

At the bus stop, my bamboo caught the attention of the [less eloquent] attendant and made him look up from his phone and shout, “Hey! How much’dja getcher plant for?” I told him. “Yeah, I got mine for about that much yesterday. Smaller though…this big…,” he showed me with his hands and returned to his phone.

And while waiting for the bus, I saw the eyes of a fellow passenger squint, indicating that she was smiling behind her mask. “I don’t mean to be rude, but may I ask how much you got those for?” She went on to tell me that they used to be so cheap, but not anymore. “I had a bunch. I got them when they were tiny. But then some insect destroyed them and I lost them.” It made me wonder if she came across a run of bad luck, too. “Well, anyway, they are beautiful. Mobârake.”

Snapp drivers and juice boxes

Afternoon rush hour traffic in Tehran always gets worse in the fall. There were a few weeks where I was spending upwards of 1.5 hours commuting home. On one afternoon, while stuck in gridlock, the Snapp driver said he felt his blood sugar dropping and asked if I didn’t mind if we stopped somewhere so he could get something. I knew the area and that there was a store just one block up, so I offered to jump out and get him something since we were stuck and clearly not moving anytime soon. He insisted it wasn’t urgent and he could hang on some more. “Besides, they’ll massacre me if I stop here.” Well, that’s the part where you stay in the car and I get out. Because the last thing I wanted was for this guy to pass out. So I tried again to make my case, but he assured me that he wasn’t that “intolerant.” This little exchange converted our silence into small talk- weather, traffic, does my work always have me commuting at this hour from that place?…

A few minutes later, he was able to pull over and get something. But he began laying the groundwork from before. “Do you like orange juice?” he asked me. Well, yes, but I don’t want anything, thank you so much, I responded, knowing full well that an Iranian would never take such a statement at face value.

He returned with two OJs and some cakes. At his insistence, I accepted the juice. Suddenly a scene I had witnessed on the train a couple of years earlier flashed before me: two passengers (not traveling together) are sitting next to one another. They both have their little snack box courtesy of the train. One pokes a hole in his juice box and offers it to his neighbor first even though the neighbor has the exact same one. So I knew what I had to do. I poke the straw through the hole (taking care to keep the plastic on the top half) and offer it to the driver (also because he’s driving and it would have been hard for him with one hand on the wheel). “Dokhtaram, I have one myself!” Yeah, but this one is ready, I tell him. “No, no. You go ahead and have it. I got my own. I’m ok.” After he got something in his stomach and seemingly felt better, our small talk resumed. And on that afternoon, the commute went by a little quicker than usual.  

Sangak in the elevator

In case my initial statement that I have a list of things I dislike about Iran[ians] ready to spout piqued your curiosity, I’ll let you in on one: the lack of common courtesy. No, Americans don’t have taarof. But they have common courtesy. More often than not I’m confused in Iran. On the one hand, we taarof for 6 hours over who should walk through the door first, but on the other hand, we won’t even hold the door open for the person behind us if we don’t know them. Yup, just let it slam in their face. It’s all good. It’s happened many times where I’ve held the door open for someone who’s casually sauntered on through without so much as a thank you or the consideration to grab the door to relieve me of my duty. Chalk it up to cultural differences, Pontia. Or the rush of big city life. Or maybe it’s simpler than all of that- the person is just a complete douchebag with no basic manners. Either way, just shake it off! But no, no. I’ve let the B in me slip out as I’ve snapped back, “YOU’RE WELCOME!” (in English) and then muttered another word under my breath. I shake my head and say, “You Iranians!”, thereby disassociating myself from my own Iranian-ness. It’s times like these when I seem to know exactly which side of my hyphenated identity I belong to. An American would never let the door slam in my face. 

So what happens? I become like “them.” And this time, I let the elevator door slam in the face of the guy I know is behind me. He quietly opens the door (unfazed because I haven’t done anything wrong in his eyes), walks in holding two fresh sangak breads, presses the button for the 5th floor, and immediately turns to me, offering me some. “Noosh-e jân,” I tell him. His gesture softens me. Now I feel guilty for not holding the door for him. I love my people, I think to myself as I reclaim my Iranian identity. An American would never do that. And I realize that maybe there is common courtesy, after all. It just looks different in this culture. 

Highway breakdown 

The title of this last one may conjure up images of a 1997 Kurt Russell thriller. Or The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Because that’s how Hollywood has conditioned us to think about hitchhikers and hitchhiking. Rest assured, nothing bad happens in this one. In fact, it’s my favorite of the bunch because of the colorful cast of characters as well as the time it happened.

I was on my way home from the theater one night after having watched an outstanding play, and the line for shared taxis was super long. I was in no rush, so I didn’t mind waiting. A few people stood in line after me, and then came a woman. Let’s call her Woman.

Woman paced up and down the line with a look of disbelief at the length and simultaneous hope that someone would confirm this was the line- but let her cut in. When no such thing happened, she began to rally end-of-the-line people to share a Snapp with her because a taxi wouldn’t be coming any time soon. (Reason #2 of things I dislike: when it comes to waiting, Iranians are among the most impatient people on the planet.) Then in place of a taxi, a mini-bus appeared, and the line started moving. “The line is too long. It doesn’t matter that it’s a bus. We’re not going to make it on. We’re going to have to wait longer,” Woman kept stressing as she slowly (and what she thought of as “slyly”) inched her way in front of me. Reason #3 of things I don’t like: Iranians’ sheer inability to STAY! IN! LINE! I was about to call her out on it and say that she was the last to arrive and now she wants to be the first to get on the bus? Oh hell to the no! But I bit my tongue. And paid the price. Or so I thought.

She got the last good seat on the bus, and I was forced in the back row, tightly sandwiched between 3 men. The man on my right (let’s call him Gentleman) asked the elderly man in front if he wouldn’t mind switching seats with me. “I think it may be hard for the lady to sit back here so tightly between the men.” I thanked him for his kindness and for even noticing, but said I was ok. (The silence and look of relief on the elderly man’s face did not go unnoticed.) And I really was ok. The worst part of sitting back there was the noise. I closed my eyes and turned my focus to my breath. 

Once we were on the highway, there was a loud BANG! The driver hit a car. “Did you get into an accident?” Woman asked. “You should clean your windows. You can’t see because your windows are so dirty!” (They weren’t.) The driver ignored her, very calmly got out, and went to inspect his vehicle. One man got off the bus. “Forget this! It’ll take forever for the police to arrive!” Gentleman quickly got up and I thought he was getting out too, but he was just making space. He turned to me and said, “Miss, why don’t you sit there. You’ll be more comfortable.” I thanked him and moved over. It would also be more comfortable for them having one less person with a puffy coat to be smushed in with. 

The driver came back and confirmed it would be a while before the police came, so he was going to try to hail us a van. Of course, the odds of finding an empty van there on the highway were slim to none. But still, I appreciated his sense of responsibility.

“Did you hit a car?” Woman asked. 

The man [previously] on my left scoffed. “No, he hit a cow!” 

She went on, “It’s because your windows are so filthy! Anyway, you accepted the responsibility to get us all to our destination! What now?” 

Gentleman chimed in, “Hey, it happens. Just let it go.” 

Woman did not let it go. “He has to get us to our destination! Are you guys going to pay him? I’m not paying him! Look at what he got us into!” 

Her incessant chatter drove everyone off the bus. And I found myself standing in the middle of the highway right where an exit ramp merges onto it. This is something I’ve always dreaded. I could never understand how people stand on the side of the highway and hitch a ride. Or sometimes just walk. It’s so dangerous! And now it was happening. At night. I considered walking up to the nearest BRT stop, but that didn’t seem safe. So, do I get a Snapp and set the location in the middle of the highway? I decided to stay close to the pack, thinking that I’d just tag along with someone (the same way I still sometimes do when I need to cross the street). Gentleman must have seen the concern on my face because out of nowhere, he asked, “Are you going to X?” Yes. “We can get a car together. What do you say we go stand closer to the other side, away from the ramp?” I followed his lead and crossed the highway. 

Noticing a stranded busload of passengers on the highway, cars kept slowing down to pick them up. A car that was headed in our direction finally stopped, and Gentleman and I got in. Driver and Gentleman immediately hit if off. Gentleman told him about Woman, and she instantly became the butt of jokes that kept us laughing. In fact, the two of them were so caught up in conversation that we missed the exit and only realized it well after. “Wait, did we miss the exit?” Gentleman asked. “Oh, I wasn’t sure which one it was, and you didn’t say anything so I kept going,” Driver responded. I was half expecting him to make a fuss about having to turn around in this traffic and adding another 30 minutes to our time. But instead, he just apologized and said it was no biggy. We’d just turn around. 

Before we got in, Driver had said he’d get 20,000 Toman for the ride. Like a true American, I pulled out a 10,000 bill to pay my half. Gentleman gave the man 20,000 and wouldn’t even hear of me paying. The more I insisted, the more he insisted. He wasn’t having any of it. When we arrived at our stop, I tried again to pay him. “Miss, please, don’t even mention it. Movafagh bâshid.” And he swiftly crossed the street. 

As I walked home, in my head, I thanked Woman for taking the last seat, thereby forcing me next to Gentleman, my knight in shining armor. This incident happened during a particularly turbulent time in Iran. And it just served as a reminder that no matter what bad is going on around you, there are always good people and good things that happen too. And when you focus on that, it builds. 

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I think I have enough stories to fill a book. But as this post is already too long, I’ll bring it to a close. When I posted a couple of these stories to Instagram recently (which served as the inspiration to turn it into a post), someone commented that you only hear such random commentary in Iran. I couldn’t agree more. And I love it. I saw an Instagram post once about a European country (if I remember correctly) where there’s a library where you can “borrow” people to speak to and hear their stories and, basically, form a connection. Well, all you need to do in Iran is take a taxi (or buy a plant and walk around with it). I once hailed a car off of the street, and the driver asked if it was Chahârshanbe Suri. It was. He recounted an episode of one year when he was behind bars on that day. I not only passed my stop, but I rode two extra squares over just to hear the end before I got out and walked back where I needed to go. Small, everyday connections. As random as they are. But somehow meaningful. Sometimes it’s easier to open up to strangers, wouldn’t you agree?

I have to admit that there are times when I can compare these interactions in Tehran to Alabama. Southern hospitality and whatnot. Though considerably less, it still happens from time to time at the grocery store or in the elevator or standing in line somewhere. But we have to compare apples to apples. Which means we have to compare a massive city like Tehran to another urban location like New York City. I understand that I might not feel so connected with people in NYC because I don’t live there. Maybe you’d feel that way in Tehran. Or maybe it’s like the story of the guy with the sangak in the elevator. It just looks different in different cultures.

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