Yo where you gonna be stayin at? That’s mostly what the inquiring minds of my friends and fam wanted to know when I told them I’m on a mission to bring peace to the Middle East.

Well, here ya go. A quick lil video of my aunt’s apartment in Vanak Square, where I stayed while I was in Tehran. I’d wake up to the sweet sounds of a street vendor’s voice magnified through his megaphone every morning…

My flight to Iran was arriving early, scheduled to land at Imam Khomeini International Airport at 1:30 in the morning, and I was completely disoriented on Tehran time. After three airports and three chaotic last-minute changes in travel plans, I was exhausted.  Zari, the older women sitting next to me on the flight, was full of energy however, and couldn’t contain her excitement of being able to see the children she had left behind five years ago in Iran. Noticing that I was the only other woman sitting in business class and that I — like her — was traveling alone, she had decided to change her seat and sit in in the empty one next to me. Talk about biting the head off a cricket. She chatted me up nonstop, giving me her life story and the Iranian lowdown for half the flight. During our (mainly one-sided) conversation, I stayed as awake and attentive as I could and she appreciated this. So much, in fact, that she decided right then and there that she liked me enough to consider me like one of her own daughters. Zari gave me her number and her home address, written in both Farsi and English, and told me to call her if I couldn’t find my father at the airport. Persians are pretty loving that way. True to form (Persian culture also involves an elaborate system of ceremonial courteousness known as tarof), Zari also offered her small apartment in Tehran to me in case I ended up alone and stranded in Iran. I smiled and thanked her, though her graciousness did little to reassure me. I sent my dad a quick telepathic message reminding him to pick me up from the airport, forced myself to try and relax, and ended up passing out.

I remember waking up abruptly to the stewardess on the intercom saying the usual: put seats back and tray tables in the upright and locked position. Finally, we’re landing! That was my first thought, because that has always been my first thought whenever I’m finally getting off a freakin plane. “And…” The stewardess paused, and so did my feeling of freedom. I don’t know if the stewardess delayed her next announcement for dramatic effect or because she forgot exactly how to say this: “Because Iran as an Islamic country, women are required by law to cover their heads with a head scarf before exiting the plane, so please be aware of the regulations and comply in the appropriate manner.”

That’s when I instantly tensed up, hit with the sudden realization:

Shit, I’m in Iran (this thought later inspired iminiran.com)

I became anxious, rummaging through my backpack trying to find my scarf and manteau (long tunic, a must-have in Muslim fashion) and feeling the stirrings of an oncoming panic attack.  I started wondering what if my dad really wasn’t at the aiport? I hadn’t been able to get a hold of him for the past two days. What if he didn’t get my updated flight information? What if my phone didn’t work? It probably wouldn’t, even though AT&T assured me iPhones with global plans work in Iran (that turned out to be bullshit) If my phone didn’t work, where would I go? I didn’t have any addresses, and women in Iran are not allowed to book hotel rooms. What would I do then? I could speak the language, but barely read or write it. It didn’t help matters that, to top off all the anxiety I was feeling already for my poorly thought out plans, Zari thought this the perfect time to tell me a little story about her uncle. Apparently, Zari’s uncle made the fatal error of taking out his U.S. Passport while going through customs and the Iranian officials hassled him about it, eventually confiscating his passport and arresting him for mouthing off and backtalking to airport security. She casually mentioned that he was released from jail shortly after (shortly meaning after 6 months time) and made it back to the U.S. I didn’t even ask how he made it back or any questions at all — that conversation needed to end, especially since we were landing and I had to make sure my hijab was put on properly.

I went to the bathroom and wrapped my black hijab tight as can be around my head. I looked so dead seriously Islamic, I felt unfamiliar to myself staring into the blotchy airport bathroom mirror. Fast forward to getting off the plane and arriving at customs.

I quickly surveyed the scene — three solemn-looking old immigration officers stamping passports in three different security lines. Surely they’d hassle my American born ass and confiscate my U.S. passport. I had a slight feeling I was being Black Sabbath style paranoid when I saw  a girl wearing a loose silk scarf, falling practically halfway down her head, with her bright bleached blond bangs exposed walking hurriedly past me to the fourth line. I trailed behind her. Next to this girl, I looked like a Muslim nun! The officer of immigration at this line — a younger guy who looked like Gael Garcia Bernal — asked Blondie in front of me maybe three questions, stamped her passport, and sent her off on her merry way. With a sense of assurance, I walked up to the window and said with a smile, “Salam.” The officer seemed shocked that I dared to smile or speak to him and, in reply, sternly asked to see my documents and passport, which I clumsily provided him. He gave me a suspicious once-over then began logging my information, or some kinda information, into a computer. I felt like saying, “What the hell!” so bad, especially since the other girl got to go through with no problemo whatsoever. Instead, however, I kept my lip zipped and answered all his questions, which he asked in Farsi:

“Farsi balaade?” (Do you understand Farsi?) Me: “Baaleh” (Yes)

“Farsi haarf mizanid?” (Do you speak Farsi?) Me: “Yeh Kam” (Just a little)

“Bareh chee omadee Iran?” (Why did you come to Iran?) Me: “Omadam famil beebeenam.” (I came to see family)

“Khojah meemoonee?” (Where are you staying?) Me: “Vanak” (a central neighborhood in the northern part of Tehran)

“Bah kee memoonee?” (Who are you staying with in Vanak?)

And this is where my deficiency in Farsi competency led to me insulting the officer when I replied:

“To cooneh amat” (In your aunt’s ass)

Yup, I basically told the guy I’m going to stay in his aunt’s ass — which he didn’t find very amusing to say the least.

Almost immediately after, out of the corner of my veil, I saw one of the stern-faced security guards from the other immigration line walking towards me. Did they record my unintentional insult on some kind of hidden microphone? Am I totally and utterly screwed right now? Did they find a Jesus bracelet or the bacon I smuggled in for my aunt in my luggage?

Thoughts of lashings and prison rape and unspeakable terrors filled my head as I got ready to be arrested and hauled off to Iranian prison, never to be seen or heard from again (the U.S. Department of State issues a warning on their site that they cannot protect U.S. citizens once they cross into Iranian border)

That’s when the security guard that was walking towards me stopped, distracted by an angry old man yelling about his passport being stolen. I glanced at the Persian version Gael Garcia Bernal in front of me. Was I scared shitless to see the look of horror on his face after I answered his question with a diss? Heck yeah! I stammered out a nervous”I’m sorry” in English, twice. I couldn’t for the life of me remember how to say it in Farsi, and when I remembered it was maazerat mikhaham, I was too scared to even try and say it. But after his shocked/infuriated expression softened (what felt like an eternity later), he simply corrected me: “You’re staying at your aunt’s house” (“Khooneh ammeh shomah memoonee”) Yeah, yeah that’s what I meant Sorry! I didn’t say a word, however. I just nodded, pleading “please don’t arrest me” with my eyes. He finally cracked somewhat of a smile, stamped me quickly and sent me on my way.

Hallelujah-Allah!

From that point forward, it was smooth sailing for the most part. Coming down the escalator, I looked to my left at a ginormous crowd of people behind a glass wall gathered around waiting for their loved ones to descend. I couldn’t stop staring at the faces — the first time I’ve ever seen solely all Iranians, everywhere — and noticed that a big group of Tehrani girls were giggling and pointing at me. They were gorgeous — fashionistas with beautifully painted faces, locks of silky hair falling from their silky veils and form-fitting designer tunics showing off their figures. And they were total making fun of me. One of them took her scarf and wrapped it around her head, tucking in any stray bangs, her smiling face taking on a serious, grim expression. She pointed at me again and they all looked back up at me. I might be wrong (though that hasn’t happened thus far in my life), but I think they were having a good laugh over my dorkishly conservative abide-by-Islam-dress-code style — dead giveaway that I was an American tourist. I turned around to make sure it was me (I tend to imagine everything is about me sometimes, behavior typical of a narcissist) and realized there was just a grandma and grandpa couple behind me on the escalator. That’s when I ate shit and tripped on the comb plate at the bottom of the escalator.

Soon after, I spotted my dad with my cousin Homayoun and his new Turkish wifey, Banu. It was the first time I ever met my cousin, but it felt as if we’d known each other our whole lives. It was also the first of many nights I feared for my life in Tehran, as he drove us to his mom’s (my aunt’s) place, speeding like a thief in the night, swerving erratically across lanes, driving so fast and furious (shout out to Vin Diesel!) that he got a speeding ticket, and nearly crashed into the wall of the Tohid tunnel. And not one person in the car, me included, said a word about it. Probably because he was blasting Persian rap through his car’s custom 6-inch subs.

Alas, we made it to my aunt’s apartment a little after 4 in the morning safe and sound. I didn’t get arrested and my aunt had a blast hearing the story about how I thought I would because of my great big mouth.

My first night sleeping in Iran. I dreamt of my dead grandma in America.

The Middle East was always a place confined to my imagination. As a child, Aladdin and his magic carpet rides, exotic bazaars bursting with veiled Persian princess gypsies and fez-wearing genies were ancient mysteries only in my dreams.

The Iran that belonged to American me in adulthood was a terrifying theocracy, war-torn and so far removed from my cultural hemisphere with it’s religiopolitical regime, all realities fed to me by U.S. media, that I took what I knew through my Californian existence as truth. We all know the Iranian government oppresses it’s own people. But Do we truly have insight into what those oppressed people endure?

I soon learned most of what I thought was true was just the Iran of my imagination.

Here is the story of my journey, beginning by my lonesome in Germany…

That’s what she said to me as she placed the chador over my head, wrapping me carefully in the printed fabric. I looked up at her before entering the mosque, Shah Chéragh glowing against the darkness of the night sky.

Sadness appeared all over her face, even as she willed herself to smile.