STORY

(Part -- 1 -- 2 -- 3 -- 4 -- )

Ross opened a set of double-doors. The doors were arched. The arches hinted at a theme in the house. The design was replicated in the frame of the burgundy-velvet draped windows placed strategically around the home for auxiliary privacy. As we followed him through the luxueux abode, the music got louder and louder. A drum-like beat complimenting the song playing in the background, Sharam’s ‘Party all the Time’, led us to the crowd.

Walking through the candle-lit passage and into the first of five bays, we were faced with the ecstasy-party bit in the opening scene of Syriana, but infinitely swankier. High quality, everything.

The deco was modern-Baroque-Persian mixed. The rugs wearing the grounds were Tabriz Silk, the ultimate in Persian luxury carpets, while Gold bowls of Caspian Caviar on ice accessorized the endless columns. The aroma of Strawberry-flavored-tobacco was strong on my right. Can't have a party without a ghelyoon (hukkah). Some are said to smoke marijuana out of their hukkahs. Harsh.

Upon entering the party room, we were greeted by a dark-haired, well-coiffed, yet overly-anxious guy.

“It’s logic baby. Khat mizani (want to hit a line)?”

“Uh. No. Thanks. We’re fine.” I said.

“OK. Pass bia, ino begeer (then here, take this)."

He put a cigarette in my hand that resembled the tampered type. Probably a hash-cigarette. I remember my best-friend Sarvy’s older sister, Roksan used to smoke them. She only smoked Marlboro Reds filled with hash that she somehow always happened to have. She would roll and smoke it right in front of us tweeners. I think Sarvy and I even got a contact-high once. Roksan's method was so masterful that it's hard to forget her craftsmanship. She used to put the cigarette between her palms and rub it like she was trying to start a fire, the old-fashioned way, empty out the tobacco on a sheet of paper - hold a lighter under a piece of hash (that looked like a small piece of chocolate) - rub it between her thumb and pointer-finger. Her eyes would follow the crumbling little pieces with absolute focus as they fell on the loose tobacco. Ending each ritual by refilling the empty cigarette stick with laced tobacco, she smiled in perpetuum.

Spark. Inhale. Exhale. She made O shapes with her mouth. We would count the number of O’s she could blow out in one exhale. Her highest number was 62. The longest smoke-circle-tunnel I have ever seen.

The only way to socialize comfortably in Iran, due to forbidding moral-law restrictions, is to go to someone’s house or invite someone to yours. Thus, private parties are almost always going on, somewhere: during the day,in the afternoon, and of course, late-night. A highly potent solution to not having nightclubs in your country: create your own. Turn your mansion, into a nightclub, and it will be an invite-only affair. Designer apparel, a prestigious family name, and a life abroad (in that order) is a prerequisite to get you into this kind of party. Generally rated by the level of intensity possessed by the drugs served, hosts do their best to stay on top of the latest vendor trend(s): hiring chemistry students. The price tag to pay entrepreneurial chemists to mix ecstasy - the number one drug-of-choice for such party patrons - is quite high making this practice solely for the wealthy. Heroin on the other hand, is cheaper than cigarettes. Generous dealers, or higher powers numbing the youth? Who knows.

This party was definitely not being hosted by an amateur. There were strobe lights in every color imaginable flashing complicated designs on the walls - yet another hefty expense easily paid to ensure not being outdone by the next wanna’-be-it-girl-hostess.

The girls at this party were expensively yet scantily-clad. Some even walking the grounds with trays of white-powdery lines, bowls of colorful pills, and rolled-cigarettes as they took turns playing coke-tail hostesses. The ultimate paradox; holy on the outside, wild on the inside - literally. A fight for freedom or a way to forget the deistic pressure from above?

I must admit I’m a victim of it too. I rarely drink anything but wine while in the States or abroad, but as soon as I’m in Iran and know that it’s illegal to drink alcohol, it somehow makes me the thirstiest fishy around. (And I’m not even a Pisces.)

“It’s logic baby! Party all the time!” Said a familiar voice.

“That guy must have had one too many Redbull drinks.” I told Rob.

I was rolling my eyes and about to turn around to locate my missing-in-action-cousin, when the banging started again. It was Mr. Logic Baby himself. He was now standing on one of the concert-caliber thumping speakers and banging away on his home-made drum: a medium-sized pot. He had good rhythm. I found myself enchanted for a bit. Suddenly, I felt Rob’s hands on my hips, which were now uncontrollably shaking to the pot-beater’s beats and with some cheering, a circle was formed in this cavernous pad encompassing a beautiful dark-stone-dance floor.

A curvy-pettite girl with long shiny-coffee-brown hair, flawless makeup, and shoes to-die-for was pushed into the middle of the circle. She started to dance suggestively-slow and almost erotic, like a stripper. She had the circle dazed. Then to our surprise, she started to undress, reaching for her right shoulder. One tug was all the effort she needed to slip out of her Pegah Anvarian Kimono shirt, since she chose to wear it as a dress instead.

In less than a minute of being on the floor, she was in her underwear - which may have been La Perla. The intricate detail in her fine lace boudoir-ready-gear looked like a push-up lingerie set (in rose-white-lace) I gifted a friend for her wedding shower recently. (Or was it Cosabella?)

Must get out of here.

“OK. Lover, let’s move on.” I said to Rob.

“You know, this trip has really been an enlightening experience.”

“You’ve only been here for almost 24 hours.”

“Yes. But this past hour has been highly eye-opening. Inspirational even.”

“Geez. I know you like dark hair but do you have to ignite my jealousy, now?”

“Babydoll. That’s not what I meant.”

“So then it was your imaginary twin that just said he was “inspired” by this stripping Iranian girl. Big deal. I guess you now know that being a whore doesn’t discriminate, just like AIDS, you can catch the slutty-syndrome regardless of your race, religion, or gender.'

“Slow down Tito. First of all, you’re the only girl that can keep my attention. Second, I wasn’t even looking at her, I was just taking in this crazy scene before me. I was imaging working it into our first film project somehow.”

I began to smile. He grabbed my hips again and pulled me in. I got a glance of us in a wall mirror across from where we were standing. Our foreheads, noses, lips, and pelvices were kissing: making our bodies look like the outline of a heart. Shorter on one side than the other.

“Third, I am experiencing some culture shock here. In a good way of course. It’s just… so different than what I had imagined.” He continued.

“What had you imagined?”

“I didn’t imagine desert, you know that.”

“Uh huh.”

“Well, I think I had just imagined things to be slightly different. I just wish the media would show this side of Iran too.'

'What? The crackhead side?'

'No, the hospitable, fun, life-loving people that they are. You know certain images remain in your mind, until an experience convinces you otherwise. And in the case of Iran and Iranians, not every American gets to travel here to experience this side of things, so they just continue to believe what they are fed by the press.'

“Good recovery.”

“Whatever.”

“I’m just kidding. Kiss me. I know what you’re saying lover. I get it baba (man). You have a strong point, now if everyone else would get on the same page, we'd have progress.”

He pecked me on the lips. I felt a jolting tingle in my body. Damn. Our chemistry really is as electric as everyone says.

“Seriously. I love the way your people party. I feel like the Spaniard-Italian blood in me can relate to it. The German bits, not so much.”

“Oh great. Now you’re going to follow in Roya’s footsteps.”

“No. No. No. It's just that, in the middle of this beautiful country with its rich history and complex modern sociopolitical state, people still find the time to party, hard. And to do it so nonchalantly, as if that world out there doesn’t exist - is just fascinating to me. I feel like we could be in any major party-city in the world right now. Look around. Not all of these people are doing drugs. Look. Some are just drinking juice, but all of them are having a good time.”

“Yeah that guy wearing dark shades and dancing with the wall in the corner, is definitely not on drugs… and the orange-colored drink that’s fighting his grip is plain orange juice.”

“Why are you such a sarcastic little meymoon (monkey)?”

“I can’t help it. It comes natrurally. I’m funny though, no?”

“Ha ha ha… well that’s a matter of opinion.”

I tried to pull out of his arms at the risk of breaking our figurative heart-shaped pose, pouting.

“Come here. Don’t ever pull away from me babydoll. I love you, you sexy-ass Persian-meymoon, I mean princess of mine.” He said in my ear and a wide-eyed gaze, trying to seduce me, knowing I’m easily charmed and aroused by his deep voice and olive-green eyes.

”I’m so glad that my stories are less and less just stories for you. Now you have new and factual images to add to your brain under the Iran tab.”

“I’m just aying. There’s an art to partying, and Iranians may very well have invented it.”

“Well, you know everything good comes from Iran. I mean, look at all these gorgeous people. Is it even possible to have so many good-looking people in one place? Maybe that's why there are so many restrictions out there, because Iranian women are just too damn tempting?'

'That's how you got me babydoll. I just can't resist you. Especially the nice you.'

In our pursuit of Roya, we came across a bar - with a girl behind it mixing colorful drinks in what looked like Nambe crystal martini glasses - and more girls dancing provocatively on the dance floor, while the rest were on table tops. In fact, there was not an empty table top in sight. It reminded me of Babylon in DC. The only thing missing were bottles of sparkling wine and Champagne being shaken and sprayed all over the room, followed by Mo's napkin-confetti; made by tossing thick stacks of napkins at the air machine.

“Alright my lovelies, I’m going to meet some of Ross’s friends over there.”

“Roya!” Rob and I said in relief and shock from her sudden appearance. “Where were you?”

“Where were you?” Roya said while almost losing her balance. Ross grabbed her in time though. 

“We’ve been looking for you, Ro. You ready?”

“Ready? We just got here.” She said with a smile. “Come on poopy, not yet. I have to introduce you guys to Ross’s friends. We’ve planned trips to their villas in Shemshak and Shomaal (North) and next month we’re going to Shahrzad’s flat in Marbella. We all have to go. Look, there they are.” Roya said to Rob and I pointing in the direction of some faint faces. The smoke clouds that filled the house, were accumulating. She was holding a lit cigarette so it made it easier to see what direction she was pointing to.

Ross looked at us and winked. He then took Roya by the hand and walked her across the room.

“I’m going to get a drink. What can I get for you love?” Said Rob, moving some hair out of my face. “I’ll have a shot of Grand Marnier.” I said with conviction. “Uh. What if they don’t have it? Shall I get you a glass of wine instead?”

“Yes, please lover. That would be perfect.” I said as I stepped back. I had accidentally stumbled into a wall corner, facing the dance floor. As soon as I realized this, I stood wide and claimed the corner as my own.

The place was full of people. I would have loved to see the space empty. One of my favorite things about my visits back to the motherland, is to go to people’s homes. Not just because Iranians are notriously polite, hospitable, and generous people - but because I’m always amazed by the architecture and style of their homes. An architectural guilty pleasure with each glance. Being such passionate people, Iranians have their strengths and weaknesses too (like everyone else) but one thing they’re really good at, is Art. All forms of Art.

“Would you like to dance?” Said a voice from my left. “My name is Bobby. I want to dance with you. Come on digeh. Let’s go.” He was now holding onto my arm and pulling it. He was gentle but persistent. He was trying to take me to the dance floor.

“No. She doesn’t want to dance with you. She would much rather dance with her husband. Whom, I happen to be.” Said Rob, as he lifted Bobby’s hand off of my arm.

“Oh, I’m sorry man. I didn’t know she was your wife. I’m sorry.” Bobby said, ostensibly frightened.

“No worries, just tell the rest of your friends to leave her alone for the remainder of the night too.” Rob said assertively.

“Sure man.” Bobby said in perfect English before he got distratcted by some rays from the light show and disappeared.

“Oh, lover I think he was on something. He was harmless, but thanks for saving me.”

“Anytime babydoll, but why aren't you wearing your wedding ring? Here's your GM shot.”

“Thanks lover. Salamati (good health/cheers). I am wearing my ring, but just the band. You know how much I dislike showing off.”

“Wearing your ring is showing off?'

'No. But wearing a stone that big at a family affair like my cousin's engagement party, is only going to create conversations that I would rather skip. Also, showing my ring at such a fete would ensure that by the time we come back next year for a visit, the girls will have my custom-designed ring and claim it as their own... maybe.'

'Got it. Crazy female dynamics. Cheers to you baby.”

We both took a sip.

“Wow. This Russian Vodka in a can tastes really good.” Rob said with a pleased expression.

“Yes, it is tasty but be careful. It's also very potent. I know you can handle your liquor but, just keep in mind that this vodka is extremely strong in its effect.” I told Rob and gave him a peck on the cheek.

We were dancing in place and I tried to casually look for Roya through the crowds. I didn’t want Rob to feel like I wasn’t giving him enough attention. Somehow Roya always had a way of taking over the night, in most situations, with her wild and most-often irresponsible behavior. After scanning the visible area three times, I still hadn’t located her.

“Lover, do you mind if I go and search the place for Roya quick?” I asked.

“But it’s not even time to leave yet. Why don’t you wait another few minutes and if she doesn’t show up then let’s go and look for her together. I would really rather not have you walking the place alone. There’s no longer a single sober person in sight. I feel more comfortable escorting you on your search.” He said while he took a sip of his drink, which was now halfway finished.

“Fair enough, I’ll wait.”

As we stood in our little corner, I felt the alcohol moving through my system. I had to make a run to the bathroom.

“Lover, I’m going to go and find a bathroom. I’ve got to go really bad.”

“OK. Just be careful, and go to the one behind the bar. I’ll watch. We’ll go look for Roya when you come back.”

It wasn’t easy walking through the crowd. I’m not the tallest girl around, so walking through crowds can become quite dangerous sometimes. I turned to the first guy I saw with a cigarette in hand and asked for one. He gave me a cigarette and lit it for me without even breaking away from his conversation. It sounded like he was talking a mile-a-minute. He must have been on cocaine. Through attending mandatory “Drug Education” seminars all throughout High School, I've learned that talking at lightning-speed is a tell-tale indication of cocaine use. Be careful kids.

I took a couple of quick drags of my cigarette to make sure that it was lit, lifted it over my head and used it as a guide through the tall bodies surrounding me. (The many uses of a cigarette. Fascinating, I know.)

I made it past the dance floor and ended up in front of a few doors. One of them had to be the bathroom. I grabbed the first doorknob, and tried to open the door. No luck. The doorknob wouldn’t budge. It must have been locked. I hoped that it wasn’t the bathroom. The next door cracked slightly open as soon as I touched the doorknob. It wasn’t the bathroom either but I could hear people talking. I pushed the door open a little more, so that I could take a peak without being noticed. It was a relatively small room full of smoke, men, and to my surprise, Roya. They were all sitting on an unusually large and modern looking round and white low-bed with a big gold drug-adorned tray. I couldn’t make out what their preferred substance(s) were. They seemed to be focused on one guy, whose back was to the door where I was sneaking a peak from.

After giving it some more thought. I realized that I wasn’t going to be able to get her out of that room alone. Crap. I had no idea how to get her out of this one. I was going to have to get Rob to pick her up and carry her out, even if it is to her chagrin. I closed the door slowly, making sure it didn’t make a sound.

The music blasting from the big speakers dispersed all throughout the house like a well-executed rave, ensured my quiet get away.

I rushed through the pulsing bodies, too much PDA, and steamy crowd back to the corner where Rob and I had been standing. He wasn’t there. So I looked towards the bar to see if he had perhaps gone to get another drink or come after me. I hadn’t gotten to the end of the bar with my optical hunt before I spotted him. I speed-walked towards the bar and Rob as unassuming as I could muster to make it appear. I walked up behind Rob and grabbed his firm butt.

“Hey babydoll. I was getting worried about you. Did you get to use the bathroom? Where is it? I thought it was here by the bar. I think I need to use the bathroom now too.” Rob said and tipped the bartender.

“You don’t have to tip him lover.” I said without hesitation.

“I know. I like to tip.” He said lifting his eyebrows in unison twice.

“OK. Whatever works for you is fine with me. How did you know I was standing behind you? Do you have eyes behind your head?” I asked.

“I got a whiff of your perfume.” He said with a sexy grin. His fiery magnetism distracted me for a second.

“Did you get to use the bathroom?” Rob asked again, bringing me back to reality.

“No, I found Roya though,and we need to get out of here. I had an idea that this was a drug party. But, I had no clue it was going to be this crazy. It’s far more intense than what any visionary-dollar-sign-eyed Hollywood producer could conjure to depict a drug-party scene. She was in the room with a group of people sprawled on a bed with their own personal tray of “goodies”. Let’s go to the door together, and I’ll go in and get her.” I said persuasively trying not to worry Rob too much. I didn’t want him to see her in the situation that I saw her in. The description was incriminating enough. I didn’t want him to lose all respect for her.

“OK. I’ll be standing right behind you.”

The collection of intoxicated people now felt like a video game. Everyone was an obstacle to pass. I was safe though because I was holding Rob’s hand and following his footsteps, behind him. We’ve perfected this move over time. We arrived at three identical doors. I came up around and in front of him. I went to grab the doorknob when the door swung open and a tipsy Roya stumbled out of the room. She made sure to keep the door shut to ensure her new friends’ privacy.

“Hey, where were you guys?” She hardly managed to slur before she almost collapsed. Rob grabbed her arm and lifted her up and put her on his back. He was now carrying her on his right shoulder and holding my hand to guide me to the door with his left hand. He led us to the door and let my hand loose, as we stepped on the bumpy sidewalk. He put Roya down and tried to get her to stand straight. I was looking to locate the driver through the mass of cars and SUV's overcrowding the narrow side-street. It was almost suffocating to look at. Nevertheless, I had to locate the driver soon.

I could hear Roya mumbling something in the background as we were making our exit. I wasn’t sure what she was saying but she sounded adamant. It sounded like she was trying to warn Rob of something.

The driver was no where in sight. The only way we were going to get out of this mess was for us to just walk back to the main street. The driver will probably be sitting in the same gridlock.

I looked at my watch, to my surprise we had only been at the party for a total of twenty minutes. This was good. We could definitely find the driver now.

“Lover, I can’t find the driver anywhere. We’ve only been gone for twenty minutes. I bet if we head back towards Jordan Street, we’ll be able to find him. I doubt the traffic has made any progress.” I said trying to catch my breath from pacing the sidewalk in four-inch Gucci heels.

“Komeeteh (moral police)!” Roya said this time more coherently before Rob had a chance to respond.

“What?” Rob asked.

“The Moral Police. They’re here. We have to go now.” Roya said and almost fainted to the ground. Rob caught her before she hit the ground. He picked her up and threw her on his back. We were off. As we walked the uneven sidewalks, I felt my heart start to race. I usually end up with a racing heart after spending too much time with Roya. This time it only took her twenty minutes.

All of a sudden a slew of men dressed in dark-green army fatigue with stomping boots were running through us as if they were heading to battle. Almost stepping on us to get to their destination, one of them stopped abruptly and stood in front of us.

“Where are you coming from?” He said with a big frown, making his uni brow even scarier.

“We’re headed to a funeral at the main mosque, Sir. My cousin here has lost her father. She is having a very hard time dealing with the grief. I asked my husband to carry her to the car. We are actually running a bit late.'

“Oh Daddy!” Roya said sounding garbled.

Rob and I shared a look.

“Oh.” He said to Roya’s feet as she was still hanging from Rob’s shoulder. “May Allah bless his mercy on you, and may it be your last last sorrow. Have a good night.” He said and ran off, joining the running herd.

We kept walking without looking back for a while. We were almost at the intersection before I decided to turn around. Oh no! Ross was being dragged out of the apartment along with some of the boys from the room. They were all handcuffed. I recognized them from their hairstyles: every single hair strand in standing perfectly in place a la’ Jay Manual.

“Lover, I think we made it out of there just in time. I just saw a bunch of boys being dragged out from the party. They all looked like they were handcuffed. I think they’re headed for a rough journey at the local prison.” I said trying to calm myself by breathing slower through my mouth.

“Are you serious?” Rob said with a worried look.

“Yes, but at least we’re fine. That's the risk you take when you throw or go to such soirees. Hopefully they have an inside connect to help diminish the number of lashings they're going to receive tonight. It's out of our hands though, and we need to find the driver and go to my cousin’s engagement before that gets raided by the moral police too, although I’m sure amoo-Nader (uncle-Nader) has paid the proper people to elude a raid - but maybe we should drop Roya off first?” I half-asked Rob in a softer voice.

“No. I’m not going to miss my cousin’s engagement. Put me down.” Roya said tugging on Rob’s favorite light-blue Ferragamo shirt.

“OK. OK. Here you are.” He put her down slowly but she jumped down and landed firm on her feet. She must have had a strong burst of energy out of the blue.

“Roya joon (dear), just let Rob carry you eshgheh man (my love). We need to get out of here and find the driver.” I said in a motherly tone in an attempt to warm up to her current personality of choice.

“He’s waiting at the traffic light on the right hand of the street.” She said with certainty.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I sent him a text message smarty-pants. It’s the year 2006. Hello? Have you heard of a mobile?” She said laughing, like any excessively-under-the-influence person would. Then she fell to the ground again. She was out cold this time.

“I swear we were in a movie tonight. Maybe a Guy Ritchie flick, minus the Madonna infused soundtrack.” Rob said as he picked her up off the ground and put her over his shoulder, again.

'Like 'Lock Stock & Two Smoking Barrels' without the gambling twist. Seriously though, we have to drop her off. I can't let the family see her like this.'

“Yes. But we’re going to be very late aren’t we?” Rob asked genuinely concerned.

“Lover, we’re on PST (Persian Standard Time) here. That means we can arrive as late as we want, and they will have expected it.” I said with a smile.

“Oh yeah, I learned a little about that when you purposely ordered extra wedding invitations and inserted an early-arrival time on the invites going out to your family so that they would show up on time. And it worked. Alright, then let’s grab some Redbull from your grandmother’s refrigerator when we drop Roya off.”

“How do you know my grandmother has Redbull?” I asked amused.

“I went and checked it out when you were in the shower. I was searching for your grandmother's famous lavaashak (home-made fruit roll-ups) that I've heard so much about.' Rob managed to say before we both noticed the driver honking at us, trying to get our attention.

He pulled up right in front of us at the intersection of the still-lively main road. The driver stepped out to help Rob place Roya in the back of the car.

“Shall I take you directly to your Amoo's (uncle's)?” The driver asked as we all stood on the side of the car with the door wide open.

“No. We need to take Roya back to the house. She’s not feeling well.” I said quickly, trying to reveal as little as possible.

“We can’t take Miss Roya back to the house in this state. Your grandmother will not be pleased to see her like this. May I suggest for me to go ahead and take you to the party, while I wait in the car with Miss Roya, until she feels well enough to join you inside that is.” The driver said.

“Bloody brilliant!” Roya lifted her head up to say, and fell right back down. She was out again. We all looked at each other and began to laugh. It was the hardest I had ever laughed after such an activity-filled night. I guess it was just another one of my Tehran Nights.

(Part -- 1 -- 2 -- 3 -- 4 -- )