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Today almost nothing remains of the fortresses, as Hulagu did not want any more trouble, and the valley of Alamut was not exactly on our route; but it is not everyday that you can make a dream come true, so we decided to go, no matter what. To reach Alamut we had to hit north from Qazvin and cross a first pass into the Alborz. Despite the absence of proper roads we had some hope of being able to cross from Alamut, through the Alborz Mountains, to the Caspian Sea, carrying our bikes if necessary.
Ever since he had read the adventures of Marco Polo, Hubert nurtured the secret dream of traveling overland to the valley of the Assassins, or valley of Alamut. "Overland" because that is the way Marco Polo reached this mystical place before moving on to China through Central Asia. 'Secret' because really nobody gave a damn. The valley of Alamut is where, towards the end of the 11th century, Assan-i-Sabbah, leading a small sect of Ismaili Muslims from frotresses isolated on unreachable mountain ridges in the Alborz range South of the Caspian, trained his army of Assassins.
Like every year, nobody is up for a party on the 3rd of January and Karim has an usual calm birthday party in a truck drivers restaurant, a hundred kilometers far from busy Tehran, and thousands of pedal strokes away from where he had celebrated his previous birthday.
The brown dish in the middle here is Fesenjun, a divine association of pomegranate and walnut. Worth the trip to Iran just to taste this!
It's 11:55 PM. After a taxi ride under the rain in huge Tehran, we make it to Kulan's place : beautiful unveiled women wiggle their hips on a dance-floor fueled by a dedicated DJ and enough smuggled brandy bottles to camouflage the tables. Exceptional 2009 is behind us!
Our main focus that day is put on finding a new year's eve party. This is not an easy assignment in Iran where any public or private parties are forbidden and alcohol prohibited. As one could expect, we fail. It's 11 PM. We are sitting in a drab fast-food on Revolution avenue, making up our mind to the fact that it is natural to spend an unusual new year eve when we are in an Islamic Republic on which calendar is written "Moharam, 16th, 1388". It's 11:15 PM.
We decide to split the long bus ride to Tehran into two parts allowing us to enjoy another stop in our beloved haven, Isfahan.
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