I was twenty-one years old in 1985 when the chance came for me to go to Iran. Everybody, especially my parents tried to discourage me. "Dad, it's going to be just like here!" Poor dad. When I think back to what I must have put him through.

In Tehran, I realized I wasn't "in Kansas" anymore. EVERYTHING was different. The air was so dry it gave me nosebleeds. I missed seeing flowers and trees everywhere. After all, I had come from Southern California where flowers grow abundantly. The dust blew all the time and troubled me as a contact lens wearer. I had to get used to using public transportation instead of hopping into my car whenever I wanted to go somewhere. Getting around included a lot of walking, and if you were shopping, you usually had a lot of things to carry. I had to get used to covering my head. People wore muted or dark-colored clothing, which I found depressing. I had to get used to using diffent toilet facilities. I couldn't understand what people were saying. It was going to take some time before I could see past these things and get to know the people. Sure, "just like here, Dad." Ha!

I was eager to get out of the house and see things. We stayed with friends for the first few months, so I volunteered to get out and do some shopping anytime it was needed. It was easy for me to learn Farsi, because Iranians are such inquisitive people that they ask a lot of questions. Sitting at a bus stop, standing in line to buy freshly-baked "Barbari" bread as it came out of the hot ovens, or waiting my turn at the doctor's office, I found myself constantly responding, or trying to respond to questions. "Where are you from?" Ahm-ri-ka (as if they'd believe it when I said America). People would guess Russia or Turkey, but never the U.S. "How long have you been here?" Yek ma, "Do you have any children?" Yek pesar. I slowly learned words and found ways to communicate.

People were always so eager and willing to help. There is a kind of deference to foreigners in Iran. It goes back to their culturally innate sense of hospitality. I have found firsthand that most Iranians LOVE Americans, and in the thirteen years I spent there, cannot recall even ONE instance of being treated badly because I was an American. To the contrary! It always worked in my favor.

One spring day in the second month after my arrival, I decided to put my one-month-old baby boy into his stroller and go for a walk in the park. I was hungry for the scent of freshly cut grass, and the moist air of a garden. Iran is full of beautifully groomed public parks with garden-like landscaping. One of the most famous tourist attractions is a botanical garden in Shiraz called Bagh-e-Eram. That day, the park felt like home. It exhilarated me. It made me happy and content. I was so excited to see a spot of grass, I longed to spread out a small blanket and sit there for a while. Not noticing really that the grass was sectioned off, I rolled the stroller right around and onto the grass, took out my baby's blanket and sat down for a rest. There was an elderly couple sitting on a park bench enjoying the sound of the birds singing and the warm sun on that crisp morning. I closed my eyes and breathed in the botanical scents. All of a sudden, a scruffy-looking man with baggy pants and dirty hands was standing over me, scolding me or reprimanding me for something. I couldn't tell what he was saying to me at all. But I did understand the remarks of the elderly couple defending me. They said "Velesh kon, kharejieh!" Which meant, "Leave her alone. She's a foreigner." Then it all clicked. He must be the park caretaker, and I must be sitting where I'm not supposed to. Then I noticed the rope which sectioned off the grass. Then it all came clear. Embarrassed, I got up and apologised to the man and tried to remove myself from that situation as fast as I could. But how sweet and gracious of the couple. Was I supposed to be able to break the rules because I was a foreigner?

Here's the analogy of learning a new language. You start off in the dark of night with a black sky. That darkness represents your complete ignorance of the language. Ever so slowly as you pick up new words, it is as if each word represents a star in the black sky. Since you have already learned what you have learned, you're always focused on what you don't know, as if you're filling in the dark space in-between the stars. Before you know it, you have a sky FULL of stars, and it's not so black anymore. Then you can say you're fluent. But the blackness never completely goes away.

The shopping definitely helped. The corner grocer sold many items from behind his counter, like in an old-fashioned general store. I would say, "Sir, please give me one of those" pointing to what I meant. He would say, "Oh, you mean Tomato Paste?" And I would enthusiastically say, "Yes! TOMATO PASTE" not realizing that I was learning as I shopped.

In Iran, the schools can't accomodate all the children, so they created a system where the public schools offer parents the choice of a morning session from 7 to 11:30 am, or an afternoon session, from noon to 4:30 pm. The children only go to one session, where the teacher gives the daily lesson in core subjects. Children do all their homework and reading at home, hopefully with the help of their mother. This is how I learned the Persian alphabet, by helping my boys with their homework, and I gradually began to read and write.