After crossing the border Mozumi and I shared a taxi to the city of Tabriz with a music teacher and his son. I soon learned that getting through immigration was to be the least of my worries. The people in this country drive like maniacs. Unbelievable, really, for what is more unbelievable than someone reversing on the highway at full speed while the traffic swerves to miss hitting them? Our driver doing the same thing, that is what is unbelievable, and me realizing that it’s quite normal to drive backwards on the highways at seventy miles an hour if you’ve missed your exit.

We finally made it to the city of Tabriz alive. My first day in Iran was a blur of black-chadored women rushing by, Arabic street signs, and the mounting heat under my manteau and headscarf. Women really do have it tough in this country. I looked jealously at the men walking by in short-sleeves.

We were the only foreigners and got quite a lot of attention from everyone. After walking around the city for a couple of hours, we came across a small shop filled with eight men furiously puffing away on hookahs. We stood in the doorway watching, when one of the guys gestured for us to come in and drink some cay. Mozumi had a Japanese-Farsi dictionary and was trying to converse with the hookah man next to him. Amused, because he had probably never seen a Japanese person before- especially one trying to talk to him in Farsi- he grabbed the phrase book as the men all left their hookahs to come and take a look. After the fifth time of being offered a hookah, Mozumi accepted and promptly went into a coughing fit after inhaling. The man was so impressed with Mozumi's attempts at hookah-smoking and Farsi, that he invited us home for dinner. He swerved and veered through the streets with the rest of the maniac Iranian drivers,until we pulled up outside his house. his daughter opened the door, and stood there shyly looking at us. Her mother appeared behind her, giggling, and invited us in. She wasn't wearing a black chador but was still covered with a house coat that covered her head. I wasn't sure if I could take off my manteau and headscard since we were in a private home, so I kept them on. The house was huge, with a big courtyard and more or less mondern looking, except for the plastic on the furniture.

The wife instucted us to sit on the floor where a mat had been laid our with trays of fruit, yogurt, meat, and vegetables. We began to eat and it was delicious. The husband could speak about ten words of English, the woman none. Our basis for communication was Mozumi's Japanese-Farsi book. He would try to communicate with our hosts in broken Farsi with a heavy Japanese accent, and then translate into English for me. It was slow, but it worked well enough to find out each other's jobs and whether Mozumi or I were married.

So much kindness and hospitality-it amazes me that we got invited to someone's home for dinner after only being in the country for a few hours. I think I'm going to like Iran.