chin and realized the multiple cracks in my lips had all split open and were spilling blood like fresh operation stitches in a hot bath, not only on the bread but all around my mouth and chin. I must have looked a right old state, and I realized why the locals sitting nearby had been looking at me strangely.
I finished up and got straight down to the drug store. In a display of reassuring professionalism, the pharmacist behind the counter took one look at my bloody swollen lips and gave a loud audible “Urrrgh!”
Thanks, mate.
He gave me a big tube of jelly-like ointment for my troubles, the origins of which were unknown to me. Back at my hotel, I smeared on vast amounts of the stuff, which had a cool and pleasant soothing effect—especially when I put it on my lips.
CHAPTER FOUR
Disco Lake with Ferris Wheels
A t the ungodly hour of five forty-five in the morning, the bus terminal was surprisingly busy. It was too early for me to function properly, though, and as I waited for my shiny modern bus to arrive, I slowly brought myself out of a dribbling semi-comatose state with a life-renewing sweet black tea.
The night before, I’d made the mistake of arranging a super-early wake-up knock on my door, but had been paranoid that the elderly man at reception, who’d seemed a little preoccupied when I’d asked him, would forget. As a result, I woke up several times during the night in a panic that I’d missed my bus. Since I didn’t have a watch, I’d end up stumbling down to the lobby to check the clock hanging on the wall there, only to discover that it was still the middle of the frickin’ night. It was a complete waste of time and I needn’t have worried, as right at five thirty, there was a tappity tap tap on my door. I got up feeling not only tired but rather stupid.
When my bus finally rocked up, and I do mean rocked, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was modern, but only if this was the 1950s, and it didn’t look like it had received a service since then. It was covered in rust, dented, missing both front and rear bumpers, and completely filthy. To complete the look were massive cracks to the windscreen and several of the side windows.
The “luggage” compartment was almost entirely filled with old car batteries and its floor covered in an oily sludge. I was far from pleased. On board was no better, with the springs on all the seats long gone and the once white seat covers now anything but. Taking a seat was an interesting organizational process of making sure no man or woman who weren’t related sat next to each other. At every stop, this arrangement had to be rethought and the seating rearranged accordingly. Being new to all this, I kind of liked the novelty of it, but was well aware that had I to go through the process on a daily commute, the effect would soon wear off. I imagined the chaos there’d be at home were the same system to be implemented on London’s hideously crowded buses and tube trains and wondered how on earth Iranians coped on the metro system in Tehran—a city with 15 million people.
I was placed toward the back and given a “window” seat, although part of the window was missing. The thick, broken glass was sharp to the touch, being anything but normal safety glass. It was a four hour journey to Tabriz, and although I was looking forward to checking out the landscape as we drove, the guy sitting next to me insisted on drawing the thick black curtain to block the sunlight from coming in. As a result, I saw nothing en route and arrived in the city of Tabriz delighted to finally have something to look at.
Tabriz is a thriving city of some 1.5 million people located in the northwest of the country and is the capital of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province. Although modern in the sense of infrastructure and amenities, Tabriz has a rich history dating back somewhere in the region of two thousand years. On numerous occasions in the past, it has been the country’s capital and
I finished up and got straight down to the drug store. In a display of reassuring professionalism, the pharmacist behind the counter took one look at my bloody swollen lips and gave a loud audible “Urrrgh!”
Thanks, mate.
He gave me a big tube of jelly-like ointment for my troubles, the origins of which were unknown to me. Back at my hotel, I smeared on vast amounts of the stuff, which had a cool and pleasant soothing effect—especially when I put it on my lips.
CHAPTER FOUR
Disco Lake with Ferris Wheels
A t the ungodly hour of five forty-five in the morning, the bus terminal was surprisingly busy. It was too early for me to function properly, though, and as I waited for my shiny modern bus to arrive, I slowly brought myself out of a dribbling semi-comatose state with a life-renewing sweet black tea.
The night before, I’d made the mistake of arranging a super-early wake-up knock on my door, but had been paranoid that the elderly man at reception, who’d seemed a little preoccupied when I’d asked him, would forget. As a result, I woke up several times during the night in a panic that I’d missed my bus. Since I didn’t have a watch, I’d end up stumbling down to the lobby to check the clock hanging on the wall there, only to discover that it was still the middle of the frickin’ night. It was a complete waste of time and I needn’t have worried, as right at five thirty, there was a tappity tap tap on my door. I got up feeling not only tired but rather stupid.
When my bus finally rocked up, and I do mean rocked, I couldn’t believe my eyes. It was modern, but only if this was the 1950s, and it didn’t look like it had received a service since then. It was covered in rust, dented, missing both front and rear bumpers, and completely filthy. To complete the look were massive cracks to the windscreen and several of the side windows.
The “luggage” compartment was almost entirely filled with old car batteries and its floor covered in an oily sludge. I was far from pleased. On board was no better, with the springs on all the seats long gone and the once white seat covers now anything but. Taking a seat was an interesting organizational process of making sure no man or woman who weren’t related sat next to each other. At every stop, this arrangement had to be rethought and the seating rearranged accordingly. Being new to all this, I kind of liked the novelty of it, but was well aware that had I to go through the process on a daily commute, the effect would soon wear off. I imagined the chaos there’d be at home were the same system to be implemented on London’s hideously crowded buses and tube trains and wondered how on earth Iranians coped on the metro system in Tehran—a city with 15 million people.
I was placed toward the back and given a “window” seat, although part of the window was missing. The thick, broken glass was sharp to the touch, being anything but normal safety glass. It was a four hour journey to Tabriz, and although I was looking forward to checking out the landscape as we drove, the guy sitting next to me insisted on drawing the thick black curtain to block the sunlight from coming in. As a result, I saw nothing en route and arrived in the city of Tabriz delighted to finally have something to look at.
Tabriz is a thriving city of some 1.5 million people located in the northwest of the country and is the capital of Iran’s East Azerbaijan Province. Although modern in the sense of infrastructure and amenities, Tabriz has a rich history dating back somewhere in the region of two thousand years. On numerous occasions in the past, it has been the country’s capital and
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