I have a good night’s sleep in my new room and my stomach is feeling better. I am still having some cramps and mild shooting pains from time to time, even with the gentleness of the yogurt, but I consider them to be adjustment signs as my small intestine gets used to food coming into it again. I am hungry, which is a good sign. I am afraid though, that I haven’t been this light since I was 20.
I have breakfast of yogurt and tea again, this time in the hotel restaurant. The young busboy who flirted with me last night is working today and just as friendly. I have pretty much concluded that he speaks no English. He has lots of bashfully eye contact with me this morning.
I return to the tea house on the Khaju Bridge but the Iranian students from yesterday are not there. In fact, it is quite empty and I am not thirsty so I continue to the south shore. I walk further south today, to see the renowned Armenian Church near the university. The Armenians comprise a sizable percentage of the city’s population. They settled here as refugees after a war with the Ottomans in the early 1600s. They built the Vank Cathedral shortly after they arrived. It is quite a stunning church, ornately decorated inside.
I return to the bridge and the tea shop in the afternoon. I meet a Brit named Roger there, and a German named Heinz with his girlfriend Zara. They have been staying at a guest house south of the bridge and have been here longer than I have. Roger is making a film about the city. He relates to me all the problems he has been having as officials here are extremely suspicious of anyone filming. They have guilty consciences, I explain, which leads to paranoia. The Iranian students show up again too. Ahmed wants to introduce me to his family tomorrow, before I leave the city. I agree to meet him here tomorrow at two.
Roger and the German couple go to a local, inexpensive diner with me for dinner. I have only yogurt and soup, which my stomach seems to be handling. It is already dark by the time we leave. We chat some more outside before we part, until Roger suddenly realizes that he left his camera in the tea house. The three of them hurry back to see if it is still there or has been turned in, leaving me on my own.
I have decided I will be able to leave Esfahan by Saturday. Tomorrow I can check out the costs of a bus or a flight to Zahedan myself, and make my bookings. I have heard no more from the police. I have no idea what has happened to the young thief. I ask Ismail, my landlord, if the rumour I have heard that thieves in Iran have their hands cut off if true. ‘Not for first time offenders!’ he gasps. “We are not barbarians!” I tempted to ask if the police are, even if the residents are not, but I don’t want to offend him. Iranians are embarrassed when visitors make mention of the obvious symptoms of oppression.
PHOTO 1: entrance to the Vank Cathedral
PHOTO 2: courtyard of Vank Cathedral
PHOTO 3: inside the Vank Cathedral
PHOTO 4: interesting light patterns
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