The morning was cool, with the sun's first gentle rays just beginning to touch the earth. Ismail and his loyal horse arrived, seeking work from the commander of the Cossack brigade. With his limited Russian, Ismail hoped to negotiate and secure some kind of employment.

The corner coffee shop was a bustling hub for Cossacks, early morning workers, chauffeurs, cart drivers, and those looking to hire. Ismail tethered his horse to a tree near a hardened date and coal vendor. The vendor, his hands dark with dust, meticulously wrapped sweet dates in old newspapers, selling only to those with at least one rial. Such customers were not too much.

Stepping into the coffee shop, Ismail was met with the thick scent of tobacco. He shrugged, scanning for the brigade commander. The sun's glare briefly shut his eyes. When he reopened them, he spotted a fit young man in a crisp uniform by a steaming samovar. Light-eyed and blond, the man sat calmly, a glass of black tea in one hand, a smouldering cigarette in the other, his gaze thoughtfully fixed on the open window.

"This must be him," Ismail thought. Adjusting his coat, he slowly approached the soldier. The commander noticed him but didn't change his posture, asking sharply, "What do you need?"

A lump formed in Ismail's throat, which he swallowed with difficulty. Gathering his resolve, he explained his desperate need for work. The commander looked at him, then silently glanced around before returning his gaze to the window. From there, he could see the familiar date seller and, beside him, Ismail's calm horse contentedly chewing hay. Perhaps the horse already sensed it would once again help its master navigate life's challenges.

"Yours?" the commander asked, nodding at the horse.

"Mine."

"You'll help me in the stable."

Days passed swiftly, and it turned out the commander also adored horses. Their friendship deepened with each new day. Ismail enjoyed the work, finding it brought him more pleasure than profit.

Almost every morning, Ismail met the commander in the stable. Together, they examined, fed, and cared for each animal.

The headscarf was bothering me and this is really ruined my mood. I was tying the ends of the scarf at the top of my head in a new style, but my husband's sharp remark immediately cut through my efforts. His concern was for my appearance, for avoiding the scrutiny of the morality police. A sense of suffocation grew within me, each harsh word of his making the lack of freedom even more palpable.

Setareh —that was the name of the grandmother who had won our grandfather’s heart. From the moment Ismail first met her, he knew he would marry her. But Setareh’s wealthy Turkish parents disapproved of the wedding. To them, Ismail was just a poor young man—kind, sincere, but not worthy of their daughter. Despite this, the young couple began meeting in secret.

One day, Ismail returned to the very place where he had first laid eyes on Setareh. Ever since that day, her image had never left his thoughts. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds dimming the light, and his mood mirrored the weather—restless and uneasy. He dismounted his black horse, tied it to a tree, and pressed his face against the animal’s head, as if seeking strength. Then, with sudden resolve, he made a decision: he would kidnap Setareh—if only she agreed. His loyal horse stamped its right hoof and snorted, almost as if in approval.

He approached Setareh slowly. She had been waiting by the river for a long time. A light rain began to fall—some droplets clung to their faces, while others disappeared into the rushing mountain stream.

Taking her hand, Ismail whispered gently:

“Let’s leave this place right now... I can’t imagine my life without you. I want to spend it by your side. Come with me…”

Setareh hesitated for a moment, but in truth, she had already made up her mind. Love had clouded her thoughts, leaving only a burning desire to be with him. Her parents’ stern disapproval had only pushed her further toward this moment. In her home, she had long felt like a stranger—surrounded not by love, but by commands and expectations.

This brave Turkish girl chose to follow her heart, silencing the voice of reason that urged caution. She reached out her hand to Ismail—a quiet but powerful gesture. With it, she let go of the cold luxury of her family’s home and stepped into an uncertain but heartfelt future.

Against the parents’ will, Setareh climbed onto the horse and wrapped her arms tightly around Ismail. Together, they rode off into the unknown. They settled in his modest home and began building the life she had always dreamed of — simple, but filled with love.

When I first arrived in Iran, the expression that struck me most came at the checkout counter of a store: “Ghabeli nadare.” Literally, it means: “It’s not worth anything,” or more loosely, “No need to pay.” Imagine buying something, reaching for your wallet, and the cashier smiles and says, “No need to pay, just take it.”

I remember sitting in a park, sipping orange juice, still puzzled. I was asking my husband beside me: why did the juice seller refuse money at first? He smiled and explained: “That’s how it works here — first you refuse politely, and only after they insist again do you accept the payment.” This, I learned, is the famous taarof.

In my country, this would never fly. 

As strange as this ritual of exaggerated politeness may seem, for many Iranians, it’s second nature. Like family ties, the aroma of rice, or the tart flavor of black tea, taarof is deeply woven into the fabric of their culture — passed down through generations.

Now, when I shop in Iran and the smiling seller at the counter says, “Ghabeli nadare,” I smile back and reply, “Aha, boshi.” In Farsi, it means “Okay, be well,” but in Ukrainian, it has meant something like “no fools here.” Then I proudly walk out of the store — having paid, of course.

So if you find yourself in Iran, don’t be confused by overly polite cashiers. Just smile, insist, and yes — be sure to pay.

 I tilted my head back, eyes looking at the contours of the impressive bridge. A cold wind slipped beneath my warm coat, and I instantly longed back in the car. The sun made a futile attempt to warm the snow-covered stone walls encircling us. A sense of unease crept in. Nearby, a sign, where in bold red on white read: "Caution, Dangerous!"

The stereotype of Iran being dangerous shattered into pieces in my mind the moment I landed at Imam Khomeini Airport. At passport control, passengers kindly offered to let one another go ahead in line, repeatedly apologizing and exchanging warm smiles. These gestures often blossomed into friendly conversations filled with gratitude, expressed more elaborately than in many other cultures. Later, while studying Persian, I discovered the concept of taarof — an art of elaborate politeness and a deeply ingrained social etiquette. This tradition of treating guests with exceptional kindness, even prioritizing them over one’s own family, has been rooted in Iranian culture since the days of ancient Persia.

Tehran, a city with a history spanning a thousand years, nestles at the foot of the Alborz mountain range, leaning against the towering Mount Tochal. In the north, where snow-capped peaks dominate the skyline, you can ski; while to the south, the desert awaits. Building a connection with the city may take time, but after six months of living here, I found myself eager to share my favourite spots with fellow foreigners.

We’re heading to Tehran, and my mind is filled with various thoughts. Yet, one question keeps echoing: when will these barren fields, scattered with plastic bags, finally come to an end?

My husband’s parents were already waiting for me in the yard. In time, I would come to love them as my own, but at that moment, meeting his mother stirred only mild excitement and an unsettling feeling of not being liked. Despite my best efforts to quickly master a beginner’s Persian audio course before the trip, I couldn’t manage to utter even a few words.

I sat at the table, smiling politely, while everyone else chatted animatedly. In front of me was a plate, accompanied by a fork and a spoon. A spoon instead of a knife? The thought flitted through my mind. Resolving to use only the fork, I unwittingly drew even more attention to myself. The food, for its part, refused to reveal any of its flavours and seemed to halt halfway down to my stomach. The day stretched on endlessly, and I silently wondered if it would ever come to an end.

This story began in 1846 when the world’s first oil well was drilled at the Bibi-Heybat field near Baku. Oil was everywhere in this place: it poured from the earth in pitch-black curls, quickly coating the bare feet — and sometimes even the entire body of workers, whose bronzed skin was a result of constant exposure to the sun. These workers, often wearing straw hats, were surrounded by the so-called “black gold.” It almost sounds like one of the magical wishes from the Genie in Aladdin’s lamp, doesn’t it? Yet, for the oil workers of Baku, this “black gold” was not a blessing, but a dangerous challenge.

The word that comes from the heart penetrates the heart.

Nizami Ganjavi

 I was cooking in the kitchen, and reminding myself that cooking with love makes the food tastier and the process more enjoyable. However, my inner voice kept protesting, trying to convince me otherwise - that I was stuck in the routine of everyday life and missing out on the most interesting moments. My thoughts were interrupted by a phone call from my husband. His friends from Tehran had decided to leave the capital and move to the island of Qeshm in the Persian Gulf. 'They're inviting us to visit,' he said at the end. 'Sounds great! Finally!' I exclaimed.

The Radomysl Castle Museum is located 86 km from Kyiv and is part of Via Regia route - is the name of the oldest and longest land route between the East and Europe, which stretched from Kyiv to the Atlantic coast. Already in the 13th century, a stable route with a length of 4,500 kilometers was formed, which passed through eight European countries: Spain, France, Belgium, Germany, Poland, Lithuania, Belarus and Ukraine.

When we were just planning to visit Belarus, everyone asked in surprise: “What to do there?” After all, many believe that Belarus is closer to Europe only geographically, and Minsk is still the Soviet Union. Oh yes, the roads are good, everything is clean, but in general it’s boring and everything is very authoritarian. But all these arguments only fueled the interest to see what was really going on there? Destroying the existing stereotypes of some countries is the main reason why I started writing this blog. We definitely decided to go and see, and when we returned, we didn’t regret what we saw and experienced one bit.

Hot tea is the best way to warm you up in winter. In China, people drink black tea in winter and green tea in summer. Believe it or not, all tea is made from the same plant. It is an evergreen shrub that can grow into a small tree. The subspecies Camellia sinensis originates from Southeast China. Plants can live up to 100 years or more, and the leaves are harvested year-round. Another subspecies called Camellia sinensis assamica comes from India. All the tea consumed in the world comes from these two plants.

Bakhtiari have roamed the lands of Persia for thousands of years and are an integral part of its history. They trace their lineage directly from Cyrus the Great. There is another version that they are descendants of the Iranian epic hero Fereydun.

Chinese women knows the secret of health and happiness does not lie in radical diets and extreme workouts that prove impossible to stick to. The key is to implement small daily measures that are simple, pleasurable, and fit effortlessly into everyday life. Think about how daily teeth-brushing has become a habit for most of us. Do this and you’ll set yourself up for good mood, even on the dark days.

The headscarf was bothering me and this is really ruined my mood. I was tying the ends of the scarf at the top of my head in a new style, but my husband's sharp remark immediately cut through my efforts. His concern was for my appearance, for avoiding the scrutiny of the morality police. A sense of suffocation grew within me, each harsh word of his making the lack of freedom even more palpable.

Spring was in the air, cherry trees were blooming on the side of the road. We were passing Hamadan, the world's oldest city, home to descendants of Persians, Azerbaijanis, and Lurs. It's also where the mausoleum of the great healer Avicenna stands. In Iran, many visit the tombs of renowned figures to seek answers without words. They sit nearby, meditate, and then rise with quiet understanding. The tomb of this scientist and thinker is never without visitors.

Avicenna believed the soul's state impacts the body, anticipating modern psychotherapy and aromatherapy through his use of words, music, and smells in patient treatment. His works were translated into Latin, Persian, Hebrew, and Old Ukrainian. He was known as Avicenna in Europe and Ibn Sina in the Arab world.

New places and the surrounding nature lifted my spirits and helped distract me from the obsessive thought of how to tie my headscarf differently. I deeply wanted to uncover my neck and breathe more freely.

But with time, I made peace with this practical accessory and even became quite fond of it. It truly suits those living in desert climates.

In Iran, girls are taught from childhood to cover their heads. Every little girl dreams of being like her mother, so they begin wearing the scarf almost from birth.

Another stop at a historical site. In the distance, stone slabs came into view—engraved with inscriptions in Old Persian, Neo-Babylonian, and Neo-Elamite. These were the Ganjnameh inscriptions, messages carved from the past to speak to the future.

Set in a narrow, picturesque gorge with a waterfall, the inscriptions were left by two Persian kings—father Darius and son Xerxes. They were not only wise rulers of their vast empire, but also, quite literally, laid the foundation of the ancient Persian literary tradition.

For centuries, the local people—having long forgotten the ancient scripts—believed the carvings to be a coded treasure map. It took generations, until European scholars arrived in the 19th century, for the inscriptions to be deciphered. And what did they reveal? Not hidden riches, but a testament to the greatness of the kings.

In Ancient Persia, art and writing were never merely decorative; they were instruments of royal glory, designed to immortalize power.

We’re heading to Isfahan to visit a friend of my husband’s. Iranians with love call this city “half of the world.”

At a time when poetry flourished here and acoustic palaces were being built, Columbus had not yet even set sail for America.

I breathe in the slightly dry, yet cool air of Iran’s most beautiful city.

We promenade through the evening streets with a friend—a tall, broad-shouldered man from Isfahan who once studied with my husband in Kyiv. Together, they’ve lived many stories. 

Cars rush past, stirring the already polluted air.

Unnoticed, we arrive at the ancient bridge. Soft music and laughter drift through its illuminated arches. This is where local artists, musicians, and dreamers gather—drawn to the magic of the night.

Once, Shah Abbas II ordered the construction of a remarkable pedestrian bridge with arcade galleries, built upon the foundations of an older one. It was to be a place where he could quietly sip wine and write poetry. At that time, the Zayandeh River flowed swiftly through the city, a living artery of Isfahan.

The architect, fully aware of the weight of the task, poured all his knowledge and the Shah’s wishes into the project. And so, the Khaju Bridge was born — a masterpiece of Persian architecture.

At both ends of the bridge stood stone sculptures of lions.

On one of the lion, a little boy was cheerfully playing.

“Does this child’s mother know that lion is five hundred years old?” my friend asked dryly.

He directed my attention to a lion on the opposite side, asking for a closer look. Shifting from foot to foot, I searched for the lion's eyes. Suddenly, they lit up, only to extinguish as soon as I moved. Was it the power of thought? No, it turned out to be the power of the architect's clever design.

Late in the evening, we found ourselves in the Armenian quarter of New Julfa, happily eating local fast food and chatting with familiar Isfahans.

Four hundred years ago, Shah Abbas I forcibly relocated the inhabitants of Old Julfa in Eastern Armenia deep into Persia. Soon, these Armenians prospered thanks to their crafts and trade with India, settling in quite well. Of course, they built a church, and polite new friends invited me to pray there the next morning. I accepted, eager to examine the temple's rich wall frescoes.

The Armenian quarter of New Julfa felt frozen in time, an impression solidified by its old, massive clock. It's likely the only place in Iran where you can buy a pork sandwich and, if you're lucky, even wine. For a very long time, consuming these "unclean" foods and partaking in "holy" alcohol was a privilege reserved solely for local Armenian Christians. This tacit right largely remains theirs even today.

Quietly, so as not to wake my friend's parents, we snuck into his room. Family tradition dictates that children remain in their parents' home until they start their own families.

As we sipped the hidden wine, we reminisced about our trip to Georgia.  Adding to the euphoria of our shared emotions, our Isfahani friend pulled out his santur and began to play. His clear love for folk music seemed to breathe new life into the instrument.

A friend talked us about his very first flight to Kyiv. He was a student in one of a Ukrainian university. 

- I still remember playing santur at Boryspil Airport on my first day there.

He found solace in playing his santur during the seemingly endless border control. For his initial eight hours in Ukraine, all he saw were snowy fields, planes coming and going, and the strings of his traditional instrument. My future husband and seven other students were with him, patiently waiting for the border guards to return their passports.

My husband still vividly remembers his profound delight when the Motherland Monument finally emerged from the snow, among white space. A landmark he remembered from Ukrainian study advertisements. So overwhelmed with emotion, he even gifted the minibus driver an entire package of Iranian pistachios. 

In Persian philosophy, the santur was believed to have the power to restore mental balance. In the traditions of Sufi music, it was used to induce states of trance and deep contemplation. The instrument was mentioned in the treatises of Avicenna as a symbol of harmony between physical and the spiritual.

The Isfahani morning was bathed in sun. Our friend's father, a thin man with no gray hair and a sharp, lively gaze, sat at a round table, leisurely drinking coffee. He'd been educated in London and now managed his own factory in Isfahan.

"Do you like it in Isfahan?" he asked in English, leaning in and offering a handshake. I recounted my impressions from yesterday. He smiled faintly, responding that the city was full of marvels. He explained that Iranian architecture has six styles, with the final, Isfahani style, being the most skilful. Grabbing a pen and paper, he sketched the Khaju Bridge, detailing its design. Water roared in from one side of the bridge and flowed out peacefully from the other. This unique feature was why the Shah adored resting there. The secret was a simple wooden dam built into the bridge's inside. Even the mystery of the lion's eyes was just a trick of refracted light. Suddenly, it all became clear. Science lights the path to the future, and in Isfahan, it illuminates the past.

Since ancient times, people in this city have gathered in "kahvehane" – not just to drink coffee and discuss the latest news, but also to listen to poems, often inscribed directly onto the walls.

The Ali Qapu Palace captivated us with its acoustics, after which we decided to wander through the Grand Bazaar, stretching along Imam Square.

To this day, this section of the city remains its primary financial hub, where social and cultural life thrives. Singing canaries greet you at every turn, loud workers push heavy carts of goods through the rows, jewelry gleams, and sellers, with narrowed gazes, expertly string together necklaces and earrings. Folk craftsmen display handmade pots and boxes, Persian carpets unfurl, healing herbs offer their scents, and huge mountains of spices create a vibrant tapestry. Everything blends together, seeming endless and utterly fabulous, as if a magic carpet might whisk you away at any moment. And still, just as they have for a thousand years, wandering dervishes (Sufi ascetics, akin to Muslim monks) walk and sing here.

Winding through rows of embroidered shoes and bags, we stumbled upon a small, old coffee shop. There, we managed to calmly enjoy a cup of Turkish coffee. Immersed in the local atmosphere, we suddenly spotted world-famous Persian miniatures in an antique shop window. The city seemed to cast a spell on us, charging and inspiring with an invisible energy that pulsed from everywhere. Surely, a Jin lived somewhere nearby.

 Memories flooded my mind again: winter Kyiv on New Year's Eve. I was returning home with a bottle of champagne, its label adorned with "Happy 2013" in multicoloured beads. Again, 13, our official lucky number. The taxi driver's wife had crafted the festive decoupage on the bottle. He gave me this champagne in memory of our last. The driver sold him the art work on time. My beloved was returning to live in his country forever, with no promises or obligations. All that would remain were happy memories, carefree days, and Soviet sparkling wine in a beautiful wrapper.

Without waiting for the holiday, I opened the gift, filled my glass, and mentally said goodbye to another emotional wound. It seemed to me then that love was an invention, and those who were bored had simply mastered this game. I felt caught in a powerful trap, hearing only the sad sonatas of separation within.

This empty bottle still gathers dust in the corner of my room. Perhaps it was magical, and someone heard me? After six months of silence, I received a message on a popular social network: "I miss you, come to Iran." To which I replied: "Thank you, I'm going to Tbilisi." 

I and our friend —the same one who supported the plan of my husband and flew to Georgia with him—are seated in the lobby of Isfahan's oldest, most fashionable hotel. I observe the diminutive porter effortlessly carrying large tourist suitcases. At a nearby table, a man without legs converses pleasantly with his friends, sipping coffee. He doesn't appear unhappy at all; rather, he smiles constantly, using his wheelchair as his chair.

Once again, I grasp that there are no true standards for what a "normal" person should be or where one ought to live. We are all distinct—separate planets, where sometimes a hurricane rages or the sun shines brightly. Someone might be incredibly beautiful yet feel like the loneliest person alive. Another might be drowning in money and contemplating death. Where, then, can one find the best place on Earth to discover inner peace and quiet happiness?

And to hell with that scarf, a mere cloth, not a brick, that they compel you to wear! My compass had gone astray, leading me to an entirely different world, one I was slowly beginning to appreciate. Here, everyone seemed to strive to preserve time. Technological progress advanced in small, hesitant steps against the formidable barriers of ancestral traditions. At that moment, Isfahan felt truly unique.

Hot tea is the best way to warm you up in winter. In China, people drink black tea in winter and green tea in summer. Believe it or not, all tea is made from the same plant. It is an evergreen shrub that can grow into a small tree. The subspecies Camellia sinensis originates from Southeast China. Plants can live up to 100 years or more, and the leaves are harvested year-round. Another subspecies called Camellia sinensis assamica comes from India. All the tea consumed in the world comes from these two plants.

The spirit of the tea ceremony is the core of tea culture, in other words, it is harmony, peace, happiness and truthfulness. The most important thing, of course, is happiness. Tea has a health-improving effect, and regular tea drinking can strengthen the body. Physical health is a prerequisite for "satisfaction and nourishment", and only through self-indulgence can the sublime sphere of life be obtained and the quality of life improved. In general, by getting to know the spirit of the tea ceremony, we can better inherit and popularize tea culture.

In the beginning, tea in China was a luxury item consumed mainly by nobles and royalty. The elite started drinking tea to invigorate the body and clear the mind. Tea was brewed with other plants to make tea soup, which was considered a combination of medicine, food, and drink. The consumption of the soup did not become popular among the masses because of its bitter taste. Records also show that ritual worship during the Zhou dynasty included tea ceremonies conducted by officials. Tea was considered an exotic plant from southern China, so it was offered as a tribute to the emperor and served to nobles.

Artisans have created hundreds of examples of tea art, such as poems, drawings, songs and even literature. One of the first to write about tea was Lu Yu.

Lu Yu was born in China. His parents are unknown, he was found at an early age near the walls of a Buddhist monastery. The abbot of the monastery gave him the name Lu Yu, which literally means "dry" and "feathers".

He lived and was educated in a monastery, but at the age of 11 he voluntarily joined a troupe of wandering actors. While traveling, Lu Yu saw how different layers of the population lived, observed traditions and various ways of preparing tea. During his 16 years of travel, he visited many cities and monasteries in the modern provinces of Hubei, Jiangxi, Anhui, Jiangsu, Henan and Sichuan. He learned the techniques of shadow theater, marionettes and traditional drama. He met famous people of his time, got patrons and lived in monasteries for a long time. All this time, he collected tea, tasted water, studied local tea customs and recorded his observations.

In 760, he settled alone in Huzhou county in the territory of modern Zhejiang province. Here, in 778, the "Tea Canon" was written, and in 795, a book with a description of the 20 most famous springs of China.

He encouraged commoners to drink tea by including a section on which teaware could be omitted if one could not afford it. Lu Yu is known as the "Tea Sage" and "Tea God". His classic book linked the consumption of tea to spiritual matters, art, Chinese lifestyle, morality and philosophy. Although the majority of the Chinese population did not read it, intellectuals, nobility, and spiritual leaders embraced it.

Confucian teachings indicated that the world should be governed, improved, and morally taught through classical learning. According to Liu, "Chinese intellectuals considered culture, or all literature and knowledge, to be the vehicle or instrument of human morality, serving to fulfill the civilizational function of Dao (the way the universe works)." Lu Yu's book helped turn the pleasant drink into an art woven into Chinese culture.

Chinese women knows the secret of health and happiness does not lie in radical diets and extreme workouts that prove impossible to stick to. The key is to implement small daily measures that are simple, pleasurable, and fit effortlessly into everyday life. Think about how daily teeth-brushing has become a habit for most of us. Do this and you’ll set yourself up for good mood, even on the dark days.

3. Healthy and Mindful Eating

A balanced and nutritious diet promotes healthy Qi flow. Focusing on colorful, seasonal and natural ingredients is essential to health and longevity. Fruit, vegetables, legumes, grains, organic, pasture-raised meat and poultry and wild and sustainably caught fish are just some of the natural foods to base Chinese women diet around. Mindful eating is also key to appreciating food and where it comes from and for optimal digestion. 

4. Skincare with SPF

Women from China have traditionally valued pale skin, so they go to great lengths to protect their skin from the sun's damaging rays. In Asia, pale skin is associated with wealth, while tanned skin is associated with manual labor. The average Asian woman, and increasingly the men too, wear layers of SPF and UVB every time they leave their home.

5. Drink warm water, tea, or soup at mealtimes.

Chinese and many other East and Southeast Asian cultures agree that ingesting warm liquids balances your body’s physical and energetic temperature. Teas and soups are balance a meal and aid in digestion.