"I sank into those dark eyes, black as eternal night, eyes I had sought and found, into their terrifying, enchanting blackness. They seemed to absorb all my strength; the earth reeled beneath me, and if I had fallen, I would have felt an inexpressible pleasure."
— Sadegh Hedayat, The Blind Owl
Boiled brain, tongue and other parts of sheep head lay on a plate directly in front of me, somewhat resembling the Ukrainian Kholodets, my grandma and mom always made the meal for holidays. We had travelled with new Iranian friends to the nearby city of Karaj just for this breakfast. A moment of silence fell around the round table of the small, traditional Iranian restaurant. My new acquaintances studied me, and I, the trembling mass in the bowl. It was my first time trying Kaleh Pacheh.
Specialized restaurants dedicate the entire night to preparing this fragrant Kaleh Pacheh, as it's the only item on their menu. Beginning in the early morning, the soup is served steaming hot, featuring incredibly soft, slow-cooked meat. It was at this point that I truly contemplated vegetarianism. While the breakfast's appearance was its biggest hurdle, its taste was surprisingly similar to a delicious, warm jellied meat.
We were returning to Tehran along the road that links the capital with the Caspian Sea, winding through the massive stone cliffs of the Alborz Mountains, which at times loomed directly overhead. To the side stretched a turquoise ribbon of a fast-flowing mountain river.
Iran felt like an entirely different world — beautiful, welcoming, and sunlit.
A new acquaintance asked me,
“Have you been to the other side of the mountains yet?”
“Not yet,” I replied.
“There’s a real jungal over there,” my beloved added — jungal, meaning forest in Persian.
I sat, imagining a wild jungle filled with unknown creatures. I was eager to see it all with my own eyes. The mountains were calling.
My relationship with my mother-in-law just wasn't improving. Every time I spoke to her, I was met with genuine misunderstanding. My lack of language skills was a huge barrier. It felt like everyone around me perceived me as a bit foolish, as I often struggled to formulate sentences correctly. Many of my Persian words, delivered in a wooden, tense voice, remained unclear to others, forcing me to rely on my English.
Before living in Tehran, I found it hard to imagine a party without alcohol. Typically, at women's gatherings with only relatives and close friends, everyone danced and joked, fuelled by good spirits. They even organized a lottery where a small monetary contribution was required to participate. The winning prize would be written on a slip of paper, and then everyone tried to be pulled out a lucky paper. I got lucky on my very first try. It felt good, but also a little suspicious—perhaps it was all planned that way? After all, I was a guest in this country, which meant everyone treated me with special attention, as is tradition.
There's another unique privilege for foreigners in Persia: if you stop and show interest in something while walking through the shopping arcades, chances are they'll insist you buy it, even paying the vendor for you in the end. Again, it's that custom of "taarof." At that point, you bargain as much as your conscience allows. Even my first manicure in Iran was free, simply because I was a foreigner.
The moment finally arrived: we were driving towards the Caspian Sea, heading north into the province of Mazandaran. In the Middle Ages, this region was known as Tabaristan, and human history here stretches back to the mid-10th millennium BC.
My husband again remarked that I was eating a lot of pistachios—so if to eat many, will cause acne on my face. I tucked the pack into my pocket and gazed at the mountains. These stone giants enveloped us for the entire journey. Occasionally, the scenery shifted, revealing small villages nestled against the backdrop of snow-capped peaks. The Chalus road, which connects Tehran to the sea, is renowned as one of the world's most beautiful, holding an honourable fourth place among them. I felt a slight dizziness from the sweet air as the landscape transformed, growing greener with each kilometre, drawing us closer to the water.
Tired of being stuck in the inevitable weekend traffic jam—especially when heading north to the sea—we turned towards the forest. After ascending a bit further on a lift, we found ourselves in a park completely enveloped in fog. An atmosphere of surrealism hung everywhere. Only small fragments of wet trees shimmered through the mist, and between them, the figure of Rustam, the main character of Ferdowsi's Shahnameh, emerged. Everything seemed frozen in the cloud, afraid to move. The only disturbance to the peace came from two lovers wandering among the trees.
We didn't see the sea until evening. It turned out to be an enormous lake, actually, bordering five countries. The large shopping malls, cottage towns, and fast-food restaurants along the coast in various cities seemed to merge into one continuous line. After Shah Reza laid a railway line towards the sea, the provinces of Mazandaran and Gilan became favourite recreational spots for wealthy residents of the capital.
The locals, however, live a simple, modest life, engaging in fishing, farming, and cultivating rice and tea. They speak the Tabari or Mazanderani language.
The weekend vanished in a blink, and we were already heading home. The enchanting road once again captivated us. Opting for a less-travelled path, we began an off-road exploration of the mountains, searching for picturesque views. Suddenly, the car bogged down, refusing to move. As we tried to rock the wheels, we only sank deeper into the mud. A cloud clung to the mountaintop, limiting visibility. We got out of the car, deciding to stretch our legs.
In an instant, we found ourselves in the middle of a green valley, enveloped in a serene silence. Then, from the distance, the faint sound of bells began to swell. For a second, I imagined I was in paradise. The ringing grew louder until, suddenly, a white sheep poured out of the clouds, emerging directly from the fog. At that moment, I felt deeply at home. I longed to embrace myself tightly.
A shepherd appeared, a young man who, oblivious to our presence, whistled and shouted, guiding his herd downhill.
I'll return to this spot several more times in the years to come, when emotional storms mixed with fear rage within me. And again, this amazing area will grant me the strength to navigate difficult life situations. Ancient oak forests, constantly reminding me of home and my native Kholodny Yar, grow here. This was the magical mountain Mazichal.
After ten minutes of rocking, the car finally pulled itself out of the hole.
We drove through a mountain pass and the town of Kalardasht. My husband pointed out his favourite confectionery bakery, a place he often visited with his parents as a child. We bought a small box of cakes and drove closer to the mountains with clouds, which gathered and transformed into a sea. With a feeling of boundless carefree joy, we began to eat the airy cakes with butter cream. And instantly, the heavenly "sea" smelled of vanilla.
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