Ramsar

I searched for God for a long time among Christians,

But He wasn't on the cross.

I visited a Hindu temple and an ancient Buddhist monastery,

But even there I found no trace of Him. I went to the Kaaba, but God wasn't there either.

Then I looked into my heart. And only there I saw God,

Who was nowhere else...

Jalaluddin Rumi

An autumn afternoon in Tehran. I gaze from my window, watching my neighbour. He's a gray-haired grandfather, a bit stooped, meticulously and lovingly picking ripe grapes in his yard. Later, he was sharing the sun-drenched bunches generously with every neighbour. Iranians, you see, treat their gardens with immense respect—they'd never let a harvest go to waste.

About thirty years ago, Tehran was one continuous orchard. My husband recalls those times with a touch of sadness. Pomegranate and mulberry trees once grew right by his house. Now, there's a massive concrete bridge, a constant source of blaring car horns, roaring motorcycles, and noxious smog. He remembers vividly when a bulldozer arrived, its bucket simply scraping away the topsoil, grass, and trees.

"Are you ready for a new journey?" my beloved unexpectedly asked me.

I pull out my blue rubber boots and putting inside it warm socks—my standard kit for mountain hikes. Wearing my camouflage coat, I quickly toss essentials into my backpack. My travel makeup bag is always packed, ever-ready.

This time, my destination is northern Iran again. We're headed to Ramsar, a place boasting the world's highest concentration of natural radiation. Back in the 70s, it was quite fashionable to own a luxurious mansion in this paradise nestled on the shores of the Caspian Sea.

Green mountains loomed outside the car window. I rolled down the window, eager to inhale their scent. We had just turned off to climb another peak when suddenly, a slender man flagged us down, bringing the car to a halt. He was a local shepherd, dressed in wide trousers and a knitted sweater sporting a famous 90s brand logo—a surprisingly enduring trend, even here. Without a second thought, we offered him a lift. The stranger sat in the car, effusively thanking us for our kindness. After a few minutes, he told us about last night. His village is high in the mountains, and on holidays, he descends downhill to enjoy and drink a little Arak—a homemade moonshine made from raisins, popular in Eastern countries.

"I just wanted to relax," he explained, "I can't do that in the village. There's a saint's grave there."

Upon reaching his destination, we dropped off the "little sinner" near his house. He thanked us for the ride and invited us in for a cup of tea. Another Eastern tradition, this unofficially signals deep trust in strangers. Though, in reality, it's often another instance of taarof.

The radiation wasn't perceptible. The air was moist and clean, inviting greedy gulps. We approached a small pool at the palace entrance where black sturgeon swam. These fish are the source of Iran's black caviar, considered the most expensive in the world, despite virtually no one here eating it. Iranians have a particular aversion to raw fish; sushi has only recently gained popularity, and someone once confessed, in secret, that they microwave it for a couple of minutes before eating.

After a quick tour of the palace rooms, we turned toward the old hotel, a favored haunt of high society in the 70s.

At the reception desk, the porter bustled a bit. Recently arrived tourists—a young couple, simply dressed with large backpacks—were animatedly chatting with the head manager. An air of importance surrounded the newcomers; everyone smiled at them, and the administrator asked, "Where are you from?"

"New Zealand."

Everyone's smiles broadened even further. It wasn't every day that such distant guests arrived at this hotel, largely forgotten since the revolution. These were true travelers, keen on exploring every corner of our Earth. The absence of tourist crowds here was, for them, an added bonus.

Once settled in our cozy rooms, we headed down to the main hotel hall for coffee. The lobby's interior stirred the imagination—every detail whispered of the vibrant 70s. What stories did these walls silently hold? Whom had they seen? How many famous personalities had graced these orange, triangular armchairs? Besides our table, only two others were occupied. In the corner, elevated a step, sat a young pianist at a grand piano. With slightly slender, long fingers, a hint of sadness and excitement in his eyes, the brunette began to touch the black and white keys. Soon, every corner of the hall resonated with Chopin's music. Nostalgic thoughts filled my mind.

I scanned the almost empty hotel, my gaze falling on the number thirteen. This plastic table number sat squarely in the center—my husband's and my officially declared lucky number. My thoughts drifted further. Faded black stripes marked the stylish retro armchairs, and copies of Jackson Pollock's works hung on the walls. I wondered if they were once originals. The last Shah's wife, Farah Pahlavi, had amassed a respectable collection of American artists, but after the Islamic Revolution, the fate of many works varied. Most gather dust in basements, occasionally traveling for European exhibitions. Though, surprisingly, I once saw Andy Warhol's works in Tehran, at the Museum of Contemporary Art. It was truly unexpected...

I turned my attention back to the musician, listening intently. Now, Iranian classical music flowed—I was traveling through time. Here, it felt more real than anywhere else.

Morning broke, finding us at the observation deck with a panoramic view of the city. The Ramsar surrounding by green mountains on all sides. Closer to the sea, these mighty peaks dipped their backs, plunging into the deep, purplish-blue of the ancient, grey Caspian Sea. This vast lake was once part of a larger ocean, connected to both the Black and Azov Seas.

I gazed into the distance, my thoughts drifting to our chance encounter with the "slightly sinful" stranger on our way here. His life, in this paradise, truly embodied the challenge of resisting temptation!

High above, two eagles circled, dancing in the sky as they searched for a victim for their romantic dinner. The sheer beauty of their flight captivated every tourist present.

My trusty blue rubber boots proved their worth as the gloomy sky began to weep. Beyond the city's outskirts stretched forests, overgrown with moss and shrouded in mist. Along the winding passes, we occasionally spotted vendors selling fire-roasted corn or steaming hot

Ash-e Reshteh soup.

Everywhere, the beauty of an invisible creator reigned, a force with whom people forever seemed to be trying to make agree.