With the return of the TV series "Pan Am" on Sunday night, I recalled my layover in Iran.
Tehran was a destination that held mystery to me. Another stewardess was dating one of the princes and wanted me to meet him. The Shah had done wonders for this country and had given rights to repressed women. I wanted to see their struggles towards independence.
When we landed at Mehrabad airport, the Alborz Mountains loomed in the distance. Janice was my good friend who flew with me and on another trip to Tehran had met one of the sons of the Shah.
As we drove up to the Hilton Hotel which was situated on the slope of the Alborz Mountain, we passed the bazaar in the center of the city called Tupkhineh Square. The streets were not paved and mud was everywhere. It had snowed. When we got to the hotel, we had to be careful not to walk on the sidewalk, which also was not paved. Mud-filled potholes were everywhere. The Hilton was a lavish hotel despite the condition of the surroundings.
Janice and I roomed together. "I'll call the Prince and see if I can invite you to the palace."
I looked out the window at the snow-covered mountains and thought how much fun it would be to ski there.
"Janice, let's go skiing if we can't get to the palace. It's OK by me," I said as we unpacked for a one-day layover. "Or, you know, I wouldn't mind going to a museum. This is a truly revitalized country because of the Shah."
Janice hung up the phone and looked glum. "The palace secretary told me the Prince was out of town on business."
"So let's go to the Ethnological Museum. The hotel concierge recommended it. "
As dull as it sounded, it was an exhilarating experience. We took a taxi down from the mud covered mountainside and passed the bazaar. White tents covered foods, knickknacks, clothing, any ware that could be sold. Most of the women wore black veils though some did not. I tried to seek out these women without veils who were few, but had no success.
The Ethnological Museum was a dark, somber structure. Our English-speaking guide took us from room to room and ended in front of a giant painting of kneeling Persians draped in blood soaked white caftans. Their foreheads were dripping with blood. A man with a saber had cut each man's head.
"What is the painting about?" I asked our guide.
"This was an Islamic celebration we used to have once a year where men offered their heads to be cut by a saber. This ritual was considered an honor. We no longer have this celebration."
"When did it end?"' I asked thinking it must have been some 200 years ago.
