Fiddler

Every Thursday evening a lonely fiddler walks along the Niloufar Avenue, turns into the Ninth Alley and then into our street. All along his route, he plays the fiddle, a sad, nostalgic tune that reminds me of Greece, and of lost love. He stops by the small park square facing a building on the other side and keeps on playing, even if nobody comes down to give him money. He plays on and on, until a moment he only knows and puts down his bow for a bit. As he walks off, his song of a cruel heart starts again: life must carry on.

A conversation

Conversation between Hossein and his brother on the subject of an older male relative, who grew up in Shahrerey (or colloquially, Shabdolazim), their traditional, religious hometown in the south of Tehran but now lives in a classy, westernised and very expensive north Tehran area.

Brother: Mr X (the relative) says that if he doesn't visit Shabdolazim at least once a week, he feels as if he's lost something; he's in love with the place.

Hossein: I know; I'm a bit like that. As soon as the car turns into the Shabdolazim central square, my heart leaps up with joy.

Sofia (aside, thinking of tiny Greek home island of Kassos, in the south Aegean): Lucky them, that the object of their love is within their reach.

Long time no write

Would you believe it's been more than a month since I wrote last? So much for my resolution to make regular postings. My excuses: moving house (at last!), a temperamental, snail-speed dial-up connection, a server that most of the time cannot access the blog for new posts, and Hossein's absence in London since 21 October, which means that I have to do everything, including helping the children with their homework (not easy since my experience of the Iranian educational system is rudimentary).
Oh, since I wrote last, I have become the proud owner of a PO Box in a central Tehran post office. This is no mean feat: the first time I went to ask, I was told there were more than 2,000 applicants on the waiting list. But I wasn't deterred: next time I went in with Hossein, the Problem-solver, who managed to sort one out for me in a matter of minutes. How? Believe it or not, I still don't know how he managed to sway the very same person who told me about the waiting list. Bless him. And just for the record, the address is Sofia A. Koutlaki, PO Box 15875-1937, Tehran, Iran. So now I can take out subscriptions to my favourite magazines.