I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive. The Grand Bazaar in Tehran is a labyrinth of a thousand stalls huddled under arched ceilings reaching up to dusky skylights. The noise hit me first when we entered; a cacophony of merchants hawking their wares, shoppers haggling over prices, porters loudly clearing the way for their endless deliveries by handcart. “Beh pah! Beh pah!” Coming through! Ignore them at your own risk.
Then there are the colors. Long aisles of fabric merchants, with the hues from a dozen rainbows. Cottons, brocades, wool, linen and silk. Purses, shoes, scarves, plus a glass jar of Louis Vuitton labels to sew on yourself, should that matter to you.
Even more overwhelming was the tumult of vibrant smells all around me. Rows of volcano-shaped cones of spices, 2 feet tall, pungent with colors from golden turmeric to crimson sumac to black pepper and grey cardamom. The precious deep-red strands of saffron were protected with deadbolts in gorgeous glass canisters. Platters of fruit and vegetables, so fresh they must have been picked the same day. Figs, peaches, tiny plums, lemons, grapes, melons. A feast for the eyes and the nose; no Safeway has ever come close.
Amazingly, no one pushes – the shoppers just keep their eyes open and navigate around other patrons, delivery porters, and children squatting against the stalls, selling candy, lottery tickets and batteries. Women shoppers carry a look of harried concentration, while the shopkeepers (mostly men) watch the crowd and finger prayer beads.
To me, the prices were embarrassingly low – their dollar exchange rate is abysmal. But tradition is tradition, so when I found a necklace for my mother, I countered with a price 20% lower than the seller had offered. My sister-in-law kicked me in the ankle and pulled me away. “Half!” she whispered. “Watch me!” We went to the next aisle, I found another lovely necklace. “Khanoom faranghi hast”, she declared to the seller, pointing out my obvious foreignness. “Don’t embarrass our whole country by cheating her.”
When he quoted a price, her shoulders slumped, her whole body sagged in dramatic disappointment. She tugged at my arm to leave. When the seller asked what he should charge, she countered with exactly half of his original. We finally agreed on a price in between, and my mother wore that necklace often for the rest of her life.
Iranians are exhaustingly social, and the Iranian soul loves commerce, poetry and status. When we left the bazaar that first day, I carried with me the feeling of having touched something both modern and ancient, mystical and practical, present and timeless, and gloriously alive.
LIFE AFTER WORK 