An Iranian Ski Crew - Sunday, February 14th

The strange thing about skiing in Iran is just how much the place has the skeleton of a glamorous European ski resort, but none of the organs to go with it. But of course, when you learn of the glamorous origins of Dizin’s skiing, it all begins to make sense.

During last night’s festivities, Reza had showed me a YouTube video where American Olympic Skiier Billy Kidd (no, not The Kidd) and a thunderously attractive accomplice have a day out skiing with the Sha’s wife. It was a mini documentary made some time in the early 70s and contains some deliciously cheesy commentary that was very de rigueur for its time.

In the video you see an Iran that oozed glitz and glamour from every square inch of its being. Billy Kidd even wears a cowboy hat while he skiis. It’s marvellous and you can see it below.

Sadly the revolution froze Dizin in time and all its many luxurious adornments have withered on the vine and died. There are still a good number of wealthy Iranians who come here, but it is in most ways far removed from its distant European cousins. But does it really need to glam up? I was in two minds about it.

Certainly, the place could use a bit more than just a lick of paint but heavy development would end up changing the way of life for the local people here permanently. They were nomadic farmers, not swiss watch sellers. I mulled this and noticed just how many houses were falling apart and decided that maybe some well directed investment wouldn’t go amiss. Sadly, It’s never well directed though. Even at the best of times.

The six of us had a hearty breakfast of smooth sausage meat omlette and cheesy honey bread. It was the business. All chased down with home brew coffee and, of course, plenty of tea.

I realised later on in the day that I had not felt the slightest hint of loneliness since my arrival, essentially since sitting down with Nima in Istanbul. I’ve felt lonelier at my office desk than I have in one of the world’s most isolated and feared counties….now there’s an irony.

In fact it was quite the opposite of loneliness. I felt like an old friend or even family member and was never treated like a tourist, save perhaps, for Nima’s well intentioned shepherding. Before I choke on my own smug, it’s important to remember that I’m barely two days in, plenty more opportunities to get shafted.

During the festivites last night I had learnt my new favourite Iranian word, ‘mizun’, which literally translates to 'middle’. Used in most Iranian conversation however, it means that you are in a well balanced state of inebriation. So if you have just reached a perfectly full/drunk/stoned state then your general response to offers of a top up is 'mizun’. I shall try and introduce this concept to friends back in the UK, but I’m worried it won’t get much purchase.

During one of my ski lift trips with the lads I also learnt that the word paradise actually came from Persia (Old Iran to you ignorants). It was what the Greeks called the country due to it being such a, well, paradise. It’s far too early in my trip to say whether or not it is indeed as the Greeks described. From the measure of the first 48 hours it’s off to a darn good start though.

My only concern is that as Iranians become exposed to more tourists then they will lose their hospitable nature. No one in London would have treated me this way. Quite the opposite. I think most Londoners, myself included, get a special type of schadenfreude when they see tourists suffering. 'Good, that serves you right for being a silly tourist’ we mutter under our breath as they wail to the police about their stolen fanny pack. It’s especially fulfilling if they’re an obese American from The Red States.

One has to just hope that Iran’s good nature is so deeply ingrained on their national psyche that it will be there forever, like the Alborraz mountains. We’ll just have to wait and see.

Skiing was done for the day and we went back to the crib. I said my goodbeyes to Reza and his delightful family. It was just me and Al left, and we would head back to Terhan in a taxi later that eve. Al had gotten the price to well below the mega deal I thought Nima had gotten me from the airport. I wish he could have been with me for the rest of my trip. Not just because he spoke Farsi and was well connected but also because he was a very affable kind of guy.

Al had a flight to Istanbul at 2am so his place wasn’t free but had promised to find me cheap digs once we had fast internet at his place in Terhan. I think, very reasonably, that Iranian hospitality stops short of giving a near stranger keys to your flat for free. Airbnb doesn’t exist here, but it certainly will soon so they can start a more official system of charging for the pleasure.

The drive back to Tehan began as the sun was settling in for the night and, over the space of 30 minutes, made such deep impressions on my retina that I was certain that I would return one day. A stunning canvass of reds, oranges and purples worshipped by the deep blue edges of the range’s many peaks and hulking slopes. You feel somewhat insignificant at such a sight. Then the stars fade through and you revise down your personal significance in our galaxy by several orders of magnitude. To almost nothing really. Not the most cuddly of notions.

Thankfully we stopped to eat before I metaphorically crawled up my own arse using the lubrication of my own pretentiousness. We stopped at at a place called Dahati for some ice cream with raspberry coulis. And bugger me it was tasty. The milk was from a local daiy farm and the coulis was not quite as local but still Iranian, obviously. Eat your heart out stars, this little piggy just got ice cream.

Tehran traffic is a sight to behold. The pollution is so thick that you can feel it leaving an unxous film on your palate. The city’s population swings by as much as 8 million people each day. That’s just about fine when you’ve got an underground, overground, boats, trams, cable cars, and a barely capable rail network. Terhan has none of that. It just has cars. Lots and lots of home brew cars.

Apparently they also celebrate Valentines in a big way here so this traffic was particularly awful as half of Terhan tried to satiate their nagging wives by taking them out for a kebab.

Al informed me that there was Shiraz at home and a massive jacuzzi in his building’s gym. Good thing I brought swimming trunks for just such an occasion, I thought. God travelling is tough.

So my Valentines was spent skiing with great company and potentially getting pissed with a bloke in a jacuzzi. We are about to arrive at his place so I can’t guarantee the jacuzzi happens.

However, even without the jacuzzi, today easily qualifies as the best Valentines I’ve ever had. I doubt that will surprise any of my exes.