When I learned in November 1995 that within four weeks I would be working and living in the Islamic Republic of Iran I was torn between two extremes: I was going to meet the descendants of Ancient Persia, the empire of poetry, of roses and of wine, a highly sophisticated culture going back thousands of years. On the other hand I was going to spend a good chunk of my precious twenties in a country with severe religious-based restrictions of speech, dress and behavior which were imposed since the 1979 Islamic Revolution. I quickly learned that the lines between the two poles are constantly tested and that Iranians are extremists in so many ways:  Shortly after my arrival my Farsi teacher and me drove in her car to the Great Bazaar in Tehran. Suddenly there was a checkpoint of so-called Basij, young Islamic volunteers helping to maintain  the goals of the Islamic Revolution. and Islamic rules. Since non-married members of the opposite sex were not supposed to ride alone in one car and this offence could have led to severe consequences for my Iranian friend I got quite a bit nervous. Obviously not her: She defiantly told the Basij  to leave us alone, They did.

Nowhere else where my wife had lived abroad it was as easy as in Iran to make friends. Within days they invited us for epic dinners. These started with Sabzi, fine Iranian herbs which were often the overture for one of my worldwide favorite dishes:  Fesenjoon, a slightly sweet Persian stew made with juicy chicken or even better with duck, that boasts deliciously subtle layers of flavour thanks to ground toasted walnuts, pomegranate molasses and spices. Not to forget Chela Kebap and saffron rice under a crispy layer, with a piece of butter slowly melting in it. Often the feasts lasted for ages. Iranians are extremists in hospitality, too.  After a football world up party and Iran!s victory over its special friend USA, another friend, a major carpet dealer in the Great Bazaar, jumped enthusiastically fully-dressed into our pool, damaged the remote control of his car which let him only drive home constantly with flashing lights and honking. No Basij or revolutionary police seemed to bother him. Now, 90 percent of our are living in the diaspora, in the US, Canada, or, good for us, in Germany. This is Iran, too. 

A painting in the Safavid-era Chehel Sotun Palace in Isfahan shows a woman being served wine. While wine drinking ceremonies had become quite rare in the Islamic Republic, wine-making was still allowed for religious purposes. The famous dark-skinned grapes from the Iranian city of Shiraz, the offspring of the Syrah, one of my favorite types of wine, were still abundant. Unfortunately not all of my friends were really versed in winemaking, so wine tasting in Iran could be extremely dangerous for your eyesight.  Iranian National holidays were sometimes extreme, too.  On the 13th Farvardin, Iranians went out in droves to celebrate their national picnic holiday, occupying even the tiniest green space in their mostly desert country. Ashura, which mourns the killing of the Prophet Muhammad’s grandson and celebrates Shiite identity, had been a more serious matter. When we joined the processions in 1998, hundreds of devotees castigated themselves with chains holding razor-sharp metal plates. Nowadays, I heard from an Iranian friend, things looked different and chants of some devotees have been turned against the government.

The concept of paradise faces extremes, too.

While hiking to the Alanut castle in Northern Iran, we followed the legend  of the Assassins who were maybe one of the first experts in the craft of murder, Their fanatical determination was the result of intoxicating drugs or a brainwashing process in which recruits were kept in a paradisiacal garden stocked with fine food and beautiful women.

1200km further southeast in the beguiling Bagh-e Shahzade garden in Mahan I found a more peaceful concept of paradise: Iranians are desert people. No wonder that they consider the noise of gushing water as a preliminary stage to paradise. Just imagine how great it will feel arriving at an oasis after a  exhausting week-long trip on a camel through a merciless desert: The first your senses will open, is the sound of water. Sometimes when I open a tap, I think of paradise and I remember, despite all odds, four wonderful years in Iran.

I loved traveling through Iran’s extreme landscapes, from green rice paddies bordering the  Caspian Sea, to the copy of Mount Fuji called Mount Damavand (surpassing the former by a mere of 2000 meters), from the deserts and mountains of central Iran to the turquoise beaches of the Persian Gulf. Where else can you ski on perfect powder in the morning and skinny-dip into a snow-water-fed-pool in the afternoon? Even gender-based issues were taken care of: There were exclusive women’s’ slopes and even a “Ladies! Exclusive Beach”.

At the very end, in my four years from 1995 to 1999 in the Islamic Republic of Iran, without noticing it, I had Insh Allah become an extremist, too. 16 times alone I went to Isfahan. The tea house above the entrance of the Bazaar, ,with its vista on the Islamic word’s most beautiful square, bhalf of the World, had became my second living room. For me it was “Half of the World”.