My first good view of Tehran from our eighth floor hotel room was a disappointment. The view was almost like looking through a glass of milk. The air pollution was awful. After breakfast and a second look from higher up, I made out the faint outline of the Alborz Mountains. It was a pleasant distraction from nearby rooftops and satellite antennas. Overall, Tehran appeared like so many other large American and European cities.

At 10 am, we met our guide Saheed and traveled a hair-raising ride to the airport. Our flight to Iran’s city of the arts, Shiraz, left right on time. Shiraz was a city of 1.2 million people located 600 miles south of Tehran in the Zagroes Mountains. When we arrived there, our driver, Reza, and Pouni, an expert on the area, were ready to start the tour. Reza, an ex-military aircraft technician and father of two young girls, was friendly and happy-go-lucky. He spoke broken, but understandable English. We hit it off right away. Pouni, a retired schoolteacher, was a government certified cultural historian and grandfather of two boys and a girl. He spoke wonderful English and frequently ended a sentence with, “God is good” or “God willing.” He fondly remembered drinking Shiraz wine before the Islamic Revolution. He was a fan of the U.S. and was thrilled to again meet people from there. He was 78, but acted and looked 50. When I asked how he kept fit, he replied, “I do not eat the yellow of the egg or the skin of the chicken.” A simple recipe for a healthy life!

He was critical of the Europeans for pilfering archeological treasures and Tehran because residents were in a world of their own. He claimed he was a “good Muslim.” That meant he attended prayers at mosque five times a day, “God willing.” The Imams had a tight grip on him, but I liked him anyway and hoped to meet more people like him.

Reza packed us into his spacious four-wheel drive Nissan Patrol and took us to our hotel. Since it was late, the day’s touring amounted to a mosque and a shop with Persian carpets and tapestries. After a good Persian meal of lamb with saffron rice, we walked 3 kilometers to an ancient citadel with a leaning tower. It was said the tilt was due to prolonged water erosion that washed away its foundation.

The next day at breakfast, Pouni explained that Shiraz’s water came from the top of mountains and flowed into an underground aquifer (reservoir). Tunnels were dug from the aquifer to the city. Because the city was down grade from the aquifer, water flowed to the bazaar and people’s homes. He said the system was thousands of years old and still worked well, “God is good.” After breakfast, our tour of Shiraz’s cultural highlights began. I rode shotgun to the tomb of Sa’di, a famous Persian poet. Here, the atmosphere was solemn, and a group of young Iranian men immediately took note of us. They tracked our group through the crowd and appeared to be agitated. I asked Pouni if this place was off limits to westerners. As we joined the procession to view Sa’di’s coffin, he reassured me it was okay. The youths remained menacing as we departed for the next stop, the grave of another venerated poet, Hafez. As we traveled, Pouni read about both of these poets from his crumpled notes. His explanation was comprehensive, but more than I needed.

The gardens and pools at the Hafez mausoleum were attractive and clean. There were armed guards at this shrine. Saheed said the guards kept the peace. Tourists at this place seemed more relaxed, although some cast a quizzical glance our way. Oddly, the women almost always avoided eye contact as they bowed their heads and covered their faces. This ritual seemed mechanical, almost reverent. Women also turned away when my camera pointed their direction. I was one of few people snapping pictures. Pouni cautioned me to look for posted signs that prohibited pictures and to ask permission before photographing women. I also knew that officials would confiscate my camera if I took photos of police or military facilities or if someone complained, so I minded the rules.

Next, we searched for the nomads of the Fars Province, the Ghasaghai (pronounced Koskoy). The plan was to travel and live with a tribe for the next two days. We found a group of about 35 near the village of Safidan. Unfortunately, Saheed was unable to arrange for us to stay with them because they barely had enough food for themselves. They invited us to return in a week. I purchased seven handmade purses from them for my family. Pouni said that this would help support the tribe and was much appreciated by their leader. While holding the tribe’s youngest member, a baby girl, I saw the ladies whispering and laughing at the mom. Our guide told me it was a custom for the man who holds the baby to sleep with the mother that night. I presented the baby’s mom with a small lipstick instead. I gave the leader work gloves and a toy car for his son. At Pouni’s urging, I also left several pages of animal stickers with the tribe’s teacher for rewards. The group’s impoverished situation was disconcerting. It seemed the Imams cast a blind eye toward these nomads.

Early the next morning, a man was walking along a stream with a shotgun. He stopped suddenly, fired into the water, reached down and pulled out a fish. Saheed joked that this was “Iranian fishing.” He added, “Many men bring guns to camp for protection from gypsies.” Although our campsite was surrounded by trickling rivulets and was near the head of a waterfall, we decided to forgo another freezing night and headed for the desert city of Yazd.