This was not the first time Dad and I had been stuck spectating at a taarofing match we couldn’t understand.
We could have had all the luggage taken inside in the time it took them to allow us to help.
Finally, Mom prevailed, and Dayi Jamsheed handed me Laleh’s roller bag. “Thank you, Darioush-jan.”
“Sure.”
Laleh’s suitcase was twice as heavy as mine, because it was also crammed full of the stuff Mom had brought with her from America.
It wasn’t just stuff for our family. When Mom announced we were going to Iran, every Persian family in the Willamette Valley started calling her, asking if she could take something to Iran for a relative, or bring something back.
It would be Mamou’s job to distribute what Mom had brought after we left. It was all random stuff too: a particular kind of shampoo, or a face cream, or even Tylenol PM, which apparently you couldn’t buy in Iran.
I grabbed my own suitcase, slung my Kellner & Newton Messenger Bag around the retractable handle, and followed Mamou up the driveway.
“Where’s Babou?”
“In bed.” Mamou lowered her voice as she let us inside. “He wanted to come to the airport, but he was too tired. He is sleeping more.”
I got this sort of flutter in my stomach.
Meeting Mamou—really meeting her, I mean—but not Babou felt wrong, like ending an episode on a cliffhanger.
I was anxious to meet my grandfather, but I was a little scared too.
That’s normal.
Right?
The lights were still off, and the narrow windows didn’t let in much of the morning sun. Where they did, thin shafts of light struck the dust motes suspended in the air and lit the photos on the walls.
There were a lot of photos on the walls. Some were framed, singly or in groups, but plenty were tacked in place with tape, or pinned up by clothespins, or tucked into whatever corner would hold them. I wanted to stop and look at them—the Bahrami Family Portrait Gallery—but instead, I kicked off my Vans on the doormat and followed Mamou down the hall that ran the length of the house. She stopped at the last room on the right.
“Is this one okay?”
“Sure.”
“It has a washroom.” She pointed to a door in the corner.
“Uh.” Mom had warned me about Persian bathrooms.
“Are you hungry, maman?”
“No. I don’t think so.” The truth was, I couldn’t tell anymore. Our journey through the space-time continuum, followed by my near brush with State-Sanctioned Torture at the hands of Customs Officer II, had left me feeling disoriented and gross.
“You’re sure? It’s no problem.”
It was my second taarof in Iran, and this time Mom wasn’t around to help me.
“Um. I’m sure. I think I’m going to shower if that’s okay. And maybe take a nap.”
“Okay. There are towels for you in the closet.”
“Thanks.”
Mamou pulled me down into a hug, kissed me on both cheeks, and then went to help put Laleh to bed.
I left Laleh’s suitcase in the hall, pulled my own in after me, and shut the door.
