The hotel in San Diego is by a sea harbor. The view is perfect and I want to record it in my head, save it somewhere, take it back home.
You look at the water and you realize there is so much more to know, so much more to learn. You realize you know nothing. You have come far but you’ve got a long way ahead of you.
And it’s kind of sad to think you know so little. To think you know nothing as you stand by the water, faced with its vastness, and the power that’s beyond your reach. It’s sad and the sadness is like a heavy weight on your heart.
But you forget. You look at the ocean to find peace, to find a part of you that has been lost for some time. You close your eyes to be forgotten with the sound of the sea, the sound that puts you to long, quiet sleep.
***
San Diego is caught in a fog at this hour. A fog that makes parting easier, makes sleeping less painful. I haven’t decided if I like the fog, but I know that some of my companions do.
Mimi saw me after five years. She looked vibrant, her cheeks glowing, her smile brining a smile to my face. She fell in love with Mamanbozorg and her boldness. She said no wonder your Maman is the woman she is, fearless and sheytoon. Mimi admired the women in my family and did not forget to credit Baba.
We talked through another round of coffee about life and marriage and kids and the women of Iran.
And then she left and I wished I could take her back to Virginia with me. I wished we could talk and grab coffee and watch movies. I wished a lot of things.
I bought seashells for Nura because she had asked me to. They are pretty and sparkle in the sun. I watched the bay with R and we said nothing. I said nothing and she asked if I was okay and I lied like I always do and said I was fine.
That’s when I watched the water and realized that I am floating in a sea of ignorance. And I know nothing. And there is so much to know.
Thinking is a bitch.
So I am going to sleep. Sleep under the fog of San Diego only to wake up and return to the cold of Virginia…

The road to Los Angeles was long and tiring. Mamanbozorg murmured prayers under her breath as we lost and found our way again, searching for avenues and roads and streets and boulevards. Maman sang to alleviate her frustration and R drove, cursing at the cars who cut in front of her and the road signs that were too small to see.
It has been a fast journey. We’ve peeked into each city, migrating from hotel to hotel, packing and unpacking, never getting enough sleep. But it’s been an eventful trip, fun, sunny and cool, hot and sometimes cold, with multiple views from the top of our hotel rooms that lookout to the moving cars.
Tonight we are tired, physically. We are driving out to San Diego early morning, another 3-hour drive with the ugly traffic of Los Angeles. And then we head back to Virginia on Saturday.
We drove through the mansions and houses of Beverly Hills and were wowed. We peeked at Hollywood Boulevard and Baba wondered were the celebrities were. Mamanbozorg pointed at right and left at whatever she saw, her cane up in her arms. Baba calls it the cane of Moses and we get a good laugh every time.
Coffee has been good during this trip. It has kept us awake and freshened, taking us through the roads, moving and pushing us forward, from city to city, side by side with rivers and the Pacific.
Moving forward in a timeless frame is rather strange. We’ve gone from Saturday to Thursday and I feel as though it’s been only a day and a month at the same time. I have lost track of time and day and it’s been awfully great.
She stares out the window to take one last look at the downtown of LA. And I am struggling to keep my eyes open to finish my last sentence.
Good night, angels. Buenas noches…los angeles.

The night of Cisco is something else. The night of Cisco is like walking through a dream. Rahman says the city is built on 14 hills. The houses on these hills are marvelous; they are like little villas. On top of the hill we stand on, everything bellow is shimmering, a sparkle of lights, a luminous chandelier that beholds the entire city. I am marveled. I am in awe. I don’t want to leave. I like this timeless town, the easy roads, the ease with which the Californians carry themselves.
Rahman’s wife, Anna, is too lovely and beautiful to describe. She has the sweetest tongue, the friendliest smile, the classiest demeanor. R and I fall in love with her. We like to listen to her talk forever. She runs a hair product store and Rahman helps her with the bookkeeping. Her parents are Italians who now live in San Francisco. She is wearing lots of eyeliner and a dark red lipstick that matches her red shirt. Her nails are bright red, polished and sophisticated. Anna’s words carry a rhythm, one that entraps and bewitches you, makes you happy and jolly.
Rahman and Anna take cruises all around the world. They will be in Venice for May. They look perfect, like they’ve lived and are living it everyday. Like they have tasted life and are waiting to taste more.
We leave them and take a tour with the Chevy as Ali drives. He shows us the night of Cisco, the hills, China Town, Down Town and the Alcatraz Prison. And then we head back to our rooms, tired, but too satisfied to lament our fatigue.
Some places are perfection. Cisco is one of those places. A place I feel I can easily love and be loved in. It makes me want to start over. Fresh, happy, with no past. This timeless town is perfectly perfect.
Tomorrow it’s Los Angeles…

38 dollars a night for parking. Welcome to San Francisco, California, a gorgeous, classy, uptown city. And when I say gorgeous, I mean everything from its coffee shops and bakeries to its train buses and market centers. And its men; they too are a sight for themselves.
Here we are, in our second hotel, The Courtyard Marriot with a view of the street from the 6th floor. If you are wondering how I am feeling at the moment, I will tell you. I feel Absolutely Great. I love it. Love the view. Love the men. Love the little supermarket right across the hotel. Love the wide, steep and hill-like streets. Love the class. There are lots of Starbucks coffee shops, a couple on each side. I tell Maman we should move here. Forget Virginia. San Francisco has got it all.
It’s like walking into the streets of Paris and Tehran and New York and China. The open restaurants and expensive shops. You don’t feel alone here. There are businesswomen and men in suits, girls in sports bras and skirts, women with colorful hair, and the homeless whom everyone ignores.
This is San Francisco.
The weather is beautiful. There is sun. And a cool wind. It’s a city in motion but laid back, calm and peaceful. Not the rush of New York. Nor the gravity and tension of Virginia. But a perfect, happy town. Diversity is low here but Californians are friendly, sunny people who smile often with a welcoming gaze. They appreciate your beauty and charm. They even compliment you as you cross a busy street.
R is napping. I have no Internet connection. We are meeting Ali and Rahman shortly at the Cheesecake Factory down by Macy’s. I can already predict the likely conversations. Maman will love to hear about the history of the city and why it is the way it is. R will like to know more about housing and living conditions. There will be a little bit of talk about California in general and its weather. Perhaps a bit of politics, after all, we are Persians. And a few “what are you doing, how is life in Virginia”, blah blah blah…
Before I end this post I’d like to add that I did not drive after all because the family wasn’t sure I should. Maman was hesitant and I didn’t beg, remembering the possibilities of getting lost and ending up in no man’s land. No thanks, I’ll wait ‘till the five hour drive to Los Angeles, or Tehrangeles as some Persians call it.
Did I mention the popularity of coffee here? I did.
Until tomorrow, adios.

Sacramento is a crap city like Professor M said it would be. No offense to Sacramento born readers. The roads are all one-way streets and getting to the stupid Fairfield Marriott on Exposition street or avenue (whichever) requires getting lost first.
There are no people. The city is dead. No birds. Nothing. Everything is pretty. There are churches and blossoms and orange trees. Classic, natural beauty. Just dead, really dead.
And there is Starbucks! Thank God. This morning we ordered a couple of drinks and the girl asked us how our day was going. The people here are very friendly.
So Maman just told me that the reason why we came to stay two nights here was because of Ziba, a relative of Mamanbozorg’s. Ziba means beautiful in Farsi.
Ziba’s in-laws are Afghans. Walking into their home was like walking straight into Iran and Afghanistan. Persian rug, Afghan/Persian food: rich, oily rice, chicken polo and meat, middle-eastern décor and art. They are very generous and kind, bringing us dish after dish, multiple trays of tea, fruits, cake, begging and pleading as the tradition goes to eat. “Please eat something” or “But you didn’t eat anything (even if you just had a full plate)” Or when you say no to tea, “But why?”
Ziba’s sister-in-law reminds me of Aishwarya Rai, the gorgeous Bollywood actress and once crowned Miss World. She runs a hair salon and is engaged to an Iranian. She complains of America that has no culture. She values her Afghan traditions and heritage.
They don’t talk much of politics. This is a first. My father mentions at one point that he never wants to go back to Iran. He was never a patriot, never a nationalist. Never will be. He came here to escape the past. He came here to stay. Forever.
I am not important in these conversations. R is eagerly asked about her nursing career, her choice of residence and so on. No one asks what I do or what I want. Nevisande, writer, I was prepared to say proudly, but no one asked.
Grandma did her long prayer upstairs, drank her third tea, stuffed a pear into her purse, and then we left. We kissed Ziba and her mother and sister-in-law three times on the cheek (kissing the air in reality), shook hands with the men and prepared to leave, but as tradition with us Persians goes, we stood for another 15 minutes, talking some more. Parting is never easy for us. We like company.
And then there was grandma’s camera. She had to have a picture so I went to get her camera from the car. The camera which we are not even sure takes photos; the number never changes from a zero. Weird.
We briefly get lost again before we find Fairfield. But at least we know we are about to be lost. After a series of curses, a few big laughs, a couple of oh-oh’s and a trip to our dear old Safeway (the only open supermarket on this very dead Sunday), we retreat to our rooms.
It’s packing time now. Tomorrow morning we are headed to San Francisco. I will finally be permitted to sit behind the wheel of our rented, white Chevy that has automatic locks and buttons (our little Echo back home is a little behind in technology). I will have the road. 65 Miles per hour. Sweet…

Above a carpet of delicate clouds, we fly toward Sacramento, California. The are no mountains, no buildings, no houses, no cars, no roads, just condensed air, a sea of white below a fainted touch of baby blue and velvet sky.
Maman reads The Great Gatsby as Baba naps right next to her by the tiny window. Mamanbozorg reads with what little she can decipher from a grade level Farsi education. And R sleeps or struggles to, her arms folded uncomfortably across her chest. I’m looking out my window to what I believe are mountains. The strangers whom I’ve only met briefly as I forced my way to an empty seat are, like us, making time pass.
Time. It goes by slowly on this sky journey. Too slowly up above landscapes and mountains. Down below it’s much faster, so fast you don’t learn how things happen, how you change from one thing to another, how you grow old and childhood becomes a distant memory. Time. It’s a scary thing down there. But here time freezes; you are frozen in time. You decide. You float with the rest if you choose. You daydream about things you’ll do differently when you go back down. You wonder why there are dead-ends and stop signs when up here the sky is literally your limit…
Turbulence. Like the turbulence of thought. The sudden jolts and jerks disturb my line of words.
Half of the mountains are sunny. This is California. This is Hollywood. Fame. Big dreams. This is what they call The Land of Opportunities. It’s real land, real sand and stone, vast and open. Open for anything, for anyone, for dreamers, for tourists, for the lost.
Mamanbozorg is getting impatient. She was planning to take a walk. I told her no, grandma, you can’t do that here; the flight attendants need to move about. She tries to talk to them, patting their arms, asking for water in Farsi. We apologize to them and tell grandma we’ll tell them what she needs. In the end, they bring her water, and she says thank you, her most used English word. She is lost. More lost than the rest of us.
Looking at the brown masses of land is no longer interesting. R is adjusting herself; she is still not fully asleep. It’s Emilie Simon again who sings French into my ears. We are traveling in time. Slowly moving forward to yet another period. And I know by now that you just make the best out of what comes out of time. You move with it, willingly, because it makes things much easier.
Cloudless. The clouds have all disappeared now as we head closer to land. And I no longer feel like I can float or be lost with time or not give a damn. I have filled my stomach with nuts and dried cranberries, crackers and cheese, two cups of coffee, ending them all with a hot cup of tea. I have been hungry all day long as if everything I ate went straight through the sky. But my stomach is not as empty as my head is right now. Empty like pages of an unused notebook that has turned yellow from the passage of time. Empty like the book I have not written. Empty like a bottle of Vodka after a party. Or like the Marlboro pack that I found on a bench once.
Repetition is tricky in writing. You don’t want to overdo a weak sentence or word. Repetition is good when it’s strong, when it’s worth being redundant. If I keep telling you repetition is good in some cases and not in others, I’m overdoing the message and you’ll get bored.
But if I stress the word empty and follow my thoughts with it, then it might become of some interest. It’ll make you think that okay, this person feels pretty damn empty, figuratively, literally empty.
Mamanbozorg has peeled an orange to make time pass. I notice the layers of pinkish red and blue, as we are no longer above clouds. Sort of like the layers of my tank. Every journey has its layers of good and bad, of happy and sad. Every layer is…
And we are here. Finally. Welcome to Sacramento, the deadest city I’ve ever set foot on.

Baba and I are in the kitchen. The teakettle whistles, breaking the silence. Snow falls lazily from the grey sky, slowly, sluggishly. Baba and I settle on the couch and watch the snow fall graciously. The tea is too hot so we wait and Baba taps his fingers on the table, as if drumming a fabricated rhythm. I am used to this habit of Baba’s but I ask him to stop.
I have been quiet for some time now. I have forgotten my purpose again. I have forgotten a lot. I have become forgetful. I say nothing to Baba as he sips the tea, his tongue immune to its heat. I have yet to wait for mine to cool down. And by then, he is done with his.
The kitchen is warm from cooking and broiling and baking. I pour Baba another cup. He thanks me and stares outside. I stare with him and we forget where we are. We ignore the phone that rings abruptly. We become the silent watchers of the snow that falls, little by little in geometrical flakes, descending underneath the grass.
He taps his fingers again, making a snow rhythm.

You smell of Sudan, she says as Aslaa gets in the car. I want to ask what that smell is like. What does Sudan smell of?
Cotton, sesame, and sugar are produced in Sudan, Africa’s largest country.
I have never set foot in Africa, but I can imagine the desert, the sand, the burning sunrays. I can imagine the smell of sweet sugar. I can imagine walking down a steep desert land, a wind of dust pulling me back.
I would like to smell Sudan. I would like to smell the sugar and the cotton.
I wonder if I smell like Iran or has it been too long? Have I lost the smell, the scent of its dust? And what do I have left?
Memories. I still have memories.

I hear the rain. It’s loud. So loud that I fear the window will break. The day the guards took her away was rainy too. So was the day they told me she was not going to be released. One of them said it might be years. Or she might be one of the unlucky ones, the ones that never return, the ones that are shot in the back of the head.
The children are silent. They look at me with intense eyes as if I am responsible for Maman’s disappearance. Maybe I am. Maybe I was too silent when she was still here. Maybe I was a fool to think that she would never leave. My daughter seems to understand but I can see the pain in her eyes. She is hiding her anger. She is taking the role of Maman. She is helping her little brother with homework. She is preparing breakfast, making tea, imitating her mother’s moves as she strides from the kitchen to the living room, holding a tray of teacups with meticulous care.
It is their silence that wounds my heart. It is their silence that weighs down on my chest like a rock. Sometimes when the pain is too much I retreat to the bathroom and knock my head against the wall. Three times, four times. Nothing changes.
I go back to where the children sit. They are busy with papers. Or they are trying to look busy.
It has been a month since they took her away. We are getting used to it. We tell ourselves to get used to it. I search for words in between my prayers to say to my girl, to her brothers. But there is nothing. In my prayers I beg God to find me words of comfort for them, for myself.
I hear the rain. My daughter joins me in prayer in her mother’s chador. She fumbles with the veil, struggling to adjust it to her height. She looks like her right now. She has the same posture. She has her mother’s hardheadedness. We pray and in our prayer we talk about our loss. And we no longer hear the rain. And it’s quiet again, so quiet that I can hear her heartbeat.

The things people cry over or yell about or complain about or take with such serious care are funny. There are so many unhappy people, unhappy about one thing or the other. My sister is unhappy. She hates what she does. My cousin is unhappy because he is just 15 and his parents have already set the standards too high. I have a friend who is dear to me. He is unhappy because his own standards are high.
It’s an unhappy world because people become serious about the little things that constitute their big dreams. Big dreams that cost so much. Big dreams like being the greatest writer, the greatest doctor, the greatest teacher, the greatest cook.
But what if the little things are just games? What if we win some, lose the others? What if one day you decide to smile before you go to work even if you hate it? What if you just decide to smile because it’s raining and you’re a rain-lover and you like listening to it, tapping on the window as you help a sick man?
Is it so hard to be happy? To think that even the little things can be as great, as lovable as the big dreams? Is it so hard to just live, take the road and enjoy the scenery?
Or maybe I’m just a clueless kid who, like my sister says, has no life and doesn’t get it.
Maybe I just don’t get it.