Nesfe Jahan, pt 71

Esfehan, again. Not me, the story. I’m in Shiraz tomorrow.

A scramble to get to another mosque before sunset turns into another anthropology field day. The poor side of town. Busy, dusty streets. Five people to the motorcycle. Long shadows hiding the border between woman and road. The loud cackle of the live poultry market. Five tiny shops form the mirror district. I’m so out of place here, people finally start to harrass and make fun of me again. Even the woman are so surprised they talk to me in the street.

I arrive to the mosque. It’s only a kodak moment. And only that because of lucky timing. I rush it though, eager to get on this street again.