It was on the itinerary from the start:

April 11 – Night time talk from a participant in the 1979 Revolution.

When I sent off the itinerary to an Iranian friend of mine, he commented, “A talk with a bearded bastard who participated in the revolution? Gai, is this being organized by the mullahs?”

I asked if attending the talk would be a problem and he answered, “Well, you should avoid it. It seems they are looking forward to repeating their usual B.S., even to tourists.”

From then on, I had it in mind to escape the talks but, apparently, if there was one thing on the itinerary that was mandatory, that was it. Chad and Oscar, who had slipped away again, were summoned to attend.

We started out at the home of Habib’s future in-laws.

Handsome Habib works at the reception of Safir Hotel, where we were staying in Esfahan.

We were supposed to have a cooking lesson, but the kitchen was tiny and Pari, Habib’s mother-in-law, didn’t speak any English so Mustafa just went through the motions of shouting out the steps of making gheymeh , and then gave up and sat in the living room where he proceeded to give lectures on Islam and various laws they had concerning homosexuality and what not.

Pari, preparing gheymeh.

I skipped the lectures and stayed in the kitchen with the women.

First, I helped chopped vegetables, which I really hate doing.

Grating carrots, while Kimiya was washing dishes.

So I traded places with Kimiya, Habib’s fiancee, and took over washing dishes, which I don’t mind, while she prepared the salad. But because there were so many dishes to wash, whenever Kimiya would add another spoon or dish to the pile of dirty dishes, she’d give me a quick hug or a kiss on the cheek.

Soon Zahra, Habib’s aunt-in-law, arrived. She spoke some English and we managed an easy banter in the kitchen and I ended up having a great time hanging out with the women. They were all very sweet and appreciative of my help and effort to communicate with them.

And dinner turned out to be amazing. Apart from gheymeh , we also had ghormeh sabzi , which was one of the dishes that Akram highly recommended on the plane. I had at least three servings of everything and polished off the plates. (Oscar was shocked that I could out-eat him.)

When I asked Dave and Zoe how they were, they replied that they were bored. It never even occurred to me that the other people in the group might have been bored. But then, Dave and Zoe never wanted to take part in the “cooking lesson”, but were forced to attend it anyway.

After dinner, we drove off to Habib’s house.

When we got there, an elderly gentleman, elegantly dressed in a suit, came out to meet us. He must have been Habib’s father. He shook our hands, presented his family to us and then served us tea and cookies.

That’s Zahra’s husband, who is the brother of Habib’s mother, assisting the old man, who might be Habib’s father.

Then the old man sat down and huddled with Mustafa. Then Mustafa huddled with Gareth. When we thought that the talk was finally about to start, Mustafa announced that there would be no talk but that the old man would answer our questions. And yet the old man and Mustafa continued to huddle, Mustafa then huddled with Gareth. And there was no Q&A.

Huddling. Notice how Dave is seated right next to the old man.

We started getting restless. First, I went up to talk to Gareth and he nearly took my head off. After a while, he came over and informed us that the old man no longer wanted to talk but that all would be explained in the car. But when that still took forever, Chad and Oscar got up and had some words with Gareth. Chad, was especially not in a good mood. It was their last night in Iran after all and they were summoned over against their will.

Waiting for Godot with the rest of Habib’s family.

Dave joined us at our end of the room and relayed to us that, earlier, the old man leaned over and asked Dave where he was from. When he answered that he was from the U.S., that’s when he felt the old man changed his mind. Dave theorized that the old man may have been tortured, if not by Americans, at least in their presence.

Finally, it was officially announced that there would be no talk and that Mustafa would call for transport to take us back to the hotel, but that he would explain everything in the bus.

Since Chad, Oscar and I were driven to the hotel in a car instead, we missed the debriefing. But back in the room, Dave filled me in.

He was right after all.

It turns out that the old man was a poet in his youth. His idealism led him to acts against the Shah’s regime for which, he was not only jailed, but blacklisted so that he could not continue his studies nor seek employment. This only served to fuel his anger and led to more subversive acts for which he was again jailed, interrogated and tortured. Apparently, it was at the hands of Americans that he was blinded in his right eye, suffered a perforated ear drum resulting in permanent hearing loss, and had his testicles crushed.

That night, with American guests in his house, he allegedly did not want to disrespect his guests by making them uncomfortable about what their people had done to him.

And I so truly want to believe this but there’s a huge part of me wondering why it was such a surprise for him to know that there would be Americans in the group? Habib had all our passports at reception. And wasn’t this the plan all along? To air anti-American sentiments to Americans?

Something isn’t quite right with the picture, but the old man and his family were so gracious and I do really, really, truly want to believe them.

But if it was all an act, then I do suggest to the directors behind this charade that they cut to the chase. Seriously. Remember that these are Generations X, Y and Z that you are dealing with. Know thy audience. We are selfish bastards of a decadent, consumerist mindset. We were born and bred on entertainment and have zero attention spans. We do not appreciate anyone else wasting our time but ourselves, no matter what the explanation. All we understand is the inconvenience to us.

However, if you put on a good show for us, we might be more sympathetic. We might even believe you. Perhaps if you started off with a bit of wailing and a beating of chests – hooked us on the drama right from the handshakes and carried us away with emotion – that might have worked.

The indy art-house approach that you took that night doesn’t work for everyone. I myself have to be in the mood for it.

I’m just saying.