The Breathing Plane

It’s a surprisingly calm and easy flight from London to Baku. Even with the 2 Iranian kids nagging loudly in the back-in typical Iranian emotiveness. I am strangely relaxed, in some sort of zen euphoria-but not overtly. The plane is more than half empty and everyone has a row to themselves, a tiny private island within the tattered blue-gray Boeing 757. I curl across my seats after squirting a couple tears during the cheesy gospel-choir movie with Beyonce-really really bad. (I often turn unusually emotional in a plane, I wonder if this has something to do with altitude? I recently cried during a film about a pig!) Having shut my eyes long enough, the shabby cloth I’m clinging to transforms.

The plane is softly humming, humm humm humm like breathing. The ride is actually enjoyable and I feel like I am riding on Simorgh’s back, as it was visualized in The Neverending Story. Out the window is not the fairytale as I could have imagined, only grim circles, squares and lines engraved in vast dusty planes. The humming goes on and a soft dry breeze emanates from an obscure direction?

I’m still riding on Simorgh-except with retractable dusty chairs. The occasional sweet Azeri hostess with heavy makeup, who readily pours vodka with a slight, unforced smile. It's like some post-ancient dream. I cling to soft and coarse, milky white hair tugging at pinkish brown skin. It’s a wonderful fantasy and makes the plane ride completely bearable, this is how I get through the flight (I normally detest flying). I can really visualize my friendly beast; and I could fall in love with this creature, so innocent and loyal.

I look out the window again and we are crossing a sea bordered by mountains encrusted with tiny habitations shimmering under a bright sky, it finally fits my fantasy.

The stewardess has dyed blond hair with substantial black roots, blue-white eye shadow shimmering and plump square shaped cheeks. Her smile is gentle and unassuming, her eyes narrow, dark and soft, her mouth small and pouting. The steward is confident and darker in complexion, but with child features in a grown man’s physique. They have a quiet emptiness which is kind and somehow warm.

Maybe the vodka is making me romantic, especially as I believe it will be my last! They serve it with cherry juice, and a sweet pickle and cheddar sandwich that goes stale after being out of the wrapper for 5 minutes and they fill the glass like it’s water. And everything seems so pleasant, these islands and the pathetic sandwiches and vodka. For this time and place it’s a sort of paradise. I look out again and the fantasy is further fulfilled, as if the happy painter just dabbed his knife in white and scraped on some mountains into the happy clouds

It is romantic and emotional on top of Simorgh that I think of the title for the blog. Forgive me if in the future I make attempts at being funny.

Layover in Baku, and more rosy faced middle easterners. I’m trying to figure out exactly when I should put on my head scarf--hejab. Most of the women don’t have it on yet, so I watch them out of the corner of my eye and follow along. The interesting outfits start to showcase: a lot of black, rouge, tight. As we prepare for landing in Imam Khomeini’s Airport, one woman nearby starts arranging her hejab. I move quickly, yet non-chalantly, strapping on my black scarf. Slowly more women start folding and refolding theirs, redoing their hair in fluffy ponytails, and when they put on the scarf they do this move which tucks in the fringe and then pulls it right back out--the amount which shows seems to depend on style or disposition.

I’m smiling when we land.

I am the first in the passport queue and the man hardly says a word to me. “Baku?” is all he asks before slamming down the stamp. The woman at customs mumbles a question that I don’t understand, and just shake my head “no.” I pass my luggage through x-ray where 2 men don’t look at the screen, their discourse must be too interesting. And that’s it.

A very distant relative of my father picks me up. I am surprised at how conservative she is, dressed in a black chador, quite different from the rest of my family. Her son is driving, we don’t shake hands and he doesn’t really look at me. Of course they want to take me to their home. I try to refuse in the kindest manner possible, it’s late and people are waiting for me I say. The excuse that worked best: “My husband is expecting me home and he is going to call from London!”

And I arrive home, finally, after promising several times to visit them for lunch, and to call them if I need anything.

Now, I’m in here in my room, and I’m tired. My head is heavy with the debris from 2 nights of copious drink, observing conversations ranging from heavy and political to petty gossip and complaint, and fumes of tar being laid in a lot next door and the squeeze of the bazaar this morning...

Briefly:

So far I feel it is surprisingly calm, and clean—although heavily polluted, but the streets are clean and cars are newer than I’d imagined-and of course I am unfairly speaking from north of the city. Modernity has clearly made its mark on the cityscape and so many things are perfect examples of post-modern contradiction.

Not many animals in sight, pets are not looked highly upon to say the least, though I did spot a cat shitting in the sidewalk gutter. Mosquitoes bite but they are somehow playful, teasing you--microscopic Iranians.

We walked into one market just to check it out, “You want some bananas?” the fruit man asked with a dirty sarcasm.

Overall though it seems friendly and civil…although Thursday and Friday are the slowest and quietest days, the weather has been near perfect and I haven’t attempted any official business. So we will see how the new week goes!