Avenue of Flags

Yes, that's the official name—accurate if unimaginative. As you approach the monument, you walk through this array of the flags of all of the US states and territories.

But what interests me more in this picture is what you don't see. I expected Mount Rushmore—and really, all of the national parks we visited—to be a lot more crowded than they were on a holiday week in July. Which isn't to say that there weren't a lot of people; there just weren't as many as we expected. And I am wondering if the falloff in international travel to the US is the reason.

The Discovered Cotswolds

The name of the tour I took was The Undiscovered Cotswolds, and although it was a lovely day and the places we were visiting were highly scenic, none of them were crowded. I didn't really appreciate this until we stopped for lunch in Bourton on the Water and learned where all the missing tourists had gone.

The guide apologized for this, but explained that we stopped there because there were numerous good restaurants, tearooms, and pubs to choose from.

I admit that my own lunch consisted of some scrumptious gelato, eaten in the shade under a tree, and I found I didn't mind the crowds one bit.

Crush

These aren't terrific pictures -- but I can't bring myself to skip them. Part of the controlled chaos of Indian streets and highways is the apparent ongoing competition to see how many bodies can be crammed into a van or a bus or a taxi.

The picture on the left is from Jaipur, but the picture on the right is from a tollbooth -- those men actually rode down the highway hanging out of the back of the van like that.

With regard to the previous post

I preferred that dreamy vision of the Taj Mahal in the distance, because this was the experience up close -- somewhat less romantic.

In fairness, once you were through this gate, the grounds are large and it's much less crowded. Until you actually go inside, that is. One perk of spending so much money on this tour was that it included a VIP ticket to the Taj, which meant a shorter line going through the metal detectors, and a much, much, MUCH shorter line going into the monument. The non-VIP line wrapped most of the way around the building; I had to shuffle up one staircase and I was in.

One big cultural difference

That Iranians have a great deal of national pride -- they have been a country for 2500 years, after all -- is not news to any of us on the tour at this point. And yet, I was still surprised by the crowds at Hafez's tomb.

Hundreds of people, busloads and busloads of them, coming to pay their respects to -- a poet? Who lived in the 14th century? It's impossible to imagine Americans, or the residents of any Western nation, for that matter, having this kind of devotion to poetry. There aren't any shrines for Walt Whitman or Emily Dickinson, and poetry is sadly something that only a very small minority takes any interest in.

Goli has recited poems for us on several occasions; she says everyone knows them by heart. I can't pick out more than the occasional word, but I love the way the sounds entwine and repeat, like the mosaics on mosques or the brickwork in old walls. 

For a minute, it makes me feel that I understand something of what it is to be Persian, to make lush gardens in a harsh desert country, to build your houses around secret courtyards but invite strangers to stay, to decorate mosques with a few simple patterns repeated and embellished into astonishing complexity, and create mosaics for palaces with pieces of broken mirrors.

Hafez

I

Do not

Want to step so quickly

Over a beautiful line on God's palm

As I move through the earth's

Marketplace

Today.

I do not want to touch any object in this world

Without my eyes testifying to the truth

That everything is

My Beloved.

Something has happened

To my understanding of existence

That now makes my heart always full of wonder

And kindness.

I do not

Want to step so quickly

Over this sacred place on God's body

That is right beneath your

Own foot

As I

Dance with

Precious life

Today.

                                                                -- Hafez, translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Iranians say that there are two books in every home -- the Quran, and the poems of Hafez. (Sometimes anglicized as Hafiz, but Hafez is closer to the way Iranians pronounce the name.) I love Sufi poetry -- the assumption that God does not require us to overlook the delights of this world is very refreshing to a former Catholic schoolgirl -- so paying my respects at Hafez's tomb was one of the things I was most looking forward to on this trip. (And he was our second Sufi poet of the day -- we visited the tomb of Sa'di earlier.)

First we sat under the trees in the cafe, and ate Shirazi faloodeh -- strands of starch that look like vermicelli noodles, frozen and doused with lip-puckeringly tart lime juice. We read poems out loud while we ate (I read the poem above). It was hot, and we'd been dashing from one place to another for hours, trying to see all of Shiraz in one day, and those few moments in the shade, eating and laughing and talking about poetry, were a lovely respite.

Hafez would have approved.

Eminönü

This gives you a sense of the crowds and chaos along the waterfront at Eminönü -- tourist boats share the space with commuter ferries; it's a hub for buses and trams as well. There are vendors selling roasted chestnuts and ears of corn, and Turkish bread shaped like pretzels, along with the usual cheap souvenirs.