“And she too?”
The taxi-driver chatting to Murph in the front of the cab barely inclined his head towards me, headscarfed and in the back with the kids.
They continued their conversation about where we were from and where we lived. I seethed, the knot at the pit of my stomach curling ever tighter.
Was this it? Would I be a nameless “she” in a black scarf for the next two weeks?
Remind me why I’d agreed to come to Iran again?
“Happy Birthday to me, Happy Birthday to me!”
We spent my most recent 25-yet-again birthday in Esfahan last week. Murph reckons that this is the 20th birthday I’ve spent with him – how’s that for making a body feel old!! No matter, his observation prompted a conversation that lasted all day where we tried (and failed) to remember where we’ve been on each of those birthdays. I decided that from now on we should take an official “Birthday Photo” with a landmark in the background. Ta-Da: me and my boys with the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque, Esfahan, Iran with it’s glorious, intricate, Islamic tile-work behind us.
