Between the Lines
The Personal and the Political / The Fine Print
My previous post (Everything Must Go) wasn’t super popular – at least if you go by the “heart” count — and I think I know why. Maybe I’ve been focusing too much on journalism; trying to lead in with a cultural vignette instead of reporting on my own situation, which is what I think most people want to hear. My day-to-day life, and the challenges I’m facing along the way. For this, my 50th Substack post, I’d planned to do something a little different: I was going to answer some of the questions I’ve received since I posted my “Question Bridge” entry on January 25th, inviting queries about the experiences I’m having while facing down PD.
I was ready to offer up some very candid answers, but something else has come up up in the interim: We are suddenly at war. Reports of bombing, suffering, collateral damage (e.g. the death of more than 100 Iranian schoolgirls) and destruction are rolling in every day. I can’t be silent or make this post all about me — especially in this case, as I have a personal relationship with the nation at the center of our target.
In August 1999, I visited Iran with a small group of astronomy enthusiasts to view a total eclipse of the Sun. On the morning of August 11, while in the lovely cultural city of Isfahan, I broke away from my organized trip and made my way alone to Naqsh-e Jahan (aka Imam Khomeini) Square. When I first arrived there it was nearly empty, but by early afternoon the place was getting crowded. Hundreds of Iranian families were laying down their blankets, opening up their lunches and trying on their darkened eclipse classes, testing them out for the event to come. I sat alone on a borrowed hotel towel, breathless with excitement at the prospect of seeing my first total solar eclipse.
I told a version of that story in May 2024, in my post entitled Mashallah!. For this Substack I am republishing a story from the Introduction to Scratching the Surface, an anthology of my short pieces published in 2002. It’s a droll lesson about what it’s actually like to explore planet Earth, and how taken we can be (no pun intend) by the individuals we encounter. I’ve also recorded it, so if you like you can listen to me telling you the story as you read (Forgive my scratchy voice and occasional slip, that’s PD talking). Here we go...
The Fine Print (from Scratching the Surface)
It was a hot, bright afternoon in August, just a few days before the total eclipse of the sun. My friend Sam and I had broken away from our small, nervous group of Americans, and wandered the streets of Tehran on our own.
Earlier, we had been looking for trouble: shooting forbidden videos of the former American Embassy (now a military training camp) and sneaking into seminary courtyards. But now we were looking for lunch. We’d had it with the glitzy hotel restaurants booked by our tour agency’s insurance company. Our goal was to find something local: the kind of no-frills eatery where work-a-day Iranians might stop in for a bite.
It didn’t take us long. Halfway down a nondescript city block, a stairway descended into a large, white-tiled room lit by rows of buzzing fluorescent lamps. A Coca-Cola wall clock ground its teeth above the cash register, flanked by images of severe ayatollahs. There were a dozen cafeteria-style tables, most of them filled with bearded, black-eyed men bent over rice plates and newspapers. The waiter observed our entry with a resigned expression, and seated us at the one empty table. He handed us menus, printed entirely in Farsi.
Sam flipped through the pages, which looked as if they’d been written by an inchworm drunk on absinthe.
“Do you think there’s an English-language version?”
“Unlikely,” I replied, conscious of sounding like Spock on an away mission.
Sam said, “Do you have any idea what to order?”
“It’s all good.” I shrugged. ”Let’s try the Coca-Cola.”
We looked around, craning our necks, trying to see what the other patrons were eating. It was difficult to do so with discretion, as we ourselves were quickly becoming the center of attention. I glanced a few tables down, at a rather alluring plate that seemed to be covered with meatballs and rice. The customer glared at us, then turned to yell at the waiter, who hurried over. The man grunted something harsh, hit the table with his newspaper, and pointed at us. I reddened, and returned my gaze to the indecipherable menu.
“We seem a shade less than welcome,” Sam observed. “Do you want to stay?”
“I don’t know. The food looks good... all we need to do is find something we like ... I don’t think anybody is going to give us any trouble.”
He whispered, “Do you think they know we’re Americans?”
“Of course they do.” I closed my menu, and scanned the room. “We look just like we do in the movies.”
The waiter arrived, pad in hand. We ordered Coca-Colas. He asked us something in Farsi; we shrugged. Some of the locals snorted in agitation. All eyes were upon us, judgmental and severe. A second man called over the waiter, stared at us, and made a few snarly comments; so did a third, jabbing at the table with his finger. The waiter disappeared, and returned with our drinks.
By now a low murmur filled the room, as the patrons began sharing their annoyance at our presence. The word “America” percolated darkly through the space. Heads nodded; newspapers were folded. My travelers’ radar, tuned to crystal clarity by 20 years on the road, signaled red alert. Somehow, an unseen barrier had been breached. The atmosphere had shifted from edgy discomfort to imminent danger. Sam and I regarded each other.
“Not exactly Denny’s,” he observed.
“How much should we leave for the Cokes?”
“Plenty. And a big tip, too.”
We placed a pile of bills on the table, gulped down our drinks, and rose to leave. Halfway out of my seat, I felt a large hand on my shoulder. It was covered with black hair, and pressing downward with sufficient force to overcome my escape velocity. The expression on the Iranian face behind it spoke the universal language: we were going nowhere.
The truth dawned on us simultaneously: We were about to be taken hostage.
I grimly recalled the 1979 to 1981 Iran hostage crisis, when scores of Americans were held for more than a year. Could this be our fate, as well? This was a grim turn of events for Sam, whose software start-up was shooting ahead like a greased marmot down a water slide. For myself, however, it was fabulous news. A year in captivity, perhaps, with sporadic episodes of anxiety and despair; then our inevitable release, triumphant homecoming, and a six-figure book contract. Plus movie rights, of course; unless the numbers looked better from HBO....
I had barely started spending my advance when the door to the kitchen burst open. Two hefty Iranian waiters charged toward us. But they carried no weapons; just filigreed trays. On the trays rested a half-dozen plates and bowls, bearing kuku and kofté, kebab and khoresh, dolmé and mast. The customers, looking as stern as ever, nodded piously as one dish after another was placed before us, followed by lavash bread and a vast tureen of rice. Each customer, it seemed, had sent over his favorite dish; and each offered the slightest smile as I began — after swallowing my disappointment — to devour this Persian cornucopia.
We ate until we could eat no more; about half our portions. The waiter brought our bill, charging us only for the Cokes. And as we finally rose to leave — unobstructed, this time — I flipped sheepishly through my Iran guidebook, and offered the only phrase that seemed appropriate: Chub kari nakon. Your generosity has put me to shame.
In closing, I’d like to add that — like an estimated 80% of Iranians — I despise the country’s murderous jihadist regime. But blundering in without consultation, a plan or an exit strategy (an action no doubt cajoled by Netanyahu who, like Trump, would likely be in prison if he wasn’t in office) was one of the worst ideas in the history of ideas. As it has so often in the past, my mind circles back to a single line from Story of Isaac by the late Leonard Cohen: “A scheme is not a vision.”
For those of you who might be interested and/or would like to meet me in person, I am doing a free event on Wednesday, March 11th for The Size of the World: 30th Anniversary Edition at Books by the Bay in Sausalito. I’ll be in conversation with my dear friend Erin Byrne, a wonderful author and essayist.
Next time I’ll share some answers to the very pointed and personal questions many of you asked in late January. Meanwhile, as always, thanks so much for reading. And may peace prevail.
The solar eclipse story that I told in my 2025 post “Mashallah” (available in my archive) is set in the beautiful Iranian city of Isfashan - a UNESCO cultural site that we, and Israel, are bombing. What a disgrace. https://jeffgreenwald.substack.com/p/mashallah?utm_source=publication-search
Love this story, like all the others in Scratching the Surface. And it’s triple-ly poignant as events unfold in Iran, a place I still hope to visit someday.