Story and photos by Roger Housden

In an excerpt from the book Saved by Beauty, a writer looks at the draw and visual poetry of Iran, beyond the headlines, the current rulers, and the infamous legal system.

Who in their right mind would go to a place so maligned by much of the world, so apparently depraved in terms of man’s humanity to man, that even to utter the name Iran is liable to trigger images of mad mullahs, rogue nukes, ranting politicians who deny the Holocaust, and protesters shot down in broad daylight or dragged away to be raped and beaten somewhere in the sordid labyrinthine obscurities of Evin Prison?

But let me ask this: If you had nurtured images of another Iran, one which predates not only the current regime but even Islam itself, might you be willing to look beyond the prevailing headlines? Might you search for evidence of a culture that happens to have one of the longest and more venerable histories of enlightened humanism anywhere in the world?

I was one such dreamer.

Forty years ago I would listen to the plaintive, heart-rending melodies in minor key of Iranian music rather than spend time with the Rolling Stones or Pink Floyd. I would read the work of Hafez and Rumi rather than the latest renderings of Alan Ginsberg. I would gaze in wonder at the blue domes of the mosques of Isfahan, all trapped in a book I found in the British Library in London. In my twenties, Iran was for me a place that seemed able somehow to marry heaven and earth. Its aesthetic sensibility, blue-drenched and sensuous, merged effortlessly with an awareness of invisible realms which nourished and infused this physical world.

Some forty years later, those images had long since retreated into the more anterior regions of my mind. But when George Bush labeled Iran as the center of an axis of evil, and the press was filled daily with story after story of abuse of power and the ravings of a fanatical President (both here and in Iran) those old images fluttered their wings and found their way again to the surface of my daily wonderings and thinking.

I wondered if the Iran I had imagined all that time ago was merely a figment of my imagination, or whether there was indeed some remnant of a culture, even today, that could justify my youthful ardor for a place I had never set foot in. Just weeks after the thought had first entered my mind, I was on a plane to Tehran to find out.

I wanted to see if the long cultural and artistic tradition of human dignity and values that was already in place in the 10th century when Ferdowsi wrote his great epic, the Shahnameh, The Epic of Kings, and that had woven its way down through the centuries in the work of poets like Omar Khayyam, Rumi and Hafez — I wanted to see if anything was left of such a tradition today. And there was more: if I could find the same thread alive today, I could give a human face to an ancient and sophisticated culture that was only portrayed to us in the West in the form of a caricature.

I found in modern Iran all that I was looking for and more. I discovered an intensely vibrant cultural scene in Tehran, Shiraz and Isfahan, with artists, filmmakers, writers and poets who, even though many had international reputations, chose to continue living in Iran despite all the restrictions on their freedom. Iran, they said, was the soul of their work. They had to live there to make their art. Then I met Sufis — the mystical brotherhoods of Islam — whose religion was nothing if not one of love and tolerance. Above all, I found a land whose people were the most gracious and welcoming I had ever encountered.

And yes, I did meet the other side of Iran. I was taken from the airport on leaving and interrogated for a couple of days by members of the Intelligence Services. They claimed I was a spy and threatened me with several years in Evin Prison. How I got out I will never know. But I was saved from cynicism, from blanketing an entire nation with the standard stereotype of a ruthless regime, by the beauty of a people, a culture, that still today bears the signature of lasting human dignity and creative achievement. If I could go back, I would. But I can’t.

That First Arrival in Tehran

There’s a cappuccino and some apple cake on my table, a hum of activity around me in the café at Frankfurt Airport; everything’s normal, my flight is on time, and I’m nervous. I’ve never been nervous traveling before. But I’m nervous now, sitting here waiting for my connection to Tehran. I feel like I am about to get on a plane to nowhere — to nowhere in my known world. The only other time I have felt anything close to this was when I was twenty years old and leaving the shores of Europe for the first time to enter the (then) exotic world of North Africa. Even at that time, I had felt less trepidation than sheer excitement. Now the balance has swung marginally the other way.

But why? What about the other Iran and the thrill of finally seeing a land I had dreamed of for years? And then surely I was used to landing in strange and even remote parts of the world? I was, but in these last few weeks of preparing to go there, Iran had already become in my mind a more shifting and complex world, one with rules and challenges that I had never encountered before. No other country I know of has kept my passport for its visa stamp until the day before my departure. Neither are visas granted automatically, and it was impossible to know beforehand whether or not I would get one. (The same is true for Iranians hoping to visit the United States, I was told later.) Yet I had to book my flights and give them my flight details, leaving it to fate that it would all work out and my tickets would not be wasted. Then they gave me fewer days in the country than there were between my arriving and departing flights; which now meant that I would have to apply for an extension once I got there. At least I am using my British, rather than my American, passport, but I’m not even sure that makes things any easier. Dutch or Irish, perhaps, but British, I don’t know. Salman Rushdie is British, and it wasn’t much help to him.

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A well worn fiddle from deep in the Appalachian mountains, a handmade banjo from more than a century ago, a black Gibson guitar with a red rose inlay, a notebook page with words written and crossed out and written again to become the words of a song: these are touchstones of the Country Music Hall of Fame for me. You may have others: Patsy Cline’s cowgirl dress that her mother made for her, a silk jacket Ray Charles used to wear, Mother Maybelle Carter’s archtop guitar, gold records from Johnny Cash, Shania Twain, and just about everybody in between, Elvis Presley’s gold Cadillac. All of these, each of these, and the stories behind them, are part of the story of America told through music.

That story begins on the third floor of the museum’s building in downtown Nashville, with that beat up fiddle and old banjo, with the varied ways music wove into the lives of people when passing along songs and tunes on the back porch, in the parlor, and around the fireplace was the main way people heard and learned music. A time that, really, is not that long ago.

At the same time you are walking among sheet music, recordings, stage clothes, and instruments that were part of the story as country music came down from the hills and in from the plains, you may pause to see videos of Loretta Lynn, Garth Brooks, Charlie Pride, Patty Loveless and others talking about their childhood memories of music. All that is just in the first few feet of the main exhibit. From that third floor vantage point there are sights and sounds of what lies ahead, as country came to city and then to the international stage. You also see, through a glass walled core, the shelves of sound and print archives, and sometimes, an archivist or sound recordist at work, keeping the legacy of this music going.

As you walk on you’ll move through sound and story, to quiet listening spaces where individual songs of an era may be savored, to cases holding instruments, apparel, and photographs telling the stories of stars and lesser known performers. “People have their favorites, and sometimes people will say that we don’t have enough on display by their favorite artist,” says Jay Orr, Vice President for Museum Programs. “Things on display change . There are just any number of riches which help us tell the story. The real star of the show is the music itself.”

But what if country music isn’t your interest? I always get a kick out of inviting people who think that way to come along to the Hall of Fame, and seeing their reactions. The story told there is a story of people following dreams, facing struggles, working with their hearts, overcoming hardships, putting their creativity out in the world. It is also a story of American history told through a particular sort of music, a music which is more wide ranging in its scope than you might think. From that old hand worn fiddle through the sounds and sights of the whole story of the music, from a video of songwriter Matraca Berg reflecting on how it felt to a song of hers played over the radio for the first time, to Gretchen Peters’ handwritten rough draft of what would become the hit Independence Day, to the gold records and gold Cadillacs, the instruments and boots, to the quiet of the rotunda where plaques honoring those who’ve been elected to the Hall of Fame are found, to the library, the archives, the special projects and exhibits, it’s a story worth the telling, and worth the listening.

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Related Perceptive Travel Story: A Tale of Two Music Cities

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“Sawahdee krup. Pie Isaarn Teud Teung, Thonburi?”

One, two, three, four, five. We flagged down five cab drivers on the corner of Thanon Petchaburi and Ratchaprop: all five of them shook their head no when told where we were headed. It was 8:30pm on a Saturday night, traffic was at a stubborn standstill, and Bangkok’s always-fickle cab drivers were in no mood to jockey their way across town, over Pinklao Bridge, and beyond the Chao Phraya River to Thonburi.

The sixth time was the charm, as it oddly often is on busy nights like this. The driver chuckled when we told him Teud Teung and agreed to take us, but for a flat fee (200 baht), not on the meter. Roadside robbery, to be sure, but we had no bargaining power and he knew it. The evening was tick, tick, ticking away, and we feared this old beer/performance hall would be packed by now and that we wouldn’t get a table, so we ceded and were on our way.

As it turns out, there was no need to rush.

It was our first visit to Teud Teung, and though we’d heard this was a late-night joint and that the show didn’t get started until around 10pm, we didn’t expect to be the first patrons there, on a Saturday. Dark, dank, and smelling like a urinal that hadn’t been flushed in a week, the hall was deserted except for the staff.

Server girls were dressed in pink tops and short skirts colored in a glossy wash of blues, yellows, purples, and pinks. Performers buttoned up green shirts and straightened white suit jackets (guys), or primped their hair and affixed sparkling tieras or earrings (girls, ladyboys) in front of a large mirror off to one side of the twinkle-lit, ramshackle bar. On stage, a five-piece band rehearsed the same 4-5 minute sequence once, twice, a third, a fourth time. The sound was deafening, like where-are-my-f’ing-ear-plugs deafening.

Indeed, though Isaarn Teud Teung offers a somewhat similar concept of food, beer, and performances, Tawandang German Brewery this is not. This is a decidedly local’s-only joint.

Fortunately we speak a little Thai because the staff speaks little to no English, and the only English-language items on the menu were whiskey and vodka brand names. We ordered two som tams, a plate of grilled squid, and two bottles of Leo, no problem, then tried to pantomine an order of fish cakes (successfully, in the end, but they weren’t actually on the menu).

A few small groups of Thais straggled in. Beers were poured. Food was served. Given that lovely smell of piss and the massive spider crawling up its web stretched between two legs of the table in front of us, we were a little nervous about the food, but it was fine… though something about the roach we spotted crawling across the table ruined our appetites halfway through the squid. We stuck to Leo for the rest of the night.

The Thai-style variety show began with all of the performers solemnly lining up in two rows across the stage while one of them sang a short, somber tune. Shortly after, the parade of one singer after the next began, each of them going through renditions that ranged from off-key to commendable of what I assume are well-known Thai songs; I recognized some of them.

The hall filled up some as the performances wore on, but would have still felt fairly empty if not for the singers and their friends taking up four tables in front of the stage and a few more towards the side. Their tables were stocked with bottles of soda and bottles of whiskey; at times it felt like they were performing for each other, at a private house party, and we were just allowed to peek in. It was sweet; it was a little sad.

Most of the songs were sung as solos or duets, but there were also two “dance routines” before a break at 11:30pm, when we left. We’d been warned by friends to expect “really bad dancing”, but this was something else entirely: a true comic spectacle.

The first featured six guys with disinterested body language wearing tight white pants and sleeveless blue-and-white satin tunics (so foul) half-heartedly spinning their way through a routine that could only optimistically be called “choreographed”. We loved every minute of it. They added two more guys and donned body-length, black-and-white tunics for the second routine; my fiancee noted that they were “putting a bit more minge into it”, with at least half of the dancers twirling and spinning at about the same time and tempo.

Yes, Teud Teung is rough around the edges, but in all the right ways. That’s what it makes so special.

Isaarn Teud Teung is located at 63/192 Phra Pinklao Road, Bangkok (Thonburi), +66 02 883 4434.

A soldier took a sharp nail and laboriously poked out this design on his U.S. Model 1910 aluminum mess kit, while stationed on the Western Front during World War I.

It’s now part of the War Art collection on display at the truly excellent National World War I Museum at the Liberty Memorial in Kansas City, Missouri.

That’s right, Kansas City.

Two weeks after the Armistice ended the Great War, citizen leaders in KC decided to raise money to build a memorial. By November 1921 they had a site dedication ceremony with over 100,000 attendees and featuring Allied military leaders all in one place for the first (and only) time – Lieutenant General Baron Jacques from Belgium, General Armando Diaz from Italy, Marshal Ferdinand Foch from France, General John J. “Black Jack” Pershing from the U.S. and Admiral David Beatty from Great Britain.

But way before that, someone passed the time poking at his mess kit.

How patient the person must have been. How much he must have wished (unlike the average traveler in happier days) that he was anywhere but in then-not-so-lovely France.

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If you were an English chef who wanted to get a handle on the vast expanse of ideas that make up American cooking, where would you travel? Jamie Oliver, whose best selling cookbooks and popular television shows feature hands on and do it yourself ideas that let natural the flavors of food come through, wisely decided that in one book he could not hit every note. He chose to explore two cities he was familiar with, New York and Los Angeles, and four other areas: Georgia, Louisiana the Wild West (Wyoming, mostly), and Arizona.

The book Jamie’s America is filled with recipes, of course. That is the center of what’s going on, and interesting and creative recipes they are. Another center of what’s going on is bits and pieces and small slices of American life seen through food. It’s not that Oliver is a food historian or ethnographer — not at all. His recipes are his own and derive at times from traditional ones and at other times take off in all sorts of directions. His occasional narrative essays, and the short head notes for each recipe, along with David Loftus’ photographs of the food and his photo essays of landscape and people done through collage give more than a taste of one man’s explorations into vivd aspects of American life, parts of that life that are rooted in community and culture, and shared through food.

For the New York part of his trip, Oliver offers a recipe for a potato latke breakfast, one for Peruvian ceviche, and an Egyptian stuffed flat bread. In Los Angeles, it’s breakfast tortillas and stuffed zucchini flowers. In Arizona there’s Navajo flat bread and peach cobbler, chili cheese cornbread, rabbit stew, and pine nut and almond cookies. Red beans and rice are at the table in Louisiana, along with popcorn gator and aoli and jambalaya surf and turf. He isn’t sticking to traditional food ways here, but you some things learn about those along the way, and meet the people who teach him about their food, as well. Turkey stew, venison, southern pecan and apple salad, rich grits, and what Oliver calls his epic barbeque sauce liven things up on his trip through Georgia. Out in the wild west, painted hills potatoes, chili con Jamie, trout and salsa, and cowboy Cornish pasties are part of what’s going on.

It seems not so much a collection of recipes — though it is that, and if you like to cook you’ll find a lot of ideas– as a chef stopping in on friends across a range of American landscapes to talk about food and the fun that might be had with it. In a rather subtle touch, too, he begins the journey with a recipe for hamburgers and ends it with one for apple berry pie.