A very Tehran experience, Part 2. In which we hitch a ride with the Backstreet Boys.

  

Having recovered from our nightmare taxi journey with a fake beer and a cheeseburger (ref 'A very Tehran experience, part 1') we made our way to Cafe Parsa upstairs for a nightcap. We'd met the young barista the night before and wanted to make good our promise to drop by his establishment at the next opportunity. In Iran, the coffee shop is raised to the status of a cocktail bar and it's the place where Iranians, particularly younger, liberal Iranians, meet up with friends. Some cafes specialise in an atmosphere of political 'entre nous'. Through others wafts the fragrance of zeitgeist liberal internationalism. Others make no pretense and simply vibrate with flirtation.

Cafe Parsa sits astride the second and third state. It's dark chocolate coloured walls and sexy lighting could confuse the most conservative mullah into ordering a double round of Grey Goose. This place took hot chocolate to new heights we wanted to climb. There was white hot chocolate, there was dark hot chocolate, and there was milk hot chocolate. There was plain chocolate, coffee chocolate and Turkish chocolate. A box of chocolate was slashed open in our honour and the discs shoved in our mouths and down our throats like frois gras ducks. The viscosity of our drinks resembled double cream.

As the place got rowdier it became clear calls had been made that four Australian women were there drinking hot chocolate and young men from all over Tehran started to turn up to watch us. Red pandas riding unicycles wouldn't have garnered such interest. Moses from the Caspian Sea joined Hossein the shop owner. Mohammed and Mehti joined others unnamed who came and left and came back again. We spoke Farsi, we spoke English, we spoke French and Spanish. We ate and drank more chocolate. We took photos. More people came and went.

Somewhere in our cocoa-ambrosia haze we realised it was half ten and I was in danger of missing my flight to London. Yelps, apologies, and requests for the bill flew around the cafe. We dutifully engaged in our standard confusion over whether the figure was in Rials or Toman, got it wrong, sorted it out and made rash promises about mobiles, Facebook and meeting up in Burma next year. But how to get home? Nervous of another dud taxi we asked Cafe Parsa to call a taxi and translate our hotel directions. No need, no need, assured the bunch of them....Hossein has his car...he would take us himself!

Now, the sensible response to this was obviously to insist on a (registered) taxi and so of course we cheered Hossein, shouted our farewells and clattered downstairs to squeeze our chocolate bloated selves into his car which I can only surmised Peugeot built for dwarves.

On the downside it was possible Hossein was a cafe owner and serial killer on the side. On the upside his car had seatbelts. Seatbelts are of limited supply in Iran where the favoured motor safety device is the toddler. If you're lucky enough to have a toddler (or even two) you shout 'Shotgun' and wedge the toddler between yourself and the windscreen, confident the small beasty will take the main hit in a likely accident. Hossein had seatbelts and we made good use of them.

As we screeched away down Gandi Avenue we suddenly entered the third phase of our Very Tehran Experience....the Car Party. Before we knew what was going on Hossein cranked up the stereo and there they were the Backstreet Boys singing 'Backstreet's Back, Alright!' Well, I can only tell you it was heaven. I don't think that album has been played in Britain in a decade but on that wonderful trip, with Hossein as our DJ, we boomed, we screeched, we shouted, we car-danced (difficult in the cramped condition) and cheered. We detoured for petrol which simply doubles as a meeting spot and Hossein's cousins, brothers and friends gathered to wave through the windows, wonder at our beauty and generally enjoy a day at the tourist zoo. We moved on to some Shakira, then a song which was apparently about Hossein and then another burst of Backstreet's finest. Our fears of kidnap were soothed as we sped down streets we recognised and even started making helpful shortcut suggestions...many of which seemed to end in left hand turns from right hand lanes.

This is a Tehran night out. Admittedly, we were a little on the old side, but when you can't hang out at home, or you can't pick up boys and girls in bars, you cruise the streets, stereos on, swapping numbers on paper through windows and promising bootleg whisky and a good time. Just as we were about to leave this fabulous country, we felt like we'd finally arrived.

End, Part 2.