I was at a studio apartment with hints of her homeland scattered through it. She had a miniature spinning sufi statue on the table. “Thasbeeh” beads, round turqoise hanging from the fan. Iranian books on her shelf. A Persian rug on the floor.
We listened to her native music, soft acoustic. I ate their food. Snow and theaters in Iran circled conversations.
She asked me about my country. The sand and sea. Resorts are the same, she asked, what more can she do to experience our culture? Where can she find a gist of our traditional ways?
I sipped my tea.