I grew up in a big city, Isfahan, but my father was raised in a village. Every Friday, we used to visit it, swim in its ponds and river, have picnics in its gardens, pick fruit, and chase sheep up and down a mountain. It was an idyllic time, removed from all that was going on in the country. Escaping to Ardestoon seemed like going back in time. We sat under korsi blankets and listened to my grandpa tell winding stories while my grandmother served dinners for twenty on a sofreh, often outside. She made bread in an old-fashioned tanoor, made tea on a fire outside, used spices she had ground and mixed herself, and sometimes killed chickens from her own farm. Every Friday, after our retreat, we would drive back to Isfahan through a desert, to our modern home, our schools and offices, and suddenly we were back in the 1980’s again.
