At the end of my first week in Iran, my mother, father and sister joined our party for two weeks of sightseeing. My father, armed with a different book and camera in each available pocket, and outfitted in a fanny-pack and baseball cap (proving he had "successfully" gone native after twenty-three years in America), was giddy at the prospect of Persepolis. For a South Asian, and previous subject of the British Empire, he also had a shocking Orientalist tendency to call Iran "Persia;" maybe it's a predilection for empires. He was obviously not going to blend in so I would not be able to walk on the same side of the street as him.

I was more worried about my twelve-year old sister who, like most of her peers, is incapable of controlling her volume and, for better or worse, has no timidity to curb her expressiveness. The first day was surprisingly smooth - because I lied. I concocted a believable story that under-15 year olds are forbidden to speak in public. However, one day on the streets of Tehran is enough to establish that everything you have been told about the place is wrong. Apparently, adolescent girls the world over share a penchant for bad music, lycra and overexcitement. My sister ignored my remonstrations for the rest of the trip.

While I am glad that I did not spend my time in an Iranian jail (very glad, in fact), I admit to being slightly disappointed that my expedition to Iran, as an American citizen post-"Axis of Evil" speech, lacked any incident that could be dramatized and related for months of dinner parties to come. Iran is shockingly calm and relaxed. My headscarf must have slipped off at least four times a day and no one even blinked. Our party comprised some of the most conservatively dressed people in Iran - barring those in full burqa. My cousin says that when she went three years ago, dressed in black with a meticulously secured headscarf, she was told by her family that she looked like a fundamentalist and ordered to relax her outfit and stop embarrassing her family. I was amused by this story but proceeded to keep my ankles, wrists, neck and hair swathed until one day, my aunt told me to wear into town the open-toed sandals I had brought for the house: "Come on, Sarah, this is the Islamic Republic, nobody cares." I still don't really understand what that means. But it was true - no one even looked my way.

I found myself jealous of my mother, who received all the attention wherever we went. My mother is from Ireland and, even after more than two decades in Texas, maintains a pristine, Taj (Mahal) complexion. (Apparently, my mixed - and generally indeterminate - skin color qualified me as an Iranian and thus unworthy of inspection) On a daily basis, my mother was gently accosted by a host of curious Iranians, wanting to know where she was from. The first week she said "Ireland" - and fair enough as she was born there. But it irked me because I wanted people to know that there are Americans who haven't bought into the burgeoning fear psychosis, maintain their curiosity about other cultures and don't match the stereotypical image of Americans currently propagated by global media sources. At least some of us are excited about the turquoise domes of Esfahan, and think they are worth the risk of a hazardous visa in our unsullied, worth-more-than-gold American passports.

I finally convinced my mother to say "America," which I thought would be the start of some interesting conversations. On the contrary, most people (be they street vendors, bazaari, or people on the subway) then said, "Oh, my brother is in California."

The only quizzical looks I received in Iran were in response to my declaring that I loved the call to prayer and didn't mind wearing the headscarf. I have to explain to my fellow Islamophile friends that the call to prayer in Iran is not the same institution to which we grew accustomed in other Muslim societies; it is only three times a day, not broadcast on load speakers and, as far as I could tell, did not elicit the same instantaneous and acquiescent response I saw in India and Morocco. I did not observe hoards of people in the cities running to obey the call nor did I see piles of shoes at the mosques' doors.

In the Shiraz airport, waiting to check in for our flight to Esfahan, our clan of ten (half-Iranians, half-whatevers) were quickly identified by a sharp young girl of eight years who wanted to practice her English. It was also my opportunity to practice my nascent Farsi without any danger of getting caught in a demanding conversation. We talked about her school and where our families were coming from, and she asked me to teach her some Hindi (I suppose she had seen one of the popular dubbed and censored Hindi films that are sold on most Iranian sidewalks). Suddenly she asked me, "Booosh dost dari?" ("Do you like..?") I couldn't figure out what this "Boosh" was - another enigmatic fruit perhaps? - until my cousin intercepted the confusion and explained that "Boosh" was Bush. As in the President. At this point, I noticed that everyone (her family, my family, other people in line) was staring at me, and no one was prepared to offer assistance. So I told her the truth - that our family did not like him or his policies and that many people in America felt the same.

She looked truly perplexed and asked if it was because I thought he was a bad man or because he is a bad president. My family was looking at me with the "we don?t know what you are saying but don't mess it up" stare. I had been expecting to be confronted with questions like this throughout my stay - but in my imagination, the interlocutor would be a hostile, fist-waving man, not an inquisitive child. Not once during my month in Iran was I faced with angry accusations about the United States.

On the other hand, people were happy to voice their complaints about their own government - its corruption, despotism and unresponsiveness. General disaffection with the government was coupled with palpable hostility towards the mullahs and disinterest in Islam, which in urban Iran seems to be tainted by its association with the regime. There was a sort of quiet fatalism to their remarks that reminded me of Democrats in America, so many of whom are losing hope faced with the deluge of right-wing propaganda and its growing intransience in American politics. I felt I was engaged in a parallel conversation with the Iranians I met - we both were begging not to be confused with the politics of our respective governments.

But I was embarrassed to admit to myself and my conversationalists in Iran that Americans do seem to have bought into the anti-Islamic world propaganda; it is now a real phenomenon. In Tehran, on the other hand, I only saw three anti-America billboards - all of which, according to the city's inhabitants, were government-sponsored. Anti-Americanism is much less rife in Tehran than in London. At least part of this, I think, is something that in America we often under-appreciate (particularly if we were born here) and that is that America still stands for a better life and more opportunities to a lot of people in poorer or more repressive states.

One day, in Tehran's glistening metro station (where they actually have perfume counters and imitation murals from Persepolis), a young woman complimented my cousin and me on our English. It was a strange moment because we had both forgotten that we are easily taken for Iranians. After we explained that English was our mother-tongue, she told us that she was an English teacher and detained me the entire length of the ride plus the escalator at the exit with questions about my visit. Didn't I hate the headscarf? Wasn't I dying to rip it off? Why would I come to Iran - everyone in Iran wanted to go to the United States? I had many similar conversations with people when I lived in India; their respect for me seemed to drop when I told them that I was not just a tourist but had elected to come to India and would love to live there one day. They would look at me like I was a moron and then seemed to decide that I had been sent to India because I couldn't succeed in America.

I'm not crazy; I wouldn't give up my American education, elite passport, freedom of speech, and ability to sing in public as a woman. But then, the Iran-US contrast is not so sharp as one might expect and, despite the apprehension for troubled times ahead, life in Iran seemed quite normal. As far as I could see, people in Iran seemed to be saying whatever they wanted - but no one was listening at the top (seems the same here); Iranians maintain an amazing network of friends and family; the theocratic autocracy's forced charity boards at least keep most people off the streets and the state keeps the streets, monuments and parks in amazing condition; and whatever the restrictions the state had imposed, Iranians seemed to completely ignore them - or only respect them when absolutely necessary. It isn't a perfect place and it has tough times ahead. But if our government here really wants to support democracy in Iran, couldn't we do so by appreciating Iranians instead of vilifying them?

Going to Iran, I was more than a little afraid of revealing myself to be a spirited Orientalist - I cannot help that I love Iran for the world I imagine it was, and I adored the sites in Iran because they humored me a glimpse of what that stop on the Silk Route must have comprised for its visitors. I realize that my description of the place, packaged into short narratives, must appear quite superficial or overly romantic. But I want to assure you that, while its history greatly informs its contemporary social character, there is enough to love in Iran as it is today. It is an amazing place that deserves our curiosity.

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