I gracefully entered waking life around 5:30am. Heavy rain. I lazily stared into the mountains as usual for a few moments. The whipped cream seemed to have crawled into lower elevations overnite despite a week of steady snow melt.

Yesterday was mostly devoted to strategizing with Brain, who suggested speaking to his attorney before making any more noise at the Ministry Of Foreign Affairs. I waited all day for word on when to see his attorney. I also failed to get through to Nazarimer (the brother in law of the foreign minister, herein reffered to as Noz). Around 7pm, and after no word from Brain or a response from Noz, I decided to stop drinking coffee and check out some theater downtown. I discovered a world of comic relief and physical theater at City Theater, which offers 4 large spaces that resemble Berkeley Rep and Geary Theater (SF) in their capacity and stage presentation. The building was erected during Shah’s time before 1979 and reflected a national drive to establish Tehran as a popular dance and theater hub in the Middle East (according to a traffic cop out front with a lisp).
A range of talent excavated the space. The show: “The ships of Satan.” The slurred evolution of sound and motion during the trancy piece reminded me of Japanese Noh Theater with off-Broadway dabs of abstractions; the story featured eerie noises, piles of sand, and the island life of women fending off the “Satanic ship” that would hypnotize and steal souls during quarter moons, by nearing the shoreline and incomprehensibly flirting with nearby humans. Due to the psychedlic soundtrack and monotonous execution of words, it was difficult to follow.

On a larger stage, I discovered, “The Fantasies of the Persian Gulf,” an ensemble of 27, dancers and actors that revealed the superstitions and cultural idosyncracies of living on the Persian Gulf, while retelling the story of a man who attempted to prove his love for a woman by swimming half the length of the Gulf. I was rather impressed with the unexpected dancing and drumming which I thought was banned by the government.

This morning, I slapped on my only two pieces of corporate fashion apparel, and headed toward Parliament to meet Noz and discuss the magic eraser prospect of getting Tyler off the blacklist. I met Captain at his Meat and Mushroom Shack and we hopped a cab to Parliament in the early morning. I was listening to “Blonde on Blonde” by Nada Surf when I approached the second layer of security and was asked why I abruptly threw away a bottle of water. “It was empty,” I replied. ” Oh, ok. Go.”
The following area is a memorable 30 second path outside into tall woodsy Robin Hood-ish territory before entry into the building of busy offices. Whenever I walk this path, I imagine bows and arrows, held by robust men in light brown kilts, peering through the 2 rows of bushy pine trees and striking me in the back.

Noz was in his office when we arrived. We budged forward to meet him after the secretary (in fancy clothes but wearing slippers) authorized our VIP pass. This was a small sheet Captain manages to get from a receptionist after the 2nd layer of security.

Noz was elated to see us, mentioning that he received a letter from the MFA stating that “we’re working on processing Macniven’s visa.” I informed him of the blacklist matter. “Oh, I didn’t know about that.” I insisted this is a significant piece that needs to be resolved immediately or else all his assistance would go to waste. Captain filled him in about the tourist visa issue, Bagheri’s insistence on “only Mottaki or higher can get him off the blacklist.” Noz made about 7 phone calls in the matter of 22 minutes as we drank tea and ate circular butter wafers.
Noz speaks into his phone effortlessly, like Al Capone might with a cigar in mouth. Though his presence pervades innocence and an honest directness, no one really can hear what’s being said when he’s on the phone. I tried leaning over at times to catch the drift, but was caught by prying glances from a bearded Imam across the room.

After several phone calls, Noz mentioned waiting on a call from Shahidi, his contact at the MFA ( and they guy the running prescription was made out to). “He’s researching the situation and should let me know later today. He himself knew nothing of Tyler being blacklisted..call me tonight and check in…I am normally up very late.” I jotted down his cell number.

Our meeting was interrupted by a limping athlete who wandered in suddenly; he was a freestyle wrestler on the national team that turned out to be a disciple of Captain. They embraced and shared memories with brevity. Due to his rapid and haywire northern dialect, I couldn’t decipher what he was saying as he delievered a monologue to Noz.
Noz picked up the phone and mumbled away effortlessly for a few moments, then the wrestler exited.

As the limping athlete closed the door, I looked over at Noz’s koala bear eyes and made a split second decisiont to say, “look…… in this world of dead-ends and over 2 years of uncertainty, you are really all we have, an angel among us, the only one that can help implement this run… Do you think you can you get Tyler off the blacklist and do we need to get Foreign Minister Mottaki involved?”
He smiled full of teeth and endlessly stared at me before saying, ” God-Willing, this run will go on…there is no need to bother Mottaki over such small things. If this was a major issue, you’d be definetely questioned. That did not happen…. we’ll wait to see exactly the reasons why he’s blacklisted and we’ll work to undo that as fast as possible. Keep checking in with me.”
At this point, there were several people waiting on Noz. I left the building and parted from Captain.
At 10:42pm, I called Noz and received news that, “I didn’t hear anything concrete back yet. Shahidi is waiting to get the full report of the Tyler blacklist issue and he hasn’t received that yet… Check back with me tomorrow or I’ll call you when I receive the news.”

(Thanks to a filter blocker I discovered today, I am hereby posting this entry directly from Tehran.)