
Chahar Bagh Avenue, left; Zayandeh Rud and the park the runs along it, right.
My first night in Isfahan, I broke free and set out on the streets on my own. Soon I was enthralled because I was constantly reminded of the Iran of my childhood—the Iran that I can no longer find in Tehran.
In the Chahar Bagh Avenue, the sidewalks are filled with jovial shoppers and the odor of hot food. People are not eyeing each other, not trying to constantly make a statement. It’s as if satellite TV never penetrated Isfahan’s atmosphere. I don't see the same discontent I see in Tehran.
The streets are clean! The parks are well-tended. The traffic heavy but not nearly at Tehran’s infuriatingly deadlocked stage. Walking along Zayandeh Rud—the river that cuts through the city—I keep glimpsing slices of Geneva or Zurich. We were told later that “Isfahanis are unique among Iranians for taking care of their town.”
I can’t remember it was me or my father who first suggested that Isfahan wouldn’t be a bad place to move to permanently. But then we found out that others have had the same idea. Property prices here have skyrocketed, even at a higher rate than Tehran’s.