Iran > The Sadabad Palace Museum

As a compromise, we have breakfast at half past seven—right between Reza’s suggested time and ours. After breakfast, we walk down the mountain. Immediately after we leave, the guesthouse is closed. The weekend is over. Reza leads us down a different route. The cable car is closed today, so we walk all the way down. The sun is shining brightly. It’s clear that it’s not a day off; the mountain is quiet and many teahouses are closed. Over Tehran, a heavy smog hangs from the morning traffic. The descent goes smoothly, though we have to watch out for loose gravel. At a small teahouse by the stream, we have a cup of tea. Judging by the increasingly luxurious teahouses, we must be nearing the parking lot. Here we say goodbye to Reza. The group then splits up. I head toward the Sadabad Palace of the Pahlavi dynasty, while others go to the Mausoleum of Ayatollah Khomeini. Tickets must be purchased at the entrance for each palace. We buy two: one for the White Palace and one for the Green Palace.

Iran - The luxurious dormitory in the White Palace in Tehran

In the palace gardens, schoolchildren enthusiastically surround us, full of questions. When the teacher calls the children inside, we continue walking. Shortly afterward, we meet a slightly older school class eager to practice their English. “What’s your name? And where do you come from?” Giggling, the girls follow us to the White Palace. Do they want to take a photo? Of course! Suddenly, the newest smartphones appear everywhere for photos. The girls pick fruit from the trees and offer me one. Cautiously, I taste the sour fruit. No idea what it is, but it’s not delicious. Politely, I toss it aside. The White Palace is more like a large country house. We enter via a broad staircase. The Sadabad Palace complex dates from the 20th century and was home to Reza Shah and his son Mohammad Reza Pahlavi. They were expelled in 1979 during the Iranian Revolution. The White Palace was inhabited by Mohammad Reza Pahlavi’s sister. The palace displays grand dining halls, bedrooms, and reception rooms. A little further in the park is the Green Palace, where Mohammad Reza lived last. From the outside, it also looks like a country house, but the interior is far more beautifully decorated.

Iran - A group of schoolchildren photographed with Willemien

In the Mirror Hall, thousands of small mirrors are arranged into a stunning whole. It’s hard to imagine that this palace was still in use thirty years ago. When we step outside, it has begun to rain lightly. Just outside the gate, we try to hail a taxi. Following Reza’s instructions, our guide from this morning, we start negotiations at 10,000 Rial. The counteroffer is 10,000 Toman—ten times as much. We can’t agree and continue walking. Later, we realize that Reza probably meant 300 Toman per person for a one-way ride to the palace, not to the city center. The rain intensifies. At the street corner, we try another taxi, but it refuses to go to central Tehran. A private car stops behind and asks where we want to go. He reads our card (in Farsi) and for 7,000 Toman, we get in. Shortly afterward, the front-seat passenger, also a customer, explains that the driver cannot drop us directly at the hotel. A nearby square is mentioned, and the price drops to 4,000. We have no real idea where we will be dropped off, but at least we stay dry. The passenger advises us to take the bus from there. Before she gets out, she hands us a kind of strip card, which we can keep. The driver gestures for me to sit in the empty front seat. Stuck in traffic, he points out the square on the map. It’s closer to our hotel than I expected, though still about eight kilometers away. The roads are busy, and I now better understand why our driver cannot reach the center directly. He weaves skillfully through traffic, leaving other drivers no chance to cut ahead. Cars slide past each other from lane to lane. Yet he isn’t reckless—sometimes three rows of cars occupy two lanes, or he overtakes on the right before turning left. He laughs heartily at my amazement.

Iran - The train compartment in the night train to Yazd

At a busy roundabout, we get out, cross diagonally, and reach Vali Asr Avenue. Bus 7 is waiting in the correct direction. As I try to board, everyone points backward. I don’t notice at first, but they are signaling me to stand at the correct door. Men sit in front, women in the back. I quickly tear a ticket from the strip card and get on. Inside, there’s no place to validate it. Holding it in my hand is probably not enough, but I don’t mind. “Where do you come from?” Ah, Holland! I also briefly discuss the last Bayern Munich match with fellow travelers. My answers are translated into Farsi so everyone nearby can follow. Occasionally, I glance back to see if we need to get off. “Where do you need to go?” asks a traveler. I show the hotel card. “You can stay on the bus until the last stop,” he reassures me. “This bus only runs along this section of Vali Asr Avenue.” When he later gets off, he calls out something about the final stop and says goodbye. Only then do I realize everyone else has left the bus. Looking outside, I see we are practically in front of the hotel. I buy some drinks at a shop next to the hotel and shower in the hotel’s day room. Afterwards, we take a minibus to the train station. There is an extensive passport and ticket check. Tonight, we travel on the overnight train to Yazd. In the train, we have two six-person compartments. It’s a bit of a squeeze with all the luggage, but cozy. Around bedtime, we fold out the beds and go to sleep. I am quite tired and quickly fall asleep to the rhythm of the shaking train.