“Try and Try but you Just Can’t Hide it” - 21 May 2007

This one's for the sisters -

Sisters, I have emerged from Plato’s cave where the shadows of crooked teethed and plumy accented men with no chins, apathetic body hair and soft indecisive hands (and indifferent politics) had lead me to think that homo-britainnicus is ’man’.

Oh my lord. I have come to paradise.

Perhaps.

Actually probably not.

Almost certainly not.

Perhaps I just feel that way because seduction is simply a lost art in the world of the ‘inconsequential sexual encounter’. Anyhow I will tell the story – don’t get too excited though, there was no pressing of flesh and gnashing of teeth (… have I mixed metaphors?).

So I am travelling to Tehran Market by train with Shadi’s mum. It was the first time I had caught a subway in Tehran. My thought on entering the subway was naturally one of caution as I was concerned that ‘Happy Clapper’ Christians might target the Iranian way of life. So I boarded the crowded subway and kept my eyes open for Mormons with backpacks.

Thankfully there were none – although the idea of a Mormon suicide bomber somehow comforting, particularly since they travel in pairs...

Anyway I digress.

It was rush hour and it was very crowded. Now here, people do tend to look at me and whisper ‘horagi’ (foreigner), it’s not bad or intimidating it more like the kind of stare that you do the first time you see a mullet – that sort of ‘what the hell is that hair cut, it’s sort of wrong, but somehow it might grow on me’ kind of look. I just tend to ignore it, look away and remember that one man’s mullet is another man’s fashion.

Anyway, so I am on the train taking my place in the carriage and finding a handrail to hold. I look around: ‘yes, everyone is looking at the mullet foreigner so the world is normal’. It was not a look of fear so I was confident that my choice of wearing an emerald coloured tunic and a dark red head-scarf with gold trim was the correct one - as Iranians all know that the Mormon ‘freedom haters’ are easy to spot as they wear black and travel in pairs…

As I survey the scene and am happy that my presence has been tolerated, I look up and catch the eye of a man whom I am standing next to in the carriage. Actually I lie: Rather, as I place my hand on the hand rail I catch sight of a very nice bicep in a tight polo shirt. I follow this to a shoulder…

Shadi’s mum was sitting on the seat next to where I was standing and was asking me whether I wanted to squeeze in between her and an older woman holding part of her chador between her teeth. Since the space was so small it probably couldn’t even accommodate the ‘bicep of my affection’ I decline with a little ‘Na Merci’ – in my best Persian accent.

Now Sisters, you know me well enough to know that I am pretty comfortable talking to strangers. On buses and trains I usually strike up conversations or flirt outrageously with some poor soul (only to vehemently deny this afterwards, and fret about how TERRIBLE it is that you cant have a conversation with some bloke without someone saying that you are flirting…). Now, beyond a few phrases in Persian including: ‘No, I did not eat your dog’, my Persian is very limited. AND in Iran – well let’s remember that sex outside of marriage is punishable by death. And travelling alone with a man that you are not related to is also not allowed, though I think the punishment for this might technically be lashing (mmm, for some that could be quite a two-for-one deal…).

As I stand on the train, everything felt so normal. So, so – Sydney. Guys with trendy jeans and crazy spruced up hair, leather bracelets, cheap suits. A mash of cologne, perfume and sweat mixed with the sleepiness of the morning rush hour. Yesterday I travelled outside of Tehran and happen to pass near Iran’s nuclear sites, and in this ordinary daily commute I was just thinking how bombing Iran because of their nuclear activities would be like bombing Australia for the government's treatment of asylum seekers. Both governments are condemned by the international community and both act with such arrogance and disregard for international law. And yet, the people – the everyday wake up, forgot to clean my teeth, breakfast spilt on my tie, would rather not go to work people – are so removed from the structured apathy of power…

As I am thinking of this I see the ‘bicep of my affection’ and my mind begins to wander elsewhere. I look up and we make eye-contact, but I am like a bunny in the head lights: ‘can’t speak, can’t smile, Islamic Republic of Iran.’

So I look away in panic. Honestly, I was not trying to be coy. I just didn’t know how to respond, in Australia it would be smile and some comment about body odour. In London I would stare blankly at the person as human communication is impossible on the Tube, it’s a human-free-zone where we all put on our regulation-state-issued invisible suits. Here with the whole train watching me including some people sporting the latest Islamic fashion I didn’t want to draw more attention to myself.

But Ladies, this man was beautiful – even in slightly 80s fashion washed out jeans a little too high on the waist – this man was beautiful. And he was looking at me…but not as a mullet.

I had to look at him again... Just had to.

After contenting myself with his arms, chest and washed out jeans I turn my head to look up. And ran full steam ahead into his gaze. Oh no! ‘Can’t speak, can’t smile, Islamic Republic of Iran’. I look away but only get as far as his lips.

I can hear Shadi’s mum saying ‘Australia-i’ I look at her and smile. But now the game is on. Bicep man and I play the game of silent seduction. Now this is nothing new, I’m sure we’ve all played it before – of course followed by a (self-) denial and a reinstatement of the Cartesian order. But imagine it when it is not simply fun, but it is all you can possibly have given the constraints on human interaction. We couldn’t exchange details, touch or even talk. And imagine it when you are wearing clothing that is designed to hide your body, the very thing that has just started singing.

In the reflection of the dark glass window I can see that his head is bowed. And he is looking at the outline of my body in the big tent of a tunic I am wearing. I am sure he can see my breath becoming a little heavier. But part of me is wondering what on earth can there be to see – I am totally covered up, no cleavage, no shoulder. And then I look in the glass again and the world falls away, as I realized that so much can be seen because no matter how much you wear you cannot hide the woman.

Startled by this I look up and search for women to look at. I see a woman in black from head to toe with the chador pulled tightly around her face – and I see her lips painted pink. I see a woman with a scarf and long coat but - her hands look so soft and warm. I see and ugly old woman with leathery skin with part of her chador held in her teeth and I see her feisty eyes…

I look back in the dark glass window and I can see that the part of my body in regulation Islamic dress that has the most defined shape is my breast. And that perhaps under my scarf you can see the outline of my neck. I look away from the glass and raise my head to look at bicep man. And this time I hold his gaze until the subway jerks and I turn look down to secure my footing. Bicep man understands. I understand bicep man.

At the next train stop it is total chaos with people pushing on and Shadi’s mum and leather-skinned chador woman tell me to move closer to them. Little do they know that the casual public transport press is nothing compared to how bicep man has reminded me of my body.

And who’d have thought this would take place. Here. On a crowded train.

Thank you bicep man.