My Life as an Iranian

One sunny, subtropical morning, when I was a Sophmore at University, I stood dreaming at the window of my work-study "job." Italy, and how to get back there, was on my mind. Suddenly, like the answer to a prayer, a very Italianate-looking boy crossed my field of vision. Light-eyed and olive skinned, he turned and our eyes met briefly. Turning, he disappeared without breaking his stride. "Wither thou goest," I thought.
Approximately one and a half minutes later, he was standing in front of my desk with a question,
"Do you want to go dancing?"
Uh, no thanks, Complete Stranger.
"So, what, dinner? Do you ever eat at the cafeteria?"
Now I'm scared. No thanks, no thanks, NO THANKS.
He came every day at the same time, same question. Bringing coffee with cream and sugar. He told me he was Mexican, and a cook. Strangely, he didn't know what a quesadilla was, though. Hmmm. I told him I thought he looked Italian when I first saw him, he said he was "half." I asked him what part of Italy he was from, and after a little more BS, he finally told me he was from Iran, here studying Engineering.
That was interesting.
I had seen photos of the Shah of Shah's Jubilee, or whatever it was, in National Geographic. Images of fabulous, over-the-top floats, peacock colours, Byzantine-like potentates, berobed, bejewled and bedazzled. Marching bands, school children waving flowers, military battalions from ancient biblical kingdoms, Hittites, Chaldeans, Assyrians. The photos looked like the freizes from the Louvre had come to live, rows of men with black beards, gold armbands, white kilts looking fierce and pretty tough, I must say. Not so much like the Hollywood version as you might think.
Anyway. He continued to stalk me, and find ways to entice me into spending time with him.
"I'm going to an Iranian New Year's Party Saturday, would you like to come? --There will be a lot of foreigners, it will be very interesting. You can try the food."
How could I say no?
Eventually, all my spare time was accounted for, I had new clothes, rides everywhere, and I was a Girlfriend for the next 6 years.
He was a great guy, though. So were his friends. Actually I learned to cook from his roomate, Saeed, who had been in political prison in Iran. All the guys who had been in prison could cook, I guess they all had to take a turn in the kitchens.
I know now, and I knew then that he loved me and wanted to marry me. He told me once that no matter how hard he tried to be worthy, he thought that somehow I didn't trust him, which I didn't understand at the time, but maybe I do now. I knew he would never cheat on me with other women, or treat me badly. I did believe that he would always do what he could to protect and take care of me. He was always coming up with things I needed before I even knew that I needed them.
Somehow, I was restless though.
You know, Italy.
I think maybe I was afraid that he was so good at distracting me and pulling my strings, that if I gave him any more power, my whole life would be gone out of my hands, and I would be swallowed up and stuck. -- Like that didn't happen anyway!
In the years that followed, after I left and came here, I did think a lot about Islamic and Western societies, men and women, and freedom and family relationships. I missed that tight little world, where everyone is always together, and the rules of fraternization are clear. Courtesies are observed, boundaries are respected. The people are the most important thing. When I was alone, in Graduate School on the mainland, I didn't miss my family, but I did miss Saeed's cooking, Masood's girlfriend, my ex-boyfriend's shoulders.