They say all great journeys begin with a single step. Mine began with a passport swap.
As a dual citizen, I’ve grown accustomed to juggling paperwork like a bureaucratic magician. But in December 2021, when I planned my long-awaited trip to Iran, the diplomatic tango between the U.S. and Iran turned that juggling act into a full-on circus. So, I did what any reasonable, passport-privileged global citizen would do. I flew from Karachi to Tehran on my green Pakistani passport because nothing says “strategic neutrality” quite like navigating history’s tightrope with two nationalities and a backpack full of hopes.
Day 1: Tehran — Mirrors, Mountains, and Metro Cards
Landing in Tehran felt like arriving in a city built on poetry and powered by honking. The snow-dusted Alborz Mountains loomed dramatically in the distance while taxi drivers loomed dramatically up close. Tehran was a blur of marble mosques, modern cafés, prayer calls, and people who could quote Rumi more fluently than I could order coffee.
My first visit was to the Golestan Palace, a mirrored masterpiece resembling Versailles, which had fallen in love with a disco ball. The air inside shimmered. It felt less like a royal residence and more like someone had interior-designed a dream.
In the evening, I drifted along Vali-e-Asr Street, the city’s spine. Trees arched overhead, and conversations buzzed in Farsi and English. I drank saffron tea at a rooftop café and watched Tehran sparkle under a pink-orange sky that looked hand-painted.
Day 2: Currency Confusion, Persian Carpets, and a Not-So-Grand’ Grand Bazaar’
Every traveler has that one day when they realize they’ve been overpaying. For me, it was when I exchanged money at the official rate and realized I had essentially bought my morning coffee at the price of a museum ticket. The black market rate, I quickly learned, was where the true art of conversion lived.
Armed with new knowledge and slightly bruised pride, I made my way to the Grand Bazaar. It was a universe of its own, with carpets the size of small islands, copperware that could blind you in direct sunlight, and merchants who could sell you anything, including the memory of having bought it. I left with pomegranate molasses, an unreadable scroll of Persian calligraphy, and a deep respect for the hustle.
Later, I visited Saadi’s Tomb, where schoolchildren recited poems more beautifully than most adults recite vows. I sat under a cypress tree and tried to journal, only to be interrupted by a rogue falafel sandwich that had leaked across the page. The poetry of travel, indeed.
Day 3: Karaj — Kebabs, Kindness, and Quiet
Most tourists skip Karaj, which is precisely why I didn’t.
Only an hour from Tehran, Karaj felt like Tehran’s introverted cousin. There were no monuments or museums, just families strolling, older men playing chess in the park, and bakeries that smelled like happiness.
I stayed with a friend’s family, who treated me to a kebab tour that tested the limits of human fullness: Koobideh, barg, joojeh, torsh. Every bite came with backstories and more rice than anyone should ethically consume.
We sat by the foothills in the evening and watched the world soften. Someone played Googoosh on a Bluetooth speaker, and someone else passed around dried apricots. It was slow living in its purest form.
Day 4: Alamut — Hike Now, Ask Questions Later
They said it was a short hike to Alamut Castle. What they meant was that you’ll be questioning your life choices around switchback number three.
Nestled in the craggy cliffs of northern Iran, Alamut is a name wrapped in mystery. Once home to the Nizari Ismailis and their fabled leader Hassan-i Sabbah, the castle sits like a crown on a mountaintop. My guide, Reza, pointed to the summit with the ease of someone who had never experienced lactic acid.
The climb was brutal. But the view was theater. Mountains stacked like a symphony. Valleys that seemed carved by ancient myths. And the ruins themselves, scattered and proud, spoke louder than stone. At the top, we didn’t talk. We just chewed dried mulberries and let the wind finish our thoughts.
I left with sore legs, thirty-six pictures of the same rock angle, and a heart that felt oddly fuller than when I started.
Day 5: Shiraz–The City that Smells Like Poetry and Oranges
If Tehran is the brain, Shiraz is the soul.
I flew south to Shiraz, mainly because every Iranian I had met so far had looked at me incredulously when I said I wasn’t planning to. “You must. Shiraz is…” They never finished the sentence. Turns out, Shiraz doesn’t need adjectives. It just is one.
Everything felt slower, softer, and scented from the moment I arrived. The Nasir al-Mulk Mosque, the famed Pink Mosque, was more kaleidoscope than building. I walked in just as morning light pierced the stained glass. It didn’t feel like sunlight. It felt like Color had learned how to sing.
Later, I wandered into the garden of Hafez’s Tomb. Teenagers sat under trees reading his verses out loud, as if the 14th-century poet were still lurking somewhere nearby. I tossed a coin into the wishing pool and whispered a line I didn’t fully understand. I think he approved.
Dinner was in a courtyard restaurant surrounded by citrus trees. The waiter recommended something I couldn’t pronounce, and I nodded, because travel rule number seventeen is: always say yes to mystery stew.
Day 6: Bazaar Wanders, Rooftop Revelations, and Shirazi Hospitality
Shiraz’s bazaar was more relaxed than Tehran’s. Less yelling, more chatting. I bought a bottle of rosewater from a vendor who insisted I try every sweet in his shop. I walked out buzzing on sugar and the kind of hospitality that borders on competitive generosity.
In the afternoon, I joined a group of young locals for rooftop tea. The sun dipped, the ‘adhan‘ (the Islamic call to prayer) echoed, and someone passed around a bag of warm dates. We talked about everything and nothing: sanctions, soccer, and Sufi rock bands. They asked if I’d ever been to Mashhad. I said no. They said, “Next time.” I believed them.
There’s something about Shiraz that makes goodbyes feel strangely premature. Like you’re leaving a conversation mid-sentence.
Day 7: Tehran Again — And the Long Flight Home
I flew back to Tehran for my final night. The city felt different now. Not because it had changed, but because I had.
I spent the evening in Darband, a popular mountainside trail lined with cafés, hookah lounges, and more skewers than one nation should be allowed to own. I climbed slowly, savoring every walnut dip, every sour cherry syrup, every moment that lingered just a bit longer than it had to.
At the top, I sat near a trickling stream and let it all sink in. The call to prayer drifted across the hills, and the sky turned a sleepy lavender. My trip was over, but something told me I’d return. Maybe not to the same mountains or even the same passport, but I’d return to the feeling, to the story, to Iran.
What I Carried Back (Besides Saffron and a Slight Limp)
Iran wasn’t just a destination. It was a paradox wrapped in poetry, woven into the laughter of strangers and the silence of high-altitude castles. It tested my legs, challenged my Farsi, expanded my belly, and filled my journal.
Yes, getting there took diplomatic gymnastics and a clever shuffle of national identity. But the beauty of Iran is that none of that matters once you arrive. People meet you not as a passport holder but as a guest, listener, and someone willing to sit, sip tea, and hear their side of the story.
Would I go back? In a heartbeat. Maybe with better walking shoes. Maybe with fewer “mystery” dishes. But definitely with the same curiosity that got me there in the first place.
Author: AMIR NOORANI
Word alchemist with a penchant for turning plain sentences into gold. Crafting compelling stories for brands is my forte, while making the mundane mesmerizing is just another day at the office. A B2B and B2C communications and content expert with extensive experience in brand development, multi-channel marketing, and SEO optimization. A professional with sharp communication, user experience (UX), design sense, and editorial acumen across ATL, BTL, and TTL channels.
