Tehran Bazaar

1.

I was sure I was sat at the wrong departure gate.

On the seats behind me a group of men interchanged between Italian, Spanish, English and Farsi. No-one was wearing a headscarf (pardon my ignorance at this point, please, any Iranians who might read this, it's the unfortunate case of never-been there-don't-know-what-to-expect brain).

I genuinely kept looking at my ticket, and at the announcement board, to make sure I wasn't heading to Bari, which was what the guys behind me talking about.

But it was for Tehran. The smoggy jewel of Iran.

And the compulsory headscarves slipped on as we landed, topping the beige rows of budget airline seats with myriad colours and patterns.

2.

The bazaar, here, is a mini-metropolis within itself. 10km of layered, winding streets take you from bucket and spade to 24 karat gold. Back-alleys swarm with people in the know, and as a dozy tourist you're left ambling around, returning the smirks and nods- equally acknowledging the fact that your a big, weird dude in a fleece.

The only big, weird dude in a fleece for a fair few miles around, I'd bet.