Travelers of different cultures can help each other keep their travel dreams alive during this pandemic.
Back in 2009, I produced a one-hour TV special introducing America to the people and rich culture of Iran — and the other day, I was honored to receive the following note from Iranian American poet Darius Atefat-Peckham, along with a poem, which you can read below.
Dear
For a long stretch during the beginning and middle months of the pandemic, my family and I watched your videos through Europe. We felt as though we were traveling with you, experiencing this unique and loving kind of transport alongside you. Suffice it to say, your videos helped make our way through our isolation--helped us feel less alone.
When I learned you had gone to Iran (and that it was an hour-long special, no less!) I was elated. I won't say too much more--hopefully you'll read the poem!--but your visit there means a lot to me.
It means a lot to the Iranian community in the United States, in fact, my own family included. So, I guess I'm trying to say thank you. Thank you for the work you do, and for allowing me to visit the home of my ancestors, once-removed.
I hope you're well and safe.
All best,
Darius
"Here's a Love Poem to Rick Steves Watching Rick Steves' Iran"
By Darius Atefat-Peckham
A farmer slings a rock to scare a bird from his barley, and I wish I could teach you to say, daastet dard na-koneh, I hope your hand doesn't hurt. I wish I could be your best friend, stay by your side, noticing neutrally the marg bar Israel signs in the splendor of Isfahan's largest mosque. Holy geometers dip their camo caps in Friday prayer, and shake hands.
A family picnics on the gravesites of their sons made martyrs. You ask thoughtful questions of everyone you meet. Don't you wish America and Iran could be friends? How do you find a boy? Can I shake your hand? Can I shake his hand for you? Your slight lisp, your slow, rhythmic speaking, knuckles knit together as you ask your guide if Sunnis and Shi'ites share heaven.
And of course they do, and of course
you know that. In your body, you are designing a church inside a mosque inside a synagogue. You place strings of saffron on your tongue and ask Am I red? to the delight of the bazaari. You are now the soft yellow of early morning sun.
And Iran glows from inside you. I wish I could be, if only for a moment, the motorcyclist sitting in front of you in the midday traffic.
Your hands clasp tightly around my waist, trusting me to navigate, to keep you safe and balanced, to take you where you need to go (and somewhat safely) as you think about the loose fit of your helmet, the fear that still exists, here, that you can't show on your face on camera, thinking of your brains splattered across the side of a passing bus or dripping down the front of a Tehran mural.
I wish to be both you and the cyclist, as I hop off my bike and thank me, shake my hands together, kiss all four of my cheeks. I push my glasses up from the gentle slope of my nose so I can see myself better.
I head off into the throng of traffic as I stand there on the curb watching me go.
I live to breathe another day, to say, Hello.
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