Christmas in Esfahan by Rob Penn

I woke up feeling a little peculiar. On any ordinary Christmas Day, I could have accounted for this quite simply - part hangover, part bated expectation at the day of wining, feasting and intense family rowing that lay ahead. But I was in Esfahan, not England and the correct date was not 25th December, 1998, but 24th Sha’ban, 1418.

In fact, I could not have been further away from stockings full of presents, tinsel and the Christian fold. In the geographical heart of the Islamic world, there was barely a single reminder of the festival of good cheer and the only fellow Christian staying at the Amir Kabir Hotel was Peter, a deathly boring German biker. The need to avoid him, I realised, was the cause of my unease.

Esfahan is a magical place. The famous half-rhyme, 'Esfahan nesf-e jahan' (Esfahan is half the world) was coined in the 16th century to express the city’s grandeur and there remains a ring of truth about it today. The Islamic architecture is superb, the gardens are delightful and the bazaar is intriguing. Shah Abbas I, the greatest ruler of the Safavid dynasty and the man to expel the Ottomans from Persia, created Esfahan as his great and elegant capital during his reign from 1587-1628.

After the Islamic revolution in 1979, the city gained something of a reputation for Islamic conservatism. On Christmas Eve, er... the 23rd Sha’ban, I had wandered into the Chahar Bagh Medressah, a theological school that dates from the Safavid period, to admire the faience splendour of the courtyard and the turquoise domes. I was innocently admiring the expertise of the brickwork and enjoying the serenity of the symmetry when three teenage students came strutting towards me like fighting cocks.

"The USA is the enemy of all Muslim peoples," they said, "... Satan rules the West......Iran will conquer the world.." - all the usual anti-western hyperbole that religious students still have their ideological vacuums filled with. Gently, I argued back, defending Salman Rushdie and pointing out their religious exclusivity. But the argument left a faintly bad taste in the mouth and made me even less ready for any Christmas morning merriment.

Historically, Esfahan is actually associated with religious tolerance and not fundamentalist zeal. Shah Abbas I welcomed a community of Armenian Christians from the town of Jolfa (now on Iran’s northern border). He admired their industry and their entrepreneurial skills. Incrementally, they became prominent in government and commerce, though they were always excluded from the Islamic heart of the city and the Armenian quarter, known as Jolfa, has a distinctive feel even today.

Confident that I had not left an obvious trail for Peter to follow, I crossed the Zayandeh River and wandered around Jolfa, looking for any signs of Yuletide revelry. The fact that the Armenians have remained untroubled in Esfahan for so long is, of course, largely due to the subtlety with which they worship. I walked around the Church of Bethlehem three times before I found the discreet entrance. Inside, the sun had turned the baked brick building honey-coloured. I lit a candle and watched a hunched, smiling lady shuffle about beneath the frescoes. She stopped in front of me and adjusting her woolly hat, whispered "Happy Christmas".

I did not linger for the service which was conducted in Armenian - not a tongue I am overly familiar with. Instead, I slipped round the corner to the Vank Cathedral, again, a bland building on the outside, but with a richly decorated interior, and then made my way through the melting snow, back over the river.

Esfahan is famous for, amongst other things, the early 16th century bridges which span the Zayandeh. The Si-o se bridge (the bridge of 33 arches) and the Khaju bridge are both pedestrianised and are as much places to meet and stroll as functioning structures. Thoughts of home had stealthily enveloped me, leaving me feeling blue and I was anxious not to meet anyone, least of all Peter who I had idly agreed to have lunch with the previous evening. Surreptitiously, I slipped into a quiet ‘chaykhune’ or teahouse, underneath the heavy stone arches of Si-o se bridge. Old men in overcoats and scarves sat, smoking their ‘nargiles’, the hubble-bubble pipes beloved of the contemplative Iranians.

Much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I was beginning to crave turkey and stuffing, crackers and pointless hats. I had to settle for ‘abgusht’, a thick and potent brew of potatoes, fatty mutton and lentils. It is the staple found in all cheap Iranian eateries and has its own measure of ritual which can confuse the uninitiated. Under the stern gaze of Ayatollah Khomeini - posters of him are still ubiquitous - I ground the contents up in the pestle provided, and carefully added the gravy to achieve the optimum consistency.

You seldom see women eating or drinking in public places in Iran, but the dark shadows of their ‘chadors’ were floating ominously about in the Emam Khomeini square, the giant public maidan that the Safavids built Esfahan around. I had visited it everyday that I had been here. The smooth tongued assistants from the tourist shops that line the square had, by now, given up on me, and I was free to amble between the impressive sights that border the square.

The Emam Mosque is arguably the finest mosque in the country. It is covered inside and out in the blue tiles that Esfahan became famous for. The front portal faces squarely onto the maidan, but the mosque itself, with the grand 54m dome, is at an angle to face Mecca, which means that there is symmetry but not too much. It dominates one end of Emam Khomeini square and was always a magnet I could not resist.

The sun was dropping behind the Zagros mountains, leaving the pink light to play on the dome’s curve as I walked towards the towering front portal. Visiting the mosque seemed, suddenly, an appropriate way to end my curious Christmas Day. Dwarfed by the scale of the inner courtyard, I drifted into reverie. And then I heard the unforgettable German twang: "Aah, Rob, I was looking for you. Merry Christmas, yah!"

Peter had got me.