
There is something magical about Si-o-se Pol—literally, the bridge of 33, meant for its 33 arches. A book could be written about this 400-year-old architectural wonder. But I'm too busy walking the cobblestones in the cool of late autumn and relishing the beauty around me.
At night, there is an endless stream of strolling young people on Si-o-se Pol bantering and letting out guffaws. Boys and girls are dating—obviously, married people are never that chatty.

I felt like being in a European city, the combination of classical architecture and swarms of friendly people, even late into the night. I don't think there is a place in the U.S. like that. I had countless conversations. I felt at home.
There is no garbage laying around. No charlatans peddling bootleg trash or faking tragedy. The contrast to Tehran is hard to forget.

In the daytime, people are marching resolutely toward work and school. But the women are not as painted-up as they are in Tehran. The men are less likely to affect importance with fancy cell phones and James Bond-esq poses.
People are more human here in Isfahan, their speech, in their eye-contact, in the inordinately long time they take to explain street directions multiple times before exclaiming a couple of extra goodbyes.
