Voices of village idiots roiled in a jester's stew of odds-making tomfoolery. Occasionally, a monkey screamed in the heat of competition, and crude words were freely spoken. The more sophisticated were forced to tolerate such low-minded displays.

It's forbidden to bite a woman's arse. In the absence of a legal precedent, the Imams decided to apply human law to the guilty monkey, whoever it turned out to be. They narrowed it down to Bosco or Shin Bone. The victim was unable to distinguish one monkey from the other.

This feminine billboard of Middle-Eastern fashion stopped me on the street last month. She ran her hand over the seam of my jilbab, admiring the color and fabric. She only said a few words. 'We are living in a gender-quake, a modern sexodus. We have a duty to project dis female revolution in da way we dress. Come visit me at the Monkey Bar and tell me who tailors your outfits.' She's been my fashion role model ever since.

Eviction day at the orphanage loomed large over Giti--and I worried deeply for her. 'Allah will provide,' I whispered. But Giti rolled her eyes, unconvinced.

He moves me to madness. He's an indescribable poetic impression. He's Persian blood re-defined by Parisian culture, softened in the right places, yet, fierce where it counts. Dreamy. The kind of boy you can't get too close to, because you might get lost in his brown eyes and melancholy.

Crape Myrtle trees line our streets. They awaken at the onset of Irans mid-day heat. They turn their leaves up, lifting their branches to give the azure Middle-Eastern sky an open-mouth kiss. Row after row blushes with red blossoms of ecstasy. Noshahr--where every hill has its own story, every valley its own poem, every girl her own heartache . . . that's for certain.