Herodotus wrote in
:

I
loved signing my original name first name "Panaeyotis" and listening
to them trying to pronounce it. They would try to avoid it by asking
for my room number which I couldn't remember at the time. Then they
would ask for my last name and finally burst out laughing to the
Dining room manager's displeasure when I told them that I only had one
name as when I was born my parents were so poor that they could only
afford to give me one name. In Australia when I am bored I often write
my name in the Greek alphabet. At least people have a sense of humour.
It appears that if you are older with a business suit and can keep a
straight face, people don't mind you "taking the mickey out of them"
the world over.


I lived in Tehran and worked under contract with Pan Am Airlines,
Technical Services Branch, for the Iranian Air Force at Doshen-Tappeh AFB
in NE Tehran. The base is deserted on Google Earth, now, very sad. We
were in the SIGINT/ELINT business against Iraq and Afghanistan. CIA kept
an eye on the Soviets in the late 70's from the "monitoring station on
top of Tochal that did not exist" every Iranian could point out to you.
Shahanshah was our guy, you know...CIA.

While there, I was very intent on learning enough Farsi to astonish the
Iranians and drove my homofars (technical warrant officers IAF) and
especially Raffick, my 12-year-old taxi driver, crazy with questions. He
taught me more Farsi than anyone else, so I spoke more like a street rat
hiphop ho than a proper Farsi speaker, something every Iranian I spoke to
in Farsi found most amusing, except Mullahs...(c; After I learned how to
sign my name, IAF ID number, "engineer" and unit in Farsi, I refused to
sign it in English to anyone. "NO NO! YOU SIGN IN ENGLISH or they think
I signed that form!"....."What? You don't like my Farsi?", I'd retort.
The AF colonel in charge of logistics presented me with my own Farsi
typewriter for my desk he was so proud of me. The conscript soldiers
that guarded the base lived in tents and had a mess tent at the end of
our building. I loved to eat breakfast with them before work if I could
get to work in time. Otherwise, I'd eat lunch with them. They all spoke
street rat Farsi and improved my accent, to the horror of proper
speakers. I was the only American who ate in the army mess tent and if I
needed something that required some muscle outside the secret building
they weren't allowed into where I worked, I had no trouble getting a huge
Russian army truck, my own driver and some grunts. Even Iranian drivers
get the hell out of the way when you're roaring downtown to the Hewlett-
Packard office for parts in a 8-ton truck with 8 drive wheels...(c;

It took some fast talking (in Farsi, of course) to convince my Bank
Markazi branch to allow me to make checks in Farsi with my Farsi
signature, but they relented, finally. The look on a clerks face as this
crazy, obviously American, who was supposed to be ignorant of all local
customs, language, etc., whisk out his checkbook and paid for the
groceries at the Super Shillon all in proper Farsi....(c;

I don't dare try it now in the states as I might find myself in chains
headed for Guantanamo Prison....(c;

I'd go back to Iran any time they decided they'd had enough of the
stonings and beatings and stone aged government. Iranians don't hate
Americans. Like most of the world, they hate our Illuminati Government
trying to kill them all....and they know the difference.

The Army guys even let me drive a T-72 Russian TANK! Way cool!
THAT makes the Peykan orange taxis get the hell out of my way!
They were even afraid to blow their horns!
Ahh...the sound of a steel track tearing up the pavement in the
morning...(c;