...he led me to a men's room, where he swung open the door and indicated I should go in ahead of him. It was a bit of a ratty hole. Water closets, open. Worn, reflectionless mirrors. Where our standard toilets might sit, these are simply holes in the floor, with dark glimmering puddles beneath, and fluorescent light above. He just stared at me. Neither threateningly, nor warmly. Seconds went by as I stared back. Neither threatened, nor comfortable. "Now what?" I said. He raised his hands and wiped his palms over one another. Yes, he wanted me to have the opportunity to wash my hands, rather than to walk, black-handed, into the Persian night. So I turned to the sink, there were the last bubbles in a soap dispenser and I tried to pump it. The water came on automatically, nice modern touch, but it was cold. I rubbed my hands together under it with a bubble or two of soap, to at least a graying effect. When I looked for some sort of towel to dry them, there wasn't one. So, I took a deep breath and slid past my 6-foot-3- inch minder into one of the water closets, grabbed some toilet paper, and dried my dull gray hands...

The hole story