YVONNE HORN

Me and my polka-dot jilaabah in Tehran

by Yvonne Horn, San Francisco Chronicle

It was the end of a long flight, so my eyes rested on the screen to see how much farther we had to go. As the little drawing of our plane inched toward Tehran, something appeared in a corner of the route map: "Mecca 1926 km," with an arrow indicating direction.

While I was surprised to see it on my screen, the directional underscored what I already knew: I was on my way to a country where, to the majority of those living there, knowing the direction to Mecca is of great importance.

So in my carry-on was a little something to slip on as we neared Tehran, a brown, coatlike affair (jilaabah for one, jilbab for plural) that would cover me neck to knees, shoulders to wrists, along with a scarf to ensure not a bit of hair would show. Borrowed from a friend, the coverup was lightweight enough to tuck easily into my airplane carry-on yet of a heft to guarantee modesty.

Like many women travelers to a Muslim country, I was concerned about proper attire. At the same time, thrifty me didn't want to spend money on a short-term costume. My coatlike affair, purchased by my friend from Macy's as a nightgown, seemed to fill the bill. As I understood it, "cover-up" was the name of the Muslim dressing game; nothing said one couldn't have ruffles at neck and cuffs and white polka dots sprinkled all over.
In my hotel room the next morning, I looked out the window and saw only men on the street below. Where were the women? Would it be OK for me to go walking about Tehran alone? Due to flight schedules from the West Coast, it would be two days before I'd be meeting with others from Elder Treks, the adventure-tour operator for those over 50, with whom I'd be traveling for the next three weeks. Two days closeted in my room with all of Tehran waiting to be explored was not an option.
Mustering courage, head scarf secured with a tug, I descended to the lobby and walked out the front door.

Many women were passing by. None, however, wore polka dots.
Scurrying back to the elevator, I pulled an alternate out of my suitcase - a black, cotton, raincoat-like affair. It, too, was borrowed from a friend who'd bought it years before in Oaxaca, Mexico, and, while regretting the purchase, had not thrown it away.
As I walked about the city, I noticed how the women about me were dressed. Some took fashionable liberties with coats tailored to button closely around waistlines and display that, yes, they had rear ends. Designer bag in hand, pointy-toed shoes peeking out beneath trousers, silk scarf tied under the chin, make-up carefully applied (with great attention paid to the eyes), they were Madison Avenue-chic.

A relative few floated by clutching a top-to-toe black chador, in sharp contrast to a young generation of jilbab wearers striding forth in athletic shoes with pea-jacket-like cover-ups worn over jeans.
In my black, cotton coat I blended in with the majority of Tehran's women - dutifully dowdy.
Elder Treks' participants gathered. Following introductions and instructions, the Iranian national guide traveling with us announced she'd take those women without proper garb shopping.

Although I felt I could get by with what I'd packed, I tagged along to Hafte Tir Square, an area of shops devoted to women's clothing, each displaying rack after rack of manteaus (French for loose-fitting coat, and what Iranian women call their jilbab). Male salespersons were ready with assistance, striking me as odd given the Iranian code of public distance and non-touching between the sexes that goes so far as to divide the seating in public buses into two areas - men in the front and women in the back. But here, men were helping women try on manteaus, tugging and touching here and there while pinning alteration markings.

Jean, from Hawaii, knew exactly what she wanted: a brown cloth manteau. By the time she'd selected several head scarves, her manteau was ready, hem and sleeve alterations accomplished within minutes by what must be a covey of Iranian backroom elves bent over sewing machines. Cost of the altered manteau, $25.

Jean wore her brown manteau, and I wore mine in black, every day of our three-week journey, as we traveled from Tehran to the Caspian Sea, over the Elborz Mountains, through high-plateau desert, with stops at such fabled cities as Isfahan and Shiraz. What one wears under a manteau is no one's business, making it easier for women bound for Iran to pack a suitcase than it is for men who can wear whatever they please (but with that whatever always in view).

Nearing the end of our trip, it occurred to the women that we'd not seen each other's hair. One evening after dinner, we gathered in a hotel room, women only - the men traveling with us could forever more picture us covered head to toe. We whipped off our scarves and, with our Iranian guide providing music, danced wildly about.

My polka-dot jilaabah stayed in the bottom of my suitcase until donned to wear to the airport. With my BMI flight set to leave at 5 a.m., few would see me. Once on the plane, I'd whip it off and roll it up into my carry-on. At 5, our flight was announced delayed; 6 and 7 passed with no news.

Shortly after noon, we were told to come back the next day. And with my suitcase already checked through, I was stuck in my ruffled, polka-dot manteau.
While others due to fly simply went home, I was led through the airport, the center of non-understood conversations to determine how the American woman traveling alone - and, I suspected, in such a crazy outfit - should be dealt with.

Late afternoon, I was delivered to a taxi and sent off to spend the night in a hotel where, although I had no other belongings, I did have a nightie.