Go Iran!

All the news this week about Ahmadinejad's appearance at Columbia University reminds me of a recent dinner I had with an Iranian friend, eating enchiladas and mole at Guelaguetza in Koreatown (L.A. in a nutshell). It was a Tuesday night and the house mariachi was blaring away - not necessarily a pleasantry given that I hadn't seen my friend in months and was hoping to catch up. (I am otherwise a lover of Rancheras.) We spend most of dinner screaming our latest news at each other, grateful for the music breaks. At the end of the night when the mariachi had finally fulfilled its obligations, the violin player strolled by our table. He was stereotypically short, chubby, moreno and at least 50 years old. His mariachi outfit tight, white, and a bit dingy. He was intent on talking to my friend, I might even say he was flirting in some wierd hope of conquering the statuesque beauty of a woman who I knew to be in her twenties. I must admit I was both impressed and appalled by his audacity. He greeted her initially in Spanish. She responded politely but curtly. He continued nonetheless, undeterred by her coolness. She turned to me for help at that point- desirous to have me step in and shoo him away in the nicest of manners, of course. He realized finally she doesn't speak Spanish (I must admit she looks a tad bit Latina) and asked "Where you from?" She answered "From L.A." several times. He didn't understand. In his world, apparently, no one is actually from L.A. "No, where you from?" "From L.A. I'm from here," she insisted. Now he turned to me for help. I refuse to get involved. He got himself into this, he needs to get himself out. "Where you from?" he persisted. She finally gives in, throws him a bone, fully aware of what he wants to know, but seemingly unwilling to limit her identity to a country. She is an Angeleno and proud of it. "Oh, you mean my parents. They are from Iran." Finally, an answer he can more or less understand, or so I thought. "Iraq?" he asked. "No, Iran," she clarified. The confusion was no longer amusing and this bold man has reached the limit of both our patience. I want to pay the bill and get going. It's a Tuesday night, I'm nearing 40, and I have to work tomorrow! He turned to me again and I say in Spanish and slowly "I-R-A-N. " "Iran," he repeats in amazement. I wasn't sure he understood the difference but definitely he has finally sensed our impatience which is why he must have decided to pump his fist in the air and proclaim "GO IRAN." Bush's Axis of Evil be damned, this music man is trying to impress a pretty lady. My friend smiled uncomfortably. He thankfully gave up and left, violin and bow tucked under his arm. I looked at my friend and retorted with perfect timing, "Well, there's something you don't here too often." I love L.A.