• Adventure

Iran, the Upside Down Story

A journey of surrender, surprise, and the kind of connection that flips your beliefs inside out.

One month ago, I was standing at the border of Iran, in a not-so-pleasant place, with not too many expectations. I didn’t know much about the country, but I had a strong desire to explore this land and everything it had to offer. So I did—against the advice of almost everyone around me.

“Don’t go. It might be dangerous,” they said.

Everyone seemed to focus on one thing only: the Iran of the government. All the stories I had heard revolved around fear, restrictions, security risks, and danger. And yes, there are many real struggles in Iran. But my story is about something else.

This is the story of Iran upside down—the Iran of the people.

Before entering the country, I did some research on what’s expected of a woman traveling through Iran. After a few adjustments, I started playing by their rules. And to my surprise, I adapted quickly. I even began to enjoy the beauty within those traditions.

I learned to drink chai—everywhere, all the time, even while riding my motorcycle. Yes, people would offer you chai at the most unimaginable moments: on the road, at a stoplight, from a parked car window. It’s not just tea—it’s a ritual of connection.

One of the most powerful pillars of Iranian culture is the deep-rooted honour of being a good host. There’s a saying: a guest is like a crown placed upon your head, a gift from divinity. Their hospitality goes far beyond any understanding I had of what it means to welcome someone. It’s generous, selfless, and sometimes overwhelming in the most beautiful way.

Normally, I feel safest in nature, especially when looking for a place to sleep. I’ve always said, “Fear the people, not the wild,” which is why I tend to camp in remote areas. But Iran turned that on its head. Among people, I felt safe. Not just safe—I felt welcomed. I felt seen. I even felt love and gratitude. A bit cheesy, I know, but there’s no better way to describe it.

Tehran Traffic & Tea Invitations

Tehran has this ability to chew you up and spit you out with its chaos—and traffic is the sharpest edge of that blade. We spent nearly 4 hours crawling through 60 kilometers of steel, noise, and unpredictability. In that madness, someone rear-ended Dragos’s bike and vanished into the jam like smoke. I saw the anger on his face, the frustration boiling under his helmet.

And just then, a car behind me made its way forward. A young couple emerged: Ahura and Elaha. “We saw what happened,” they said. “We’re so sorry. Please, let us invite you for a tea. Let us compensate on behalf of our own kind.”

That moment of compassion cracked something open.

We said yes to the chai—and ended up spending two weeks together. They were musicians, artists of life and sound. We talked about everything: freedom, fear, faith, and handpans. It was one of those encounters where strangers instantly feel like people you’ve known all along. We didn’t just sip tea together—we became part of each other’s stories.

When the Mountain Shakes

Somewhere between the North and Shiraz, adventure stopped feeling like fun and started feeling like survival.

It began like any other ride—cruising through a mountain pass, wrapped in the quiet beauty of the road. But from one second to the next, the sky flipped, and a storm hit us with winds over 70 km/h. I didn’t even have time to process. One moment I was riding, the next—I was screaming into my helmet.

I lost control of Fjord, my motorcycle. The wind slammed into us from every side, pulling me across the road like a leaf in a storm. Dragos was in the same mess, but stronger hands meant tighter grip. I couldn’t keep Fjord straight anymore. And I knew: this wasn’t something I could fight.

Stopping wasn’t an option—the wind would’ve tossed us off the road like paper scraps. So I let go—not of the bike, but of control. I loosened my grip and let Fjord guide me in his chaos. My job became staying upright. Breathing. Trusting that somehow, we wouldn’t be thrown off a cliff.

One car—just one—noticed what was going on. The driver slowed down, positioned his car behind us, and started signaling the rest of the traffic to steer clear. For kilometers, he shielded us like a guardian angel on four wheels.

That’s how we met Mehrdad.

He didn’t just wave goodbye after the storm. He brought us home. Fed us. Dried our clothes. Let us sleep. His family treated us with the kind of care that made me cry silently that night—because they expected nothing. They simply gave. Because we needed help. Because they could offer it.

Iran has many Mehrdads. Many people who meet your fear with their humanity. People who stop when everyone else speeds past.

Hengam: Iran Reimagined

Coming from Shiraz and heading toward the Persian Gulf felt like moving through time, into something raw and unfiltered. When we stepped onto Hengam Island, everything changed.

Here, Iran took a completely different form.

The women were running the businesses—cafés, art spaces, little music venues tucked between palms. There were no headscarves. No heavy rules. People were dancing, painting, making espresso, creating things that would be impossible on the mainland. It reminded me of Vama Veche, Romania—maybe 18 years ago, when it was still wild and free.

Even more unbelievable: women were swimming freely, in regular swimsuits. Something strictly forbidden in the eyes of the government. But on Hengam, the soul breathes deeper. This was the underground heartbeat of Iran, pulsing with joy.

And we weren’t alone. We were still traveling with Ahura and Elaha, and since they’re musicians—and Hengam lives for music—we ended up hosting small concerts everywhere we stopped. Every beach became a stage. Every sunset was followed by sound. I got to watch from the sidelines, behind the scenes, and see people moved to tears or dancing barefoot in sand.

It was real. Raw. Unapologetically human.

The Dance of the Intersection

And then, of course, there were the roads.

I remember one moment, trapped in the madness of yet another traffic wave, where I felt stuck—completely unable to move forward. The horns, the chaos, the pressure. It was like being swept away by a current that doesn’t care where you’re headed.

I took a deep breath. And I thought: if you can’t beat them—be like them. Adapt. Let go of your own rules for a moment. I almost closed my eyes when I entered that intersection. I sped up—not out of confidence, but out of survival. I didn’t look left or right, didn’t check mirrors. I just moved.

It felt like joining a dance with no choreography. Where nobody seems to care, and yet—miraculously—everyone does. We moved forward together. Every car, every bike, somehow weaving around each other with an unspoken rhythm.

That’s Iran too.

Flipped perspective

What started as fear—of not fitting in, of watching every step—transformed into being myself. I learned from the people I met, and in return, I gave back in my own way. Every day brought something new: new faces, new landscapes, new perspectives.

Iran is wild. Iran is beautiful. And most importantly—Iran is not just one country.

There is the Iran of the government.
And then there is the true Iran: the Iran of the people.
And that’s the one I carry with me.