The house

This blade-thin house (enlarge!), squeezed between two streets, could stand somewhere in southern France or Italy. However, this one stands in Isfahan. This is what I love about it. Along the street, small shops in a line, from the alley, the entrances of the flats belonging to the shops. From the flats, warm light flows onto the street.

The two man talking at the right, who while I was shooting, discreetly retreated next to the cars, now come forth from the shadow, with Muslim rosaries in their hands. “Do you like it?”, they point at the house. “Yes, very much.” “Come in, we have very good socks.” “Unfortunately I have just bought some in the bazaar,” I show him the plastic bag, I am really regretful. Yesterday in the Zagros, during rock climbing, or rather during rock descent, the last one was punctured by all my ten toes, I had to buy one with the logo of Dolce and Gabbana, which I will flash later during the evening in the party. He enters the shop, then comes back. “Then please accept one as a gift.”

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