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Hopton was underweight was a gross understatement. The kid was positively skeletal, and about as good at the sport of rugby as I am at synchronized swimming, which is to say no good at all. Hopton couldn’t have tackled his grandmother—and she’d been dead for over a decade. But today was his day. It was the first time he’d not been picked last and he seized his moment of glory. Glancing back at the far more athletic players, he puffed out his chest in mock bravado and gave an audible condescending “hah!” their way. Everybody laughed except Mr. Brown.
    My most unlikely, and unfortunate, rugby team of misfits ended up getting the drubbing of our lives from the burly cream of the class. But it was well worth it. When we passed the one hundred to zero mark, Mr. Brown, in a fit of frustration, scrapped the game and changed the teams, receiving, I hope, a disapproving scribble on the inspector’s clipboard.
    The dispute over teams on the volleyball court was finally resolved and the players, most of them wearing work shirts, shoes, and dress pants, not sporting gear, began a game. Three other guys, who were in fact wearing “casuals,” sat watching from a bench nearby. Also spectating were lots of younger boys, of around seven to ten years old, who all hung out together in a big group.
    It was a pretty even match, but when one particularly good point was scored, everyone applauded. I did likewise and received a couple of gracious nods from the players below. Lots of the little kids now tentatively looked my way. They all whispered together and looked as if they were discussing approaching the strange tourist but didn’t quite have the courage in case he wasn’t friendly. After a couple more applauded shots, one of the biggest of the kids threw caution to the wind and began his advance. The others stayed a safe distance back and looked on.
    He got within a few feet of me and said cautiously, “Hello.”
    “Hello, salaam,” I replied.
    That was it—he turned and smiled triumphantly down at his friends, giving them the all clear. They stampeded en masse up to join their friend, and now with an assembled audience he did it again.
    “Hello,” he said, as if performing a demonstration.
    “Hello, salaam,” I replied again.
    They all wanted to give this a try. To everyone’s delight, it worked as well for them as it had done for their friend and the tourist replied “Hello, salaam” in return. Although this was the limit of the conversation, it did nothing to curb their enthusiasm and they tried it repeatedly just to make sure it still worked. Luckily, I was rescued by one of the guys on the bench, who waved me down to join them. I walked over and was immediately offered a glass of tea, or chay as it is called in Iran, from a decorative silver tray. There were only three glasses so I hesitated—I didn’t want to steal their drink.
    I took one though, figuring that as they’d offered, it must be okay and what’s more, I fancied a drink. One of them spoke a tiny bit of English, and asked me in a matter-of-fact way for my name, age, occupation, and salary, along with where I was from and whether I was married. On hearing that I wasn’t married yet, he expressed his sadness, as if this was a terrible trauma for a male of nearly thirty to bear. I learned later that these questions, including the seemingly tactless ones of how much I earned and whether I was married, are in fact standard Iranian icebreakers, and I was to hear them again and again wherever I went. I kind of liked this forthright approach that rejected the idea of delicately pussyfooting around a new social encounter and instead cut through the BS and went directly for the required information. Perhaps, I wondered, Iranian guys had a similarly frank approach when chatting up women, and asked directly for waist, chest, and leg measurements, along with a full STD history, and whether or not they were up for it.
    During my introductions with the guys on