On Monday evening we got caught in the mother of all rainstorms. Marooned for ages at the top of the steps from Pavilion, waiting for a Blue Line bus. They don't exist any more, I swear. Or at least they don't exist on wet Mondays.

It poured and poured. Slithering pedestrians crossed the streaming expanse between the bus stop and the covered steps, wrestling with umbrellas, saris, and flimsy, rain-slippy sandals. Swooshing traffic. The occasional soaked motor-cyclist. The constant flicker of lightning and the deafening drumming of rain...

I'm not cheerful in rainstorms. Cat-like, I don't like getting my feet wet or my head wet. And -- also cat-like -- I'm very vocal about it. But for some reason, standing on those wet steps, I thought:

1. I am loved;
2. I am healthy;
3. I am fed;
4. I am safe;
5. I am where I want to be.

How many people in the world are not able to tick those five boxes?

And -- very, very humbly -- I thought: I'm so fortunate, and I'm so grateful.

Eventually we gave up on the Blue Line bus, and headed through the sloshy, sloshy wet to the monorail. Not far, but far enough to get my newly repaired shoes filled with water.

It was still raining by the time we got home, so we had another mad dash from the cover of the LRT line to the flat. Wet, wet, wet.

Finished the day with hot tea and the Japanese cakes we'd bought from Minamoto Kitchoan. These consisted of: kusamochi, which is green from mugwort (yomogi) and flat in shape, and thus looks for all the world like a kind of sea slug; ohagi kurogoma, which is black sesame mochi, and as we all know, black sesame is always good; and kofuku (bean cake), which comes in pretty little packages, and is like a tiny pie, with a walnut at the centre of the sweet bean paste filling.

Very nice. Almost made up for getting wet. Almost.



On Tuesday evening, we went to Sentul Park.

To Bistro Richard first, for a margarita and a shared pizza (both good). This is a bit decadent, I admit, but it was kind of a continuation of Prudence's birthday celebrations.

Then to KLPAC to watch The Song of Sparrows, an Iranian movie by Majid Majidi.

Lovely. It's about a guy who's doing his best to look after his family, but is suddenly beset by twin disasters. He's poor, so he has no protective buffer. But he figures out he can make a living by being a motorcycle taxi driver in Tehran. He also figures out he can salvage a bit of stuff -- old doors, window-frames, and the like -- on the side. Of course, he gets a bit carried away, starts to value stuff more than people, to resent others' attempts to contribute to the family income, and generally get a bit above himself. It takes the inevitable accident to bring him back to the true mainstays of life.

I found some of the reviews quite astonishing. One reviewer described it as "a series of strict moral lessons pieced together into an austere Islamic sermon". What?

He continues: "The films protracted middle section portrays modern urban life as hell on earth. Tehran looks hideous: a giant junkyard attached to a messy construction site and overrun with frantic cellphone-wielding wheeler-dealers negotiating traffic that is near gridlock". WHAT??

What I see is a vibrant city where people have the opportunity to make a living, where there is life and colour and energy, and where -- generally, despite all the bustle -- people are OK to each other.

Another reviewer opines: "A parable of urban corruption and pastoral rehabilitation, The Song of Sparrows is weakened by its simplistic moral". I disagree. I think the contrast lies in an individual's reaction to circumstances, not in the urban/rural contrast. The rural setting saw the original disasters, remember... And the "moral" seemed to me quite complex, and not at all overstated.

Anyway, HERE is the Tehran of my recollections.

We walked home. Through the froggy park. Along the rumbly streets. Past the corner where a couple of sex workers were waiting for business. "Welcome to Malaysia," one called to us cheerily.

On Wednesday morning we photographed the shrine that we'd spotted for the first time only the day before. The shrine in the carpark. The shrine with its own filing cabinet. Today the shrine had a squirrel in it. See him?





On Friday, walking back from Sogo (after excellent cendol), we caught the dying blazes of the day's sun in the shiny side of a building.



What a week, what a week... So many lotuses in one city.