I did what any sane traveller would do. Spent the last of my UAE Dirams on an Egg McMuffin, smoked a cigarette, drank two black coffees to stay awake a few more hours, coughed a lung up outside the terminal entrance, sat down and caught a few well-needed rays (after spending four months in a bleak post-Soviet winter), and made up for all of those Central Asian Lada-taxis by riding a pimped-out black-on-black Lexus from Dubai to Sharjah. It was time to visit Iran – the sanest travel choice, in an increasingly insane world.

But, this flu was no joke. Leaving the first plane in Dubai, United Arab Emirates, I faced up to my choices. Stop in modern and tourist friendly UAE, recover, rest, and head to Iran another day. Or, catch a cab cross town, jump on another flight, and fly straight into the mysterious ancient city of Shiraz, Iran – with no visa, no bookings for accommodation, nor any proof of onwards travel. I needed to make a decision.

At least three unplanned events had occurred in the lead-up to this moment. Thirty-six sleepless hours. Rapid onset of a killer flu. A crooked Tajikistan police officer attempting to extract a bribe from me, holding my passport hostage in a dark room at the end of a dark corridor (another story, another time). I only had one “official” travel plan – beguilingly simple – reach Iran, today. After the bribes and blackouts, despite my failing health, I was more determined than ever to complete the plan. Because, I know what most of the world doesn’t know – in Iran, I would be safe, comfortable, relaxed, and taken care of.

There were four or five pretty young ladies, touching me, stroking my forehead, grabbing my arm, all doe-eyed and fawning, soft-lighting, holding my legs high, cruising at 40000 feet, and well, in that moment I completely forgot about reality. After I’d passed-out and came-to laying down in the aisle of a plane, despite the loveliness of the situation, the ridiculous world I naively wander through had just became very real.

My friends, family, and every person I’ve ever met, has said the same things about Iran. The comments range between “be careful” and “you’re fucking crazy”. This week, I had one reader contact me, explaining that due to the events in Paris, I should be extra careful in Iran. Fortunately, Iran is much safer than Paris.

It’s an insight to the extent of the almost global brainwashing – Iran, a peaceful country who has not been involved in a war since the US backed war with Iraq in the 1980’s, is still considered a key member of the “Axis of Evil”. Unlike nearby nuclear armed Israel and India, Iran has signed a nuclear weapons non-proliferation agreement. They don’t even have any nuclear weapons. For thirty-six years, Iran has undergone crippling economic sanctions from most of the world, for a never ending roster of non-nonsensical non-reasons. And now, Paris. But, there’s always something – the irrational Western fear of Muslim nations knows no bounds. These are the preconceptions that Iranians have to deal with – a French citizen in Paris goes crazy, therefore, Iran is more dangerous this week. And this is why visiting Iran remains a big deal – just because a few exceptionally influential governments and media organisations insist that visiting Iran, really is a big deal.

“Oh, you’re visiting Iran…. hmmm… where is your Visa? And… you don’t seem to have any further flights booked… hmmmm…”

This had happened before. In Malaysia in 2012, they would’t allow me board the flight to Tehran, visa-less, until several layers of managers had discussed my “situation”. The conversation ended with “we’ll let you board, but if it doesn’t work out, you must understand you’re on your own”. Of course, it all worked out. Because Iran is a normal country. With exceptionally welcoming people. And they love tourists.

At Sharjah airport, I’d anticipated this same moment. I knew exactly what to say. However, due to the flu and lack of sleep, I couldn’t I think straight. I just explained myself in the most persuasive way possible.

“Don’t worry about me. It’s all cool. We’ll be fine. I will get an Iranian visa on arrival.”

Seriously, I waved my hand across the desk, just like Ben Kenobe.

“OK. It is all cool. You will be fine. They will give you a visa on arrival. Enjoy Iran.”

My luggage was checked, and a boarding-card issued.

Further along, at the Sharjah customs, the veiled girl with the badge and the pretty eyes gave me the same pause, once she realised I was heading to Iran.

“Oh…. you’re visiting Iran… there is some paperwork you need to complete, especially for you, I’ll just have to get it.”

I waved my hand over the desk.

“There is no paper work for me to complete.”

I looked into her eyes.

“Um, OK, just wait here, I’ll be back with the paperwork.”

The force was strong with this one.

Visiting Iran, is kind of a big deal for the Sharjah authorities. I completed the “special” form, in duplicate. Ticking boxes that indicated I was aware of the “security situation” in Iran. I wondered, what exactly was the security situation in Iran. They wanted contact details, preferences for funeral proceedings, and a complete list of the other fifty-eight countries I had previously visited. A lot of questions later, I was cleared through customs. The flu was catching up again, so I headed to the departure lounge to rest, and await the inevitable next-step.

Over the airport intercom, a “special” announcement was made. Just for travellers bound for Iran. We were to report to a different gate than previously advised, for “advanced security processing”. To Sharjah airport security, travelling to Iran was a big deal. Around an hour earlier than the usual time, we were checked and processed by multiple staff and multiple scanning machines. Then we had to wait in a closed-off section with no option to return to the “normal” part of the airport.

A man was walking around. He was exclusively chatting to tourists bound for Iran. There were four other tourists on this flight. Compared to 2012, an increase of four. That’s a statistically significant 200% increase in tourist numbers to Iran.

“So… you’re going to Shiraz. Do you have a visa? Hmmm. No? Show me your passports……”

I handed them over.

“Oh, so you’re going to get a visa on arrival? Cool. Enjoy Iran.”

Yes, he said “cool”, smiled, and returned our passports. Then he walked away, muffled something into his collar about “affirmative, target has been contacted, returning to ghost-surveillance mode and awaiting further instructions for… ”

Reality was returning. The shackles of Iranian preconceptions were dissolving. The globally constructed media meme of “terrible naughty Iran” was slipping away, I knew everything would be fine from this point, so I passed out for a few minutes rest.

Arriving in Shiraz, the airport bus from plane to terminal confirmed that yes, I was really on the ground in Iran, and so obviously surrounded by Iranians. To understand Iranians, you need to understand “Tarof”. A specifically Iranian social construct that’s far beyond politeness, chivalry, and civility. Tarof permeates Iranian society. The rules are unfathomable to a foreigner. In general, you are obliged to offer whatever you have, to all guests. As a guest, you’re equally obliged to politely refuse. This will go back and forth. On a bus that only has eight seats, with about fifty passengers, this was a glorious game of Iranian musical chairs, both fascinating and heart-warming to be a part of.

With Tarof, does a young lady struggling with a small baby trump a middle-aged lady with a walking stick? Who gets the seat? What about a man who looks kind of young for his age, clearly very fit, but is probably, I guess, sixty or so… does he get the chair, or, as a guest in Iran, do I trump everyone? It was a maelstrom of “please, take the seat”, “no, I insist, you take the seat”, “no, no, please, you take the seat”. When you mix Tarof with the Iranian respect for the elderly, as well as the chivalrous nature of the men, things could get complicated. I decided the best thing to do was just smile wildly, which really, is impossible not to do in this situation, and continue to offer the last remaining seat to every other person on the bus. I knew it would sort itself out, and everyone would be happy no matter what, because Iranians, are just so fucking nice.

I’ll just expand on Tarof, because it really is fascinating. We don’t have Tarof in the “West”. The closest we have is the “who is paying the restaurant bill” – the dance where everyone reaches for their wallet, awkwardly insists on paying, simultaneously hoping that the richest guy at the table will pay for everyone. In Iran, Tarof is that bill-paying moment, several times a day, every day, for the rest of your life. Catching a taxi, a driver told me “no no, your presence as a guest here in Iran is enough. I cannot accept your money”. At the market, I’ve been told at the checkout not to pay, and “may your footsteps fall onto my eye balls”. I’m not joking. Maybe, it seems like it would be annoying, but it’s not. It’s a game, and who doesn’t love games.

Entering the Shiraz terminal, I would soon find out if visiting Iran was a big deal to the authorities – who most definitely do not engage in Tarof with visa-less foreigners.