I came across this article by accident. It has some very funny points which I'll reproduce here (extracts) with kind permission of Dr. Pierre Flener. (http://www.dis.uu.se/~pierref/)

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Traffic.

I have often ranted about  traffic in Turkey  (which is where I live),
but now that I have  been to  Iran, I have  enormous  respect  for the
"discipline" of Turkish drivers.  They are choirboys compared to their
Iranian  brothers!  I completely  lack the words to describe the chaos
of an Iranian city, especially  Tehran, where cars shoot around in gay
abandon, filling literally every millimeter of the road, disrespecting
every sign and light (many traffic  lights are actually  switched to a
permanently  blinking  yellow, and often lack the red and green lenses
altogether),  honking  ferociously, and committing many other horrors.
And there are bicycles and motorbikes on this battlefield,  often even
driving up roads on opposing  lanes, or  invading  the  sidewalks  and
covered  bazaars, thus extending the  jurisdiction  of the Jungle Law.
Now, do you really want to know where and how pedestrians fit into all
this?!  When I left the bus terminal and crossed a wide boulevard with
the Akbars,  weaving lane by lane through  dense  traffic, and somehow
making it to the other side  unscathed,  I turned  around with a proud
look on my face, fully expecting the pedestrian  crowds to cheer "ole,
ole, ole" and make Mexican waves on the  sidewalks!  But no, there was
no reaction:  I had just learned the first  survival  skill that every
infant in Iran seems to  acquire  (or not,  judging  from the  limping
masses).  Watching Latino toreros doesn't give me any thrills anymore,
as they only face  _one_  bull.  Crossing a Tehran  street is the real
thing, for real men!  Forget the traffic in Athens,  Rome,  Cairo, and
Istanbul,  forget Russian roulette and bungee jumping:  Tehran traffic
gives you the ultimate adrenaline rushes!

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The bus south to the Silk Road city of Esfahan is a superfast brandnew
Volvo,  rather than the usual slow old  Mercedes, so we arrive at 3am,
instead of the 6am or so I was told.  While everybody  bustles away, I
open my guidebook for  orientation,  still rubbing my eyes from sleep.
Just as I am about to  despair  and settle in the park until  sunrise,
help pops up in the friendly person of Hassan, a graduate student at a
local university.  A taxi-ride to downtown soon confirms his suspicion
that hotels have no reception  service at this time of the night; this
being Iran, Hassan simply invites me to his parents'  home,  somewhere
in the Armenian quarter!  This nightly taxi ride through empty streets
raises my spirits, as Esfahan turns out to be at least as beautiful as
in all the travelers'  reports I had read so far:  I immediately  feel
that I will  resonate  with  this  splendid  city,  so I  fall  asleep
happily.

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Fruits and  vegetables are very tasty,  definitely  some of the best I
ever had!  And, as all over the Middle East,  deserts give you a taste
of what angels eat in paradise.

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While on the bus south to  Shiraz, a man and his  family in the  front
row keep  gesturing at me to join them there.  So I eventually  take a
seat  vacated by a son, and the  father  starts  the  conversation  in
halting English:

 - We are very honored to have you aboard this bus, Sir.   [...]

During the usual smalltalk enquiries about my opinions of Iran and the
Iranians,  the other  passengers  stir in their seats and stare at us,
maybe eager to find out about me.  Then:

 - What is your name?
 - Pierre.

Somebody  tips on his  shoulder  and asks, in Farsi,  what my name is.
After his reply, the word "Pierre"  goes like a bushfire to the end of
the bus, so I turn  around and gently  bow  forward,  with a  friendly
smile, now that I am officially introduced.

 - What is your surname?
 - Flener.

And a "Flener" sound soon ripples through the entire bus.

 - Where are you from?
 - I am from Luxemborg.   (sic, Farsi pronunciation)

Now, the  words  "Luxemborg!",  "Luxemborg?",  and  "Istanbul!"  (sic)
resonate around.

 - What is your job?
 - I am a teacher.
 - Are you an English language teacher?
 - No, I teach Computer Science.
 - Wow!  At what level, high school perhaps?
 - No, at a university.
 - But you are very young...  Are you a teaching assistant?
 - No, I have a Ph.D. degree and am an assistant professor.

The eager man behind us tips on my  neighbor's  shoulder  again to get
the  summary  of my  latest  answers.  And the word  "doktora"  echoes
manifold  through  the  bus, to be  instantly  followed  by an  almost
collective outcry:

 - Mashallah!   (a common Islamic phrase, used to avert the evil eye
                 when expressing admiration)

Their  admiration seems  limitless.  (Later I found out that, with the
level of the  economy,  obtaining a Ph.D. in Iran  is  something  very
difficult, and thus quite rare and  noteworthy,  especially for people
of my age.)  Passengers  send their children to bring me cakes, fruit,
vegetables, and tea.  How natural Iranians thus are, in the sense that
they simply  "adopt" me, making me one of theirs, with no regard to my
race, creed, or title!  I like this!

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 The ruins are awesome, with their giant walls, columns, temples, statues, and so
on, especially the incredibly  well-preserved  2,500-year-old reliefs,
such as the  "Parade of  Nations".

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The circular  precinct features some of the best Islamic  architecture
in the  world,  with  golden  roofs  visible  from  far away  and with
mind-bogglingly  sumptuous  mosques and  madrassas  (Kur'an  schools).
After a cursory  bodysearch  and deposit of my daypack (no  cameras of
course, and even if it were  allowed, one would have to be  ruthlessly
disrespectful to shoot any photos of these events), I am admitted into
the precinct.  Some pilgrims sidle up to me every now and then, asking
me  whether I am a  Muslim.  Although  I say  `no',  they are  totally
tolerant,  maybe in the belief that my very  presence here will put me
on the  right  path  anyway?  There is so much to see  here  that  you
cannot  take it all in with just one visit.  Other  than the  stunning
tilework, the key experience is of course further  observation  of the
pilgrims.  Here is Shi'ite  Islam in full action, and I am amazed that
I can, as an  infidel,  walk up all the way to the holy  tomb  itself:
the religious  authorities are sometimes very tolerant, no matter what
prejudice circulates in the "West".  Once they have touched and kissed
the tomb of Reza, some  pilgrims  become  hysteric:  adult men roll on
the floor, big tears flow down their  cheeks,  foam builds up on their
mouths, they beat themselves  senseless, and are dragged away by their
more  sober  friends,   while  still  wailing  "ya  Reza,  ya  Ali"...
Unforgettable sights, observed from within, not through long lenses or
on some documentary  channel.  I feel  superfluous as an infidel, but,
even though many would warn you that such  "fanatics"  can easily turn
into a raging mob at the slightest provocation, I must also add that I
feel very safe among all these believers.

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I spent a lot of time  explaining  to them  that the  mention  of my  salary  is
meaningless  unless they also know how much a loaf of bread costs back
home, that the "West" has huge  unemployment  rates so that they would
only be employed if they have quite  unique  qualifications,  that the
"West" has huge crime rates (unlike Iran), that  friendship and family
have  decreasing  roles in the "West" so that they most probably would
hate it there every  minute, etc, but they were all  oblivious to such
rhetoric:  they just wanted to get out...

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A few weeks later, once cozy at home,  pouring over my photos,
telling my stories to my friends,  receiving  the first  letters  from
Iran, etc, I slowly fully realized what a fabulous trip it was, that I
already started missing Iran, that I actually wanted to go back!