The guests started arriving at twilight, roaring into the driveway on motorcycles, in BMW’s, and Land Rovers. They were a motley crowd, drawn from all sections of my social and professional life. My best friend from high school who had spent the year making a documentary about Azerbaijani nomads tore her clothes off as she ran down to the beach and soon I was introducing naked people to one another.
My Dutch leading man, who supervised a construction site down south, arrived with a jeep full of crates of beer, compliments of his buddy “Freddie Heineken”. The hard-drinking Brits, some Scots, who had built the monumental set for my show pounced, and soon started in on the drinking songs which had become as much a part of my party repertoire as the Travolta/Newton-John duets from Grease.
My pals who had just completed compulsory service in the Imperial military told hilarious, self-deprecating stories of interacting with working-class soldiers from all around Iran. My dad wandered amiably amidst the clusters of partiers. Night fell. Fires and pipes were lit. The rich, earthy fragrance of hashish enfolded us. We swam in the warm heavy water, which reflected the stars above.
The next morning my dad and I tiptoed around 50 or so snoring, murmuring bodies strewn throughout the villa. He made huge skillets of scrambled eggs and bacon in the tiny kitchen, awakening the guests with the aroma.