The uniformed jaran did not acknowledge that I was speaking German to him. Silently, he checked my invitation, then compared the picture in my American passport with my sullen local face and seemed to think it matched reasonably well. His head somehow resembled an armchair—with its deep-set forehead, armrest-like ears, and jutting jaw-seat—and I could not stop staring at it. He handed back my passport with the invitation tucked inside it and said, “Good evening to you.”
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