A piece on Kerman, my hometown:
A quote from the above link:
One time in Keman, my grandmother sent me to the bazaar for cumin. I asked for a quarter of a kilo. Perched comfortably on his chair, the spice seller looked me in the eye and raised his brows in a "no".My father was born in Mahan, a small city close to Kerman. Our last name means "from Mahan" in Persian.
That's the stereotypical Kermani attitude for you, too blasé to even speak. Trying to trump him at his own game, I pretended not to understand the gesture until he was finally forced to reply: "We don't have any."
I pointed to a huge sack of cumin in the back.
He grumbled like a bear deep in winter slumber. "You said you want a quarter of a kilo. You want me to get up and walk to the back and open the sack and weigh your purchase ... do all that work, for a quarter of a kilo? Nope, my child, I don't have a quarter of a kilo."
Such incidents aren't rare here. A merchant unwilling to rise from his seat might ask you to come back the next day when the shop is busy and he's up anyway, or he might just ignore you - gaze through you with eyes half closed until you go away. I always react to rudeness in other circumstances, but somehow these shop owners don't bother me. The bazaar exemplifies Kerman's whimsical, lazy spirit, often exacerbated by the region's avid taste for opium. (Kermanis distinguish traditional leisurely use from addiction.)
Amazing photos of colors one can only see in a mosque:
Let's add a piece of music to the end too :)