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Persian SpringGardens in the Axis of Evil.

By Constance CaseyPosted Monday, May 21, 2007, at 7:29 AM ET

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All I could take in from the speech was "Allah" repeated again and again, so I asked an English-speaking Iranian man I'd chatted with what the speech was about. "He's telling us that we should live as good Muslims and be like the Prophet," the man said, and added, to my surprise, "You know, the president shouldn't be talking about the Prophet. He is political, and politics and religion are separate things."

Though trying for pure tourist-hood, I had to notice that this April marked a moment in history as well as a pleasant season. Shortly before our 17-day trip started, President Ahmadinejad released the 15 British Royal Navy hostages who'd been plucked off their boat by the Iranian Revolutionary Guard and returned wearing Ahmadinejad-like garb, thus Ali's reference to the gray suits.

Around the middle of the tour, back in the United States, Sen. John McCain casually sang, "Bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb, bomb Iran" to the tune of the Beach Boys' "Barbara Ann." But, just after my return to the United States, Condoleezza Rice exchanged greetings with Iran's foreign minister, and then it was announced that our ambassador in Iraq would speak to the Iranian ambassador there, breaking a diplomatic freeze of 28 years.

In case things really thaw and Iran becomes as fashionable a tourist destination as Hanoi, let me advise that April is the time to go. Back in the 13^th century, Saadi wrote of the month, "God has told the chamberlain of the wafting breeze to spread an emerald-green carpet and has ordered the nourisher of the spring clouds to bring to fruition the daughters of the plants in the cradle of the earth."

The formal gardens, where you'll find the daughters of the plants being coaxed by irrigation to come out of the cradle of the earth, have a central pool in the middle of four sections divided by channels of water. In a typical plan, each quarter would have a fruit tree under-planted with tulips in the spring, roses in summer.

People relax near the Zayandeh Rud river, IsfahanIn Iranian cities, as the sun goes down, families and groups of friends come out to parks and gardens carrying carpets. There are wooden platforms where you can unroll a rug and sit or recline in the shade, listening to the water and drinking tea. It's the perfect occasion for a glass of wine. Shiraz, perhaps. But now the Shiraz grapes are used to make raisins. Despite the hip global vision of Iran's youth, the laws of Islam still hold; alcohol is illegal, and we were very strongly advised not to try to hide a flask somewhere.

Also in keeping with Islamic mandates, men and women go into separate lines for security at the Tehran airport, where I got a fierce frisking from an unsmiling woman in full chador. A half hour before our flight to London, a middle-aged woman approached me in the departures area and asked, as so many had, "Are you American?" Her face, rather mild and kind, was easy to see because every strand of hair was pushed back under her black headscarf. (My hair was under a printed silk scarf—the Nancy Pelosi-in-Syria look.)

The woman asked if I'd mind watching her black leather satchel, a hand gesture indicating she was on her way to the ladies' room. "Sure," I said, and tucked what looked like an old-fashioned doctor's bag next to my feet. Camilla, one of my companions on the tour and the mistress of one of the great gardens of Somerset raised an eyebrow and said coolly, "If she doesn't come back, we're moving."

The woman did come back; it turned out she had lived in Los Angeles for 25 years. Iranians and Westerners have a habit of mistrust, reinforced by plenty of history. Is it foolish to trust? The woman had been through security, after all, and so had we.