I was seven when my parents decided to send me abroad, to the crown jewel of progress and perfection, neatness and discipline, the seat of western civilization. I was to learn manners, to tell my left from my right, my up from my down. Parents weren't hopeful that I could learn these things with them, or in Iranian schools next to Iranian peers. They wanted me to learn important languages, to befriend the while of skin, to hold the knife in my left, fork in my right, handkerchief in my pocket, and many more hidden or open dreams that these two pilgrims of western civilization had spun.

They put my passport in a plastic wallet and threw it around my neck, combed my hair with their hands, put a Koran to my lips and forehead, and sent me off along with dreams that weighed heavily on my shoulders. I didn't know what I had to learn. Didn't know what it meant to be civilized. Why I was being sent.

At the Genovese airport, {Madame M.}, a middle-aged, flat-chested, dry-skinned, thin-lipped, small-mouthed, proud owner of a pension (boarding school), picked me up. "Your friends haven't arrived yet," she said to me in Fnerch, meaning fellow boarders, "but they will soon be here and you will have a fruitful summer." I was quite happy with summers of Tehran and had no idea who these "friends" were, halfway across the globe in the village of Chateau-d'Oex.

Everything was neat in this village and signs of prosperity were abound. Wooden houses bore flowerpots that hung from their windows. Cars were shining. Mountains had trees (all of them) and grass covered the foothills.

Within a week, my playmates arrived. They were from various parts of Europe, but mostly from the south -- perhaps because their cultures, too, needed to pick up some table manners. Since the owner was Swiss, she couldn't help it, her rhythm was tuned to the tick of Swiss watches. She has everything planned. Not even play was outside that rhythm. We couldn't talk during meal and each of my "friends" had their own lessons (as did I) outside collective activities.

I was allergic to horse shit. Literally. My eyes would swell and tears came down nonstop. But this reaction on the part of my body didn't stop my lessons. I would go to the riding school every other day. And with each passing day my fear of horses and downfall increased. I so tightly held onto the saddle that my legs and arm would get sore.

Nor were swimming lessons pleasant. I was chubby and didn't want to undress in front of the girls, some of who were from our own pension. Back then girls were from a different planet, for me.

My Fnerch lessons were private, with a lady whose climacteric house was full of ghosts and tales. She would mostly talk about herself, that, for example, she had drank human blood and eaten dog meat. These stories were designed to make my body cringe.

My tennis coach couldn't keep his eyes on the ball. He would hit them alright (well, mostly lob them for me), but his eyes were checking out other scenes, like the tight ass of young girls, or boy, who knows. He lobbed balls and I hit them, but he would seldom, if ever, hit back.

A month elapsed. I had no close friends. Everyone was doing his or her own thing, and, on top of that, I wasn't European, which meant that I was from "there there". At the dinner table, one night, Madame M. announced that on the next day, an American friend would join us. I sensed that the American-ness of this friend was significant. All I knew about America was that it was huge, somewhere faraway. I knew a few names too, like Kennedy, which was a square in Tehran, and Eisenhower, which was an avenue. It is true that everyone in the pension was introduced by nationality, but Madame M. announced this one in a way that we understood there was something special about it.

Jason arrived. The first thing that attracted my attention was his braces. This trapping, which today most middle class kids come equipped with, was not common in a Third World country like Iran, even among upstart families like mine or that of my classmates. Even though from an aesthetic point of view braces are eyesores, in dramatic terms they give the face of its wearer prominence, which in the case of Jason it lacked sorely. With them, though, he turned into a boxer, ready for battle.

Jason was truly different from others. He exuded an indifference that come off as confidence. I later realized what the source of that pride was: Since he was American, citizen of the Empire, the world was beneath his feet. Americans walk on this earth with pride (like doctors when they enter the patient's room). Their heads are high up -- they are the masters of the universe, lords of the ring, wayfarers of stars. Perhaps an 8-year old Jason didn't know how he intimidated others, but his pride gave it away; for, how could a scrawny, feeble ass like him with an ugly face made uglier by barbed wire treat his "friends" at the boarding school (all of whom were umbilically attached to some Lord, Countess, Baron, Princess, Duke, or Don) as if they were nobodies. He didn't give a damn about their judgments. Indeed, he intimidated other European kids, although in their actions they still tried to act as if Europe was something else.

For a worthless, chubby, nitwit Iranian kid who finds himself among European wolves, Jason's indifference was simply attractive. It is true that European kids are born into money (social and not necessarily personal), but they are no longer the Master; that is, they was at some point and they no longer is, despite the continued attempt at wiping the dead horse of colonialism. In the pyramid of power, their masters are American; as such, their pomp shrivels next to the indifference of the true master. And this was important to an Iranian kid -- having an American friend was a pinprick to the European éclat.

My American friend and I hooked quickly. We distinguished ourselves from Europeans. Jason was a true gentleman, that is, he was kind to me, he was my buddy, and he was on the side of the losers. For the rest of the summer, this relationship continued and made my life in pension tolerable. I was indebted to Jason. He was my friend in exile. My American friend.