The one ray of hope is that we are currently in Shiraz, about 550 miles south of Tehran, not far from the Persian Gulf. Isfahan, where we will observe the eclipse, is halfway to Tehran, on the inland side of the Zagros Mountains. It's much less likely to be cloudy. Still, the sight gave our small group a scare, and we spent breakfast debating, half-jokingly, whether we might consider catching a flight back to Bucharest.

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Shiraz is one of the most ancient cities in the world; there are reliable records of complex trading societies existing here for more than 25 centuries. The ruins of Persepolis, a sort of New Year's resort palace that had been under construction for two centuries when it was sacked by Alexander the Great in 331 B.C., lie about 30 miles north; farther north still is Pasargadae, where the Persian empire was born three centuries earlier. There's not a heck of a lot to admire in these ruins, and the once sylvan landscape is now parched and bare, but one definitely gets the impression of antiquity. It makes a place like New York or San Francisco -- the whole of North America, practically -- seem awkwardly adolescent.

Shiraz is one of those places where the idea of Persia -- Persia as a state of mind -- takes on real meaning. Take the name, for one thing: Shir Raz, "City of Mystery." It was known for centuries as a place of nightingales, roses and poets. The Syrah grape originated here, and the local wine was the favorite of such poet/mystics as Sa'adi, Hafez and Omar Khayyam. These days, of course, the strongest thing you can get is non-alcoholic beer.

There are 16 universities and 59,000 students in Shiraz. More than half of them are women. And quite a few of them seem to be poets -- or at least of poetic temperament. One certainly concludes as much after watching an endless stream of black-shrouded females prostrate themselves, weeping, upon the tomb of Hafez.

Both Hafez (born in 1324) and Sa'adi (1210) lived, died and were buried here in Shiraz. Between them, they more or less represent the pinnacles of Persian literature. Sa'adi was a practical sort of writer who, like Shakespeare, added a vast number of colloquial expressions to his culture. "I complained that I had no shoes," wrote Sa'adi, "until I met a man who had no legs." Or, "You have two ears and one mouth -- so best to listen twice before speaking once." In short, he was full of the sort of phrases parents use to torment their children.

Hafez, on the other hand, was a lyrical mystic. As a young man, he could recite the entire Quran by heart, hence the appellation "hafez," which literally means "one who remembers." One of the many wits in our tour group asked Ali, our imperturbable guide, if he knew the word for "one who forgets."

"It's actually very interesting," Ali replied. "The word, also from Arabic, is 'ensun' -- which also means 'human being.' For it is said that all humans once knew God and his teachings, but have forgotten them."

There is a tradition, at the tomb of Hafez, that the visitor make a wish, open at random the collected poetry of Hafez and place his finger upon the page. Thus is one's fortune revealed. Ever a sucker for such omens, I strode over to the little bookshop and located a copy of "Hafez in English." I performed the rite without delay, with the following result:

"Twas morning, and the Lord of day/Had shed his light o'er Shiraz' towers/Where bulbuls trill their love-lorn lay/To serenade the maiden flowers."

The message, which reminded me powerfully of the Jabberwock, seemed to indicate no relief in my struggle against jet lag.

There are many lovely mosques and mausoleums in Shiraz. The most beautiful is undoubtedly the Bogh'e-ye Shah-e Cheragh (I only ever learned the Cheragh part). The history behind the personage honored in this shrine (i.e. the brother of the eighth grandson of the Prophet Mohammad) is maddeningly complicated, but he was called the King of the Lamp and died (or was poisoned like his brother; one never knows for sure in Persia) back in 835.

Let me interject that for an "ensun" such as myself, there is a tremendous amount of history to be overlooked if one is to enjoy Iran. The string of eras, dates, deeds, sackings, sieges, poisonings, seductions, dynasties, imams, Alis, eighth-grand-brothers and rulers named Xerxes is enough to make you throw your guidebook at the wall.

This frustration evaporates instantly, however, the instant one steps, shoeless, into that Cheragh place. It is unbelievable. My friend on this journey, Sam, told me he'd seen the place featured in a film called "Baraka," but I cannot imagine a film could do this shrine justice. The entire interior is an intricate mosaic of tiny mirrors, covering every inch of the high walls and vaulted ceilings. Chandeliers hung in their midst; morning light poured in through the colored glass.

Sam and I entered during a mid-morning call to prayer and stood there with our mouths open. It was like falling into a kaleidoscope loaded with diamonds. I might have stayed there forever, but we suddenly found ourselves surrounded by several hundred Iranian schoolboys. Mirrors, they see every day, but two Americans -- now that's something. They massed around us, their notebooks open, begging for autographs.

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