Villa Koochikeh

Villa Koochikeh, on 6th St., Darya Kenar, was the first villa that I remember. There is a home video of me there when I was 20-days-old, so it was there way before I was born. It must have gotten the nickname of "Villa Koochikeh" when we bought the second Villa on 12th St., and since that one was way bigger, we called that one "Villa Bozorgeh"! (How simplicity works). What we called Villa Koochikeh before Villa Bozorgeh came into picture, I do not recall. I used to think that Villa Bozorgeh was the mother and Villa Koochikeh the child.

Villa Koochikeh was very quaint. It had one small bedroom downstairs, and they had remodeled the garage into a second bedroom, which was really cold during Norouz time and no body wanted to sleep there. It had one bathroom and shower that we all had to share. The kitchen was bigger than the bedroom, of course, since cooking and eating was a big deal. It also had hardwood floors. At any given time, 20-30 people stayed there. How we fit, and where we slept exactly is beyond me, but we did.

Then there was the "Loft". Wow, the Loft was so exciting because no one in Tehran had anything like it in their houses, and the Loft made this little cabin so chic and westernized. A room without a door! I always wanted to sleep there or just spend time up there and look at everyone sitting in the living room and wave at them.

The back yard was huge, but it only had a couple of trees. Only my Daee Hamid liked to water the plants and garden, and if he wasn't coming with us, the trees remained thirsty.

In front of the Villa across the street, there were rows and rows of pine trees. Their fresh smell was the sign that we had reached our destination each time we travelled there.

From the Villa, it was a few blocks to the beach, and a few blocks to the famous one and only Daryakenar supermarket, which I biked to frequently to buy various things daily.

Then it happened.

All the bad stuff. The revolution, the war, people fleeing. Something happened with Villa Koocheekeh. There was a sale of some sort but not quite, and it was gone. I just know that my childhood is very much like Scarlett O'Hara's life spent in Tara during the good old days...and then boom..it was all gone.

And now, I just dream of it sometimes. Dream of its warm and comforting walls, and the vaulted ceilings. And I dream that one day I can go back and write a check to the new owner of it, whomever it may be, and buy it back to reclaim at least part of identity. But then what? it would never be the same again because by then, half the people who were part of that memory will be gone.

"So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past."

From the Great Gatsby