Guardian:

The daughter of an American diplomat recalls the heady summer before the fall of the Shah and the privileges that went with it

Mike and Jenny were waiting for me in the steaming snarl of traffic on Roosevelt Avenue. My younger brother and sister were on vacation from high school in the States and I was going awol from my job teaching English at an ESL Institute.

I brandished the wad of cash I’d wrested from my lecherous boss, leapt into the VW station wagon and, cradling the cassette player, sank blissfully into the backseat. Stevie Wonder wailed with delight as we fixed our gaze on the mountains and headed north to paradise.

We had made this trip countless times in the previous 15 years. Our journey in August 1978 followed a familiar pattern: the slow, traffic-choked crawl out of noisy, hot, polluted Tehran, followed by the exhilarating rush of speed as we hit the foothills; the air growing pure and cool on the gentle ascent up winding mountain roads, the sudden hike in humidity as we crested and descended through lush green forests, turning off the music to hear the insects sing, finally arriving with cries of happiness on the highway which would carry us along the Caspian coast.

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