By Navid Ganji
I’m barreling down a dusty road in Zanjan Province, Iran, the sun blasting the plains into a golden haze. The car’s humming, windows down, and the air’s whipping in—dry, sharp, laced with wild herbs. I’m on a mission to see the Soltaniyeh Dome, and it’s teasing me from afar, a turquoise smudge against the endless sky.
The First Glimpse: A Titan Rises
I pull into Soltaniyeh village, and there it is—bam!—the dome hits me like a punch. It’s massive, a turquoise crown on a brick giant, towering over sleepy houses painted in faded yellows. Kids chase each other by a fountain, their shouts bouncing off the walls, while an old guy sips tea and gives me a nod. The air’s thick, heavy with centuries, and I’m already hooked. I park, hop out, and crunch across gravel, the dome growing bigger, bolder. That turquoise top? It’s glowing, catching sunlight like a jewel. The tiles are chipped, scarred by time, but that’s what makes it real—like it’s earned every crack.
Stepping Into History
The entrance stops me cold—a huge arch dripping with blue-and-white tiles, swirling like some poet’s handwriting. I run my fingers over them, cool and smooth, feeling the grooves from 700 years back. Inside, the world hushes. My boots echo on the stone floor, a lonely tap-tap spiraling up. Sunlight slashes through tiny windows, painting gold streaks on red brick walls. Faded murals cling on—reds, blues, hints of gold—flowers and stars from another era. I tilt my head, and the dome’s a creamy curve above, striped with bricks racing to a glowing dot. Built in the 1300s for Öljaitü, it’s a brick beast, and I’m standing right under its heart.
Climbing the Beast
I find the stairs—narrow, steep, twisting inside the walls. The stone’s slick, worn by a thousand hands before mine, and every step feels like a time machine. Halfway up, I hit a balcony, and the view slams me. Plains stretch forever, gold and green under a sky so blue it’s showing off. The village looks tiny below, swallowed by this monster. Wind tugs my hair, smelling of dust and roses, and I’m grinning like a kid. Up higher, I reach the gallery near the dome’s base—stars and hexagons carved into the bricks, tiles popping in cobalt and green. I flop onto a cold ledge, the wind humming, and just stare. This double-shell wonder’s been shrugging off quakes and wars since forever.
Circling the King
Back outside, the sun’s softening, warming the bricks as I circle the base. The minarets are stumps now, but I can picture them spiking the sky. The walls are chunky, buttressed like they’re flexing. I press my hand to one—rough, hot, alive. Calligraphy runs high above, white on blue, too far to read, while stucco vines crumble lower down, delicate and frayed. The colors shift with every step: turquoise dome, red bricks, golden plains. It’s a living postcard, and I’m in it.
Sunset Glow: The Dome Says Goodbye
The sun’s dipping now, splashing oranges and pinks across the dome. I perch on a low wall, birds chirping, the air cooling fast. It glows like a lantern, and I can feel the builders’ sweat in every brick—a king’s dream that outlasted him. Shadows stretch long as I head back, dust kicking up under my boots. The dome shrinks behind me, but it’s stuck in my head—big, bold, unforgettable.
Email: Navidganjii@Gmail.com
