Hello to all dear friends and travelers, I hope you are doing well and in these warm summer days, may your heart be cool and your days be happy.
I am here with another travel blog for you.
Yesterday, while I was looking at my photo archive on the system, my eyes fell on photos from the Abbasgholi Khan market in Mashhad. Last year, I accidentally visited this market with friends. I took a few souvenir photos that I will upload below.
I had heard many definitions of this market. This was the reason I went there.
When I entered the market, I felt like I had entered another world. The old architecture, the arches and brick domes, all gave me a good feeling. A kind of nostalgia that you wouldn't want to exchange for any shopping mall.
I started walking around, the shops were full of traditional goods. The scent of rosewater, sugar candy, and saffron, lots of prayer beads and prayer rugs, and things that you can only find in Mashhad with this quality and atmosphere.
As I moved forward, I chatted with a few of the shopkeepers and asked questions. They were very friendly and down-to-earth. One of them said his grandfather also had a shop in this market, since the Qajar era! They told me a lot about the market's past, about how it's close to the seminary and that scholars and students always frequented this place.
Honestly, I didn't feel like I was in an ordinary market at all; it felt like a piece of Mashhad's history that is still alive. I wandered a lot, haggled, shopped, but what attracted me the most was just the authenticity of this place.
As I was walking, my eyes fell on the old wooden doors. Some were cracked, some still had their previous paint, but most of them were peeling.
Some doors had been slightly restored, of course, just enough to not fall apart. I was looking at the wood, at the rusty nails, at the crooked frames. It was clear they had been there for years. Maybe they had been there since the grandfather of the shop owner.
I was passing by and thinking about how many people over the years had opened and closed these doors. How many times they had been locked, how many times they had been oiled. And who and how many people had done business here and... .
As I was walking, my eyes fell on the old wooden doors. Some were cracked, some still had their previous paint, but most of them were peeling.
Some doors had been slightly restored, of course, just enough to not fall apart. I was looking at the wood, at the rusty nails, at the crooked frames. It was clear they had been there for years. Maybe they had been there since the grandfather of the shop owner.
I was passing by and thinking about how many people over the years had opened and closed these doors. How many times they had been locked, how many times they had been oiled. And who and how many people had done business here and... .
All of these were a moment, not planned, not fabricated.
I just saw, felt, and recorded them.
A piece of the market, a piece of life... that's it.
I wanted to share a corner of that atmosphere with you.
I hope you like it.
Thank you for being with me so far.
I love you
and until the next trip
goodbye 😘😘
Text & photography :@azamsohrabi