A fruit basket would have been nice, but instead we found that a flyer had been slipped under the door.

Dear Brainwashed Cowards,

You are nothing but puppets of the corrupt Shah. We will teach you a lesson you will never forget. Death to the Shah. Death to you.

My father crumpled the flyer and threw it away. “Let’s find out where they’re having the dinner buffet,” he said.

The next day, half a dozen buses lined up in front of our hotel to take us to the lawn across from the White House. We were given Iranian flags and told to wave them at the Shah’s arrival. Moments before we left, a man boarded our bus and introduced himself as a lawyer working for the Iranian government. “In case anybody attacks you,” he told us, “please try to take his picture. This would be most useful.”

We arrived at the White House to find a group of masked demonstrators carrying signs denouncing the Shah and his government. “Don’t worry,” my father assured me, “they’re on the other side of the street.”

Opposite the demonstrators, scaffolding had been built for the Shah’s supporters. Speakers took turns giving speeches on the glories of Iran. To my delight, I found that the lawn had been strewn with miniature Iranian flags. “Help me find thirty of them,” I asked my parents. “I’m going to hand them out in Miss Crocket’s social studies class.”

My mother and I headed toward the back of the lawn, while my father went to the front to look for more flags. A few minutes later, we heard my father say, “Look how many I found!” He held up his bounty. But his voice was drowned out by the twenty-one-gun salute announcing the arrival of the Shah’s limousine. People started to cheer, but the cheering wasn’t entirely cheerful. The demonstrators had crossed the road. They were stampeding toward us waving sticks with nails driven into them. People were screaming and running. Instead of Iranian flags, the lawn was suddenly covered with bloody and injured Iranians. My parents and I ran and ran and ran.

We found an empty bus and, not caring about its destination, climbed on board.

“I’m sorry, folks,” the bus driver drawled, “y’all are gonna hafta get off this bus, ’cuz it’s outta service and I’m on break.”

Across the street, we found a police officer on horseback. “Excuse me,” I said, “we’re afraid we’re going to get beaten up. Could you please help us get back to our hotel?”

Perhaps this officer had joined the police force because of the handsome uniforms or perhaps he wanted a job that let him ride a horse. He looked at us and said, “Sorry, that’s not my job.”

Spotting another bus, we boarded it immediately. “Do you have tickets?” the driver asked.

“How much are they?”