World Cup From the stadium to the bar stool, watch for our ongoing reports T A B L E_T A L K What's the best way to get to Cuba? Weigh in on visiting Fidel's country in the Wanderlust area of Table Talk R E C E N T L Y Embraced in Spain By Barry Yeoman A gay traveler confronts his demons in Cádiz (06/23/98) Ignorants abroad By Rolf Potts Mistaking "breasts" for "prayers" -- and other adventures in language learning (06/22/98) Blinded in the desert By Andrew Bill Hospitality and hostility become blurred for a traveler stranded among Bedouins at the desolate tip of the Sinai (06/19/98) The Cup runneth over By Ethan Zindler At the World Cup, Scottish fans bare their behinds and French fans bare their prejudices (06/18/98) Mondo Weirdo A different kind of resort in Sri Lanka A reader discovers that an off-the-beaten-track resort offers a little less than it promises (06/17/98) Browse the Wanderlust Postmark archives		USA vs. Iran (vs. Iran) WORLD CUP SCENES: AS THE ISLAMIC REPUBLIC PLAYS THE GREAT SATAN, THE REAL ACTION IS IN THE STANDS. IRANIAN FANS CELEBRATE AS THEIR TEAM BEATS THE UNITED STATES 2-1 SUNDAY. BY ETHAN ZINDLER | LYON, France June 21: There's an old joke about that sport that's played with a puck: I went to a fight the other night and a hockey game broke out. Well, tonight I'm going to a political rally and maybe, just maybe, a soccer game will break out. Lyon's main square is Place Belle Cours, an enormous rectangular plaza of orange gravel. Under a blazing sun and a cloudless sky, a group of young men are playing -- what else? -- pickup soccer. Most appear to be Iranian and they've tied team jerseys and flags around their heads to keep cool. But there are some Americans in the game, too. A television cameraman is present to record it all. Just off Place Belle Cours, an impromptu rally of Iranian supporters is under way even though the game doesn't kick off for eight hours. "I-ran! I-ran!" is the chant interspersed with drumbeats and whistles. Supporters eating at the canopied McDonald's next door join in. Then a considerably smaller crew of Americans starts its own, "U-S-A! U-S-A!" The two groups try to outshout each other at first, then join together to cheer "I-ran! USA! I-ran! USA!" It's a genuine moment. But the volume of shouting increases about three notches when nearby TV crews take notice. An Iranian woman approaches. "You are reporter?" she asks. Her name is Narges (she's unwilling to provide a last name). Her family moved to Stockholm to escape the ayatollah in '78. Regarding today's match, she says: "It's not just a match. It's about freedom, our time and our country. For U.S., we don't have anything against U.S. It is important that world see us. It's worse than you think. We love our team and we love our players but we want freedom for our people. We are here for democracy and more than 100,000 executed and 150,000 in prison. It is the point, not the game." What about Khatami, Iran's new, more moderate president, who in recent months has made peace overtures to the United States? Narges tells me, "He is bad man." She was a student when he was the cultural minister and he was "bad for students," she says. It seems that most of the Iranian supporters in Lyon today have traveled from Western European countries, not Iran. That's true, says Narges, because most Iranians living there cannot afford to travel, but there are members of Iran's Revolutionary Guard here as well. She forcefully takes me by the elbow, pulls me to the corner and points to a white minivan covered with Iran posters parked across the street. All its doors are open and men are passing out green, white and red visors and Iran T-shirts. "There," she says. "That is Iranian embassy van." One of the white van men is Mohammed Said, who does, in fact, live in Iran. He quickly notices that I don't have an official press credential but seems willing to talk anyway. What does he think of all the politics involved in this match? "I don't think you can send a message with this match. It is a little different but it won't be the change of position between Iran and U.S." Should that relationship change? "I think it should change but not because of this." And what about the thousands of Iranians who have traveled from Western European countries to state their opposition to the current government? He claims not to have seen them. But perhaps not everyone has politics on his mind. Amir Ghahani is hanging out near the white van as well. He lives in San Diego and tells me: "I lived in Iran when the shah was in power. I support the team and the culture, not the government. I'm not going to go into the stadium cheering, 'I support the Islamic Republic of Iran.' I just support Iran." A band of 15 chanting Iran supporters marches into the dusty center of Place Belle Cours. There they find Nathan Max of Washington, D.C., a young man wearing a U.S. flag around his head and a national team T-shirt. A busty young Iranian woman in a tight gray tank top strikes up a flirtatious conversation with him. The crowd of supporters encircles them. She asks if he's ever kissed an Iranian girl and the crowd erupts. By now, several photojournalists have arrived. Nathan blushes a little, then enthusiastically tries to take her up on what sounded like an offer. But she's too embarrassed and demurs. After two or three failed attempts, a middle-aged man wearing an Iranian flag steps forward and plants a big wet one on Nathan's cheek. The two share a bear hug. Click, flash, wind, the cameras snap away. A great photo op has been had but Nathan still wants one on the lips from the voluptuous young lady. "Please," he begs, "in the name of peace!" "Piece of what?" someone yells. "Piece of ass!" he replies. The crowd bursts into laughter. In one corner of the square an Iran fan has knotted his flag to that of an American supporter. Five photojournalists shoot away. One holds out two fingers with his left hand as his right handles a Nikon. The subjects take the hint; they make peace signs and smile. All through the afternoon Iran fans toot horns, bang drums, chant and cheer their way up and down Rue de la Republique, Lyon's main drag. It's a beautiful, car-free promenade, and the noise echoes off the building walls. In a wide square about a kilometer up the road from Place Belle Cours, fans frolic in a giant open fountain. In the middle, a pile of McDonald's containers, Kronenborg beer cans and other flotsam and jetsam has sunk to the bottom. On one of the side streets, two dozen or so Americans are drinking beers out of pint-sized plastic cups outside Bar & Bières. In Europe, singing is an integral part of the football fan's experience. But we Americans, though we know how to cheer and chant, don't really understand the concept of nationalistic songs. The folks on the street try a round of "Olé," the world's simplest and most popular soccer song, but can't quite get it in key. Then a Scottish fellow who's been drinking with the group leads a round of "We're the Tartan Army." After that they belt out "Do-Ray-Me" from "The Sound of Music" and then "Frère-Jacques." No doubt about it: If the U.S. is to become a soccer superpower, we need some better fight songs. N E X T+P A G E | Astonishing noise AP PHOTO/MARK LENNIHAN