I always knew the title of my memoir had to be the name of the hotel in Iran my father once owned. I share a rare destiny with the Rose Hotel; I was born the day it opened, and our fates are forever linked. Built to accommodate visitors to the holy city of Mashhad—second largest only to Mecca—the hotel was an immediate success. While its attractions were counter to what might entice hotel guests in the West (“No Alcohol, No Music, No Women in Immodest Dress” the ads promised), this was the Middle East, and its proximity to the city’s main holy landmark, the Haram was crucial. The great mosque was topped by a dazzling golden dome that hovered over the Shrine where Imam Reza is buried. It was a dazzling place; at almost 700,000 square feet, its crystalline ceiling soared so high that to a child, it appeared as an alternate sky.