I was once waiting for a bus so I could go to the store for hot dogs and wine. It got real cold but the bus finally arrived and we began moving really fast. On the way I spotted some places that were out of sight as it seemed the driver was taking us to some places that we had never been. I suddenly spotted someone on the bus that looked familiar so I approached him and asked him, "Is that you Mo-Dean?" He responded, "It's me Mo-Dean." He explained that he had been away but now that he was back he couldn't seem to find any of his friends to tell his interesting stories to. We talked a bit and forgot about the ride until I finally asked, "I say at which depot do we depart?" He had no answer.
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...

Comments
Post a Comment