I remember one summer I was hanging out by the railings of the motorshed. There was this girl China who went with a real hit biker who was a metalhead. She would always look me up and down, talking dirty eyes. A bit later I ran into her while other guys broke heads in the Sugar Shack. She offered me a drink but I told her not to give me a drink as I didn't wanna get too stoned. She laughed and commented that we were gonna see who was gonna take who home. She suggested that maybe we take a ride going south where her mother writes. We left it all so far away but one thing was sure and that was that China got the runaround.
"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...
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