Last night I dreamed I was in my hotel living room, urinating powerfully. As I freshened up several people of various ethnic groups also entered the room, some fat, small, thin, athletic, gorgeous, even tired after a hard day of working. They began to undress and re-dress themselves, all as if they have either just gotten out of the shower themselves, or come home from work. The entire cast performed a brief, synchronized dance sequence. After this exchange, a hotel employee came by the door with room service as I was still dressing myself. The employee danced briefly as I turned away to grab a pen to sign for the meal. The dancers vacated when I sat down to dinner in front of the television.
"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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