Back in 2016 on my way to work I was listening to a report on NPR about a guy who had a stroke and they were talking to a doctor about it. Her first name sounded Iranian although I didn't catch her last name. When they finally referred to her again I realized that not only did I know her, but I had dated her on Oct. 1, 2003, right after the quarterfinal games of the 2003 women's World Cup between Sweden and Brazil and then the US and Norway. We went to a Thai restaurant, she showed me around Boston and we had ice cream before I drove back to Connecticut.
"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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