I watched the 1990 World Cup final with my friend who showed up a little late and thus missed much of the pregame ceremonies. He finally made it there just as the game was about to start. In spite of the hot summer weather I brought some tea and pastries for us to eat. Following the singing of the national anthems the teams began getting ready for kickoff. The crowd was chanting in unison although I couldn’t quite make out what they were saying so I turned to him to see if he could make it out. “Are they chanting Iran?” he asked me prompting us both to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of his suggestion. After suffering through that 90 minutes of vomit and an ultimate German win, I walked him outside and as we chatted a bit and he got ready to leave my exact words to him (with the final still fresh in my mind) were "عجب جام جهانی ک**ری بود."
"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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