من حدود ۱۱ سالم بود و تولد کسی بود و همه دیگه داشتند میرفتند. من و دوستم رفتیم سراغ باقیمونده کیک. روی کیک خامه و شیرینیهای گوناگون بود و ما هر کدوم را مزه میکردیم ومزه ها را با هم مقایسه میکردیم. یک تیکه کوچیک آبی بود که دوستم زود بر داشت. بهش گفتم یک خورده به من هم بده ولی اون گفت خیلی کوچیکه و نمیشه اون را قسمت کرد. خودش تکی اون تیکه را خورد و من پرسیدم خوب، چطور بود؟ گفت بد نبود، ولی خیلی جالب هم نبود. ما همینطور به خوردن ادامه دادیم که یک دفعه برادر بزرگ طرفی که تولدش بود از راه رسید و یک نگاه به کیک کرد و پرسید: شمعی که روی این کیک بود را کی بر داشته؟
"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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