I applied for my Iranian visa when I first arrived in Delhi, on November
21. The embassy in Delhi told me to get an authorization code from
iranianvisa.com, which would be sent to the embassy, and then I'd just
need to bring my passport in for the stamp. A very frustrating and
drawn-out experience with iranianvisa.com left me $300 poorer, and
visa-less on the 11th of December, when my flight left for Iran.
This was not good.
New Zealand citizens are granted Visa-On-Arrival privileges, but I'd
read some horror stories of tourists in my situation being deported. I
have no idea how deportation works, but I didn't have the money to pay
for that.
The main thing that I needed at the border was proof of an ongoing
ticket. I didn't have the money for that either. I was hoping to catch
the train into Turkey after my month in Iran. My sister came up with the
brilliant idea of buying a 100% refundable ticket, getting into the
country with that ticket as proof of my departure plans, and then simply
getting a refund for the ticket.
I decided to take that idea to its next logical conclusion, and create
an entirely fake departure ticket. I am not saying this was a smart
idea.
WARNING: Kids, do NOT try this at home.
I present to you my entirely fictional flight out of Iran:

(For those interested, yes, this is an actual Cleartrip ticket, modified
for a real flight, using the original fonts for authenticity.)
When I got to the check-in at the Indian end, the ticket was burning a
hole in my pocket. There was some discussion at the gate as to whether I
could even come through without a visa on my passport, but a few phone
calls and some explanations about NZ's VOA privileges, and I was away.
At the Iranian end, I got off the plane and went confidently to the visa
application window. The guy gave me a form to fill out, had a look at
my ongoing ticket, and put a big shiny visa sticker in my passport.
I was in.
"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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