I volunteered to be a driver for the 1994 World Cup. During one of our training sessions I came across another Iranian, Ali Najafi, who worked there. After exchanging pleasantries and sharing stories of how we ended up in the US, he gave me a Snickers bar and told me that each bar was an entry for World Cup prizes. Then, almost as an after thought, he handed me the whole box and said that since they were free for him I might as well take them all and increase my chances. None of them were a winner.
"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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