In December of 1995 as I approached the library door of the university, a student exited at the same time and held the door open for me. As I thanked her I realized I knew her as she was one of only 2 American students in my Arabic course during freshman year. She also recognized me and we began briefly chatting. She told me that this was her last semester and that she was graduating at the end of this fall semester. She then gave me her number and told me to call her so we could hang out. I kept procrastinating but finally decided to call her towards the middle of December. A recorded message informed me that the number had been disconnected.
"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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