Some time in the 80s I was visiting Venice. I came across a columbarium, stopping in front of a plaque of a girl named Angela Venezia who died in 1797. The plaque was decorated with the girl's portrait and a Venetian mask. I then saw what looked like the ghost of that girl by a canal. I seemingly was haunted by her, seeing her image and the mask in a restaurant, a postcard stand, an antique shop, and other places I visited. When the ghost of the girl appeared to me again, I followed it, but I was lured into a secluded courtyard where I found myself surrounded by a group of ghosts wearing carnival masks. Scared, I ran away only to come across the little girl again.
"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...

Comments
Post a Comment