In the mid 90s we were visiting a friend at their place. At one point he sat on a chair while his wife sat in front of him on the ground. As he spoke with us he would run his hand through his wife's hair and gently caress her head. Having gotten out of a bad breakup I watched them and thought to myself what a great relationship they seem to have and how nice it would be to have something similar although I knew I wouldn't as I had decided against ever getting married in order to prove a point.
"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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