In 1995 a girl in college gave me a book called "My Secret Garden" that dealt with female sexual fantasies. The book wasn't a novel but rather a collection of women's fantasies obtained through letters, tapes and personal interviews. I read the book and then for the most part put it away. A year of two later a friend of mine had to take a long train ride and requested some reading material. I gave him the book. He never returned it. The girl who had given me the book passed away in her 50s.
"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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