As a kid I was always told that babies are born when a mother's stomach is surgically sliced open and the baby is thus removed and born. One time in Iran we were watching a movie where a guy had a cow with him. They spent the night out in the open fields and in the morning he realized the cow had given birth. I asked out loud how could that have happened if there was no doctor to slice the cow open. A protesting voice of someone in the gathering indicated that the question should not be answered. I made the assumption that the cow had used its horn to rip its belly open. I had no explanation for how it had sewn it back together.
"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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