In the early 90s I went to Six Flags. A guy playing with balloons was putting on a show. He asked for a volunteer and a girl, roughly 10, stepped up. He told her he was about to do an amazing magic trick but in order to do it she had to say the magic word which was "wing wing". The girl said it and nothing happened. He told her to say it again but this time louder. She repeated wing wing but again nothing happened. He told her to shout it out and at the top of her lungs the girl screamed WING WING. The man immediately twisted one of his balloons to look like a phone receiver, held it to his ears and said hewwo.
"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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