Canada, New Year 2006

I’ve kind of been to Canada before. On September 2nd 2004 I crossed into Canada’s Yukon Territory from Alaska with my then-girlfriend Rhoda as hitchhikers in a 40-foot long caravan conveniently called “Infinity”.
But this time, which is really my first time to Canada (considering that back then we only really crossed through the northernmost part in order to get to south-west Alaska) I arrived on a small little plane with only 8 other people. Ours was the last plane to land at Fredericton airport in New Brunswick and when we queued up for immigration, Debbie, the airhostess and the two pilots were right behind us in the line. There was no ‘fast-track’ lane for crew or anything.
“Have you got any cigarettes with you?” the good-looking young woman in a dark blue immigration uniform asked me. “I have one pack, I think… oh, no, I forgot to bring it. Damn. So - … no.” I imagined her making a note: ‘forgetful and disorganised’, forever visible to any immigration officer who would scan in my passport.
“Why are you travelling to Canada?”
“To visit a friend. He studies here.”

While the five people in front of me were being asked about their alcohol and tobacco imports, I had seen my bags arrive. The baggage belt had already stopped and the bags had been stacked up next to each other on the ground. I picked mine up and walked through the doors into the Arrivals Hall, expecting to see Iman waiting for me (the plane had half an hour delay).
Iman and I met six years ago in Iran, when I was there with my family on a tourist trip. It was an amazing coincidence. We stayed in touch via email and I returned twice since then to visit him and travel in his beautiful country with him. We discovered so many ideas that we shared, which went far beyond each of our cultural backgrounds. It seemed almost impossible that two people of different race, nationality, parents and upbringing with such different experiences, interests, tastes and fields of study could have so much in common on an intellectual and spiritual level. It felt like the reunion of two brothers that were parted at birth, as if we were made of the same wood or the same blood flowed in our veins.
So I was all the more astonished to find not him waiting in the Arrivals hall, but an elderly lady, accompanied by a middle-aged man and a young girl, greeting me with “Willkommen. Guten Tag.” And telling me that Iman had to meet with his girlfriend and that she took priority over me. “But instead” she said, “we’ve brought a special guest to greet you.” And sure enough, from the other end of the hall I saw Santa Claus slowly walking towards me, with his deep voice humming into his long, white beard. When he finally got closer to me, he said with a thick Iranian accent: “Welcome, my son!”