My First Night

I got off the airplane and arrived at the immigration counter. I had no visitor’s visa, no student visa, no immigrant visa, just my passport. I told the polite border officer that I was visiting my brother. Then, I quickly realized I was not convincing enough. I immediately added that the University of Toronto had accepted me as a student in engineering. The officer smiled back, a confirmation that he now believed me. After glancing at my brother’s telegram, which I was holding out as if it were proof of anything, he banged a rubber stamp on my passport. He smiled and handed me some papers. “Take this application form for immigration, go downtown to University Avenue, and here is my card. Canada is a beautiful country, you’ll like it.” This was the kindest welcome from a stranger that I have ever received to this day.

I dragged my luggage full of books, one pair of pants, a single shirt, some underwear and a few mementos from my childhood. My brother was waiting for me in the arrivals area. He drove me straight to a tent at Sibbald Point Provincial Park at Lake Simcoe, where he was camping with a few of his friends for the long weekend. I spent my first night in Canada in his leaky tent. My brother was so happy to have me here that he walked around the campground, collecting dozens of fireflies and stuffed them into my overgrown curly hippie hair. It was time to laugh again.

I had no clothes in my luggage warm enough for the Canadian outdoors. I shivered myself to sleep. No problem, I was now with my brother. I was thrilled.

***
A lot has happened since I landed at the Toronto airport six hundred months ago. I lived in New College for two years. In my third year, I moved with my girlfriend to the infamous Rochdale College. This was an experimental student co-op with frequent scenes of drug overdoses, police raids, clothing-optional rooftop sun-tanning, $100 non-Ph.D. certificate granted after answering a skill-testing question, i.e. a hippie haven. This certainly was a far cry from my dormitory in Ankara a few years earlier. No, I never did drugs.

Occasionally, my girlfriend and I sat right on the sidewalk at the corner of Yonge and Bloor, in front of Frank Stollery’s men’s shop and sold her artwork of painted bottles. On weekends, I drove a taxi. I watched the most beautiful sunrises while waiting for customers at the taxi stand in front of the Inn on the Park, eating their giant-sized-plate employee breakfast, enough for an entire family, for just a dollar. I drove Ian Anderson of Jethro Tull to the airport. I picked up Telly Savalas (Kojak) from the airport and drove him to Sutton Place. Both were the definition of gentlemen. I met a Scottish war veteran who fought in Gallipoli, my mom’s birthplace, in the opposing trenches. He took me to a Legion Branch where we talked until the end of my twelve-hour shift. And so many other fascinating people from all walks of life. What a beautiful way to get to know Canadians.

As it turned out, my father was right. In spite of all my tears, the German school gave me a great foundation. It made my engineering studies at UofT a breeze. Four years after my arrival here, I became an engineer. A few years later, while working full-time and pursuing my Master of Engineering degree part-time, I met the love of my life. Being the nerd that I am, during our first date, I told her that I loved her. I then waited patiently for eleven years until she said yes. She was the oldest of three siblings, she liked leading. I was the youngest of three siblings, I was used to be led. It worked perfect.

It was Easter when I left my birthplace forever. I felt that this day was my own rebirth as well, so Easter became my favorite Christian holiday, which is interesting because I am not Christian.

Surrounded in Love, visiting NYC (1978)

***
Now, I am seventy and retired. The phone rings as I am working on my new project, a feature screenplay called The Daughter I Wished. The caller-ID shows my granddaughter’s name. I grab the phone.

“Hi, Dede.” She calls me “dede” for grandfather.
“Hi Sweetie,” I reply.
“I wish you a Happy Hanukkah”
“Thank you Sweetie, Happy Hanukkah to you too.”

We talk for a few minutes about her school, the pandemic, her projects. Just as my eyes get teary, we finish our conversation. I turn towards Mecca and mumble a few prayers of thanks for everything that has happened in my life.

I don’t need my pillow anymore. I am finally home.