Out of the corner of my eye, I catch an eager-looking gentleman trying to get my attention. Medium height, shaved head, bushy eyebrows, dark eyes, olive skin, but with a few extra pounds around his waistline. Polo shirt untucked, jeans looking neatly pressed. If I was honest, he looked like a Telly Savalas-Igal Naor hybrid.

For any parent, a road trip can be an extreme stressor. It wasn’t much different for my dad, except it was all compounded his divorce, visiting his family he hadn't seen in years as they were all in California, DC or Iran, and that he had to drive a 1978 Ford Maverick all by himself with three young kids at varying states of defiance.

Asking for condiments was a violation almost as grave as not wanting to try something unfamiliar. It was a corollary rookies would often violate. No matter how much we tried to stop or prepare them for the protocol, we’d inevitably fail. One such occasion came in my sophomore year of high school, one of my less experienced friends joined us for the usual Friday feast of grilled meats, rice (one bowl of plain rice, another bowl of rice with egg yolk), and salad.