Welcome to America, Ana Zdychava!

Ana looked up at the young man approaching, her tired bored expression replaced by a dimpled smile. Her shoulders slumped again as he passed her by, choosing to ignore her in the vast cavern of the aircraft hangar. The triangular airline symbol on the back of his uniform shirt seemed to mock her unsuccessful attempts to gather information from the unhelpful staff.

She glanced down at her watch. It was morning in Kyiv, though still the middle of the night here. Ana sighed and scanned the nearly bare walls of the building for a clock that showed the local time, finding nothing but gray boring paint and a few temporary banners over the various areas of the makeshift terminal. She tried to calculate in her head the time difference between Maine, USA, and Kyiv, Ukraine, but gave up after a few seconds. Shrugging her slim shoulders, her once nicely curled dark brown hair now hanging limp down her back, she settled back into the hard plastic folding chair and continued to wait.

Ana had overheard other passengers talking about the airport on the flight in. Though she did not understand all of the conversation between the two men, apparently it had been a military base until very recently. It was just opened as a civilian airport and still had a martial air to it, the drab walls, the painted concrete floor, the lack of comfortable seating... She grimaced as she shifted position once again on the unyielding surface, her tailbone protesting it's ill treatment.

The man who bypassed her earlier returned to awaken her from her dozing, curled up on two adjoining chairs. She'd taken two years of English back at University, but she still had difficulty understanding him. He seemed a bit exasperated at having to repeat himself but finally made her understand that the airport was shutting down. She gave him a bleak stare, preparing to protest, but he turned away and moved toward the other airline workers, who were removing materials from the folding tables where they'd been conducting business.

She checked her cell phone but there was still no signal. Ana had purchased it in Kyiv from the brother of a friend, who'd sworn it would work in the United States. Now she regretted the additional cost; it had not been cheap and the seller's promise an empty one. Her chin dropped nearly to her chest, her hair curtaining her face. Her her eyes fluttered closed, and tears born of frustration and fatigue began to form.

She shook herself visibly, her hair shifting with the movement, then raised her head and straightened her shoulders, her mouth set in a resolute line. She wiped the corners of her eyes with her fingers, rose from her chair, and approached the nearest airline counter. She stood patiently until one of the workers finally acknowledged her presence, "Miss, you need to leave, we are closing the airport for the night."

"But...my phone, it doesn't work here." He just looked at her so she continued, her voice controlled, "May I use phone on your desk, I have number, just short call...okay?"

He stood with his arms folded for a few seconds. She was afraid he was going to turn her away, then he shrugged and moved aside, gesturing at the phone. "Dial 9 for an outside line but no long distance." She cocked her head, a confused look on her face, not understanding the terminology. He sighed and took the paper she had retrieved from her purse with the number, glancing at it. "So, you're a student at Bowdoin? Figured they'd teach you better English there."

She nodded, a polite smile plastered on her face, while he dialed the number and handed her the receiver. "Spasybo ...thank you," she held the phone to her ear as it rang six times, then clicked over to the message she'd heard before. "You have reached the Dean of Students office for Bowdoin College after regular business hours. If you would like to leave a message for the receptionist, please wait for the tone. Otherwise, please call back between the hours of 8:30 am and 5 pm Monday through Friday. Thank you." Ana had already left a message when she called immediately after landing from another passenger's cell phone and did not leave another.

She laid the phone back in its cradle, her normally bright green eyes dulled by weariness. Her connecting flight from Detroit, the final leg of a journey that began in Kyiv more than 36 hours before, had been delayed for several hours through a series of unfortunate events. She was not even on the original flight destined for the newly designated Brunswick Metropolitan Airport. That flight was canceled due to maintenance, and she'd been shuffled to a later connection, a created stopover on the way to Halifax, somewhere in Canada.

She cast about for a friendly face but all the other passengers had long ago departed and the airport staff appeared to be engrossed in shutting down the facility for the night. At any rate they were ignoring her. She shrugged and began dragging her luggage toward the exit, thankful at least that her main suitcase had wheels.

An hour later Ana stood outside a run-down restaurant, soaking in the pouring rain. She looked up into the storm at the battered sign proclaiming "Joe & Celia's" and below it "Open 24 hours" pulsating in green neon. Sighing, the slightly built girl tugged open the door of the tiny diner, the wooden frame creaking in protest, and manhandled her bags through the opening. For her efforts she received a disgusted look from the man behind the counter as she dripped on the cracked linoleum.

The only occupants of the dingy establishment were the man and a red-haired waitress sitting in front of the counter, smoking a cigarette. It was apparent she had interrupted a conversation between them but the waitress smiled and made an open gesture toward a dilapidated booth near the door. "Jest leave them bags at the door, honey, and have a seat. Be right with you." She looked to be in her mid 30s, a little overweight, but still pretty in her own way. Ana returned a wan smile and moved to the indicated seat, glancing back to be sure her belongings weren't blocking the doorway.

She slid into the booth and removed a cigarette from her purse, her first since the evening before in Amsterdam, when she heard a rapping noise from the area of the counter. She looked up to see the man pointing at a sign behind him on the wall. NO SMOKING. Her gaze shifted from him to the waitress, who shrugged, then dropped her lit cigarette into a partially filled water glass. Ana sighed and returned the cigarette to her purse.

The woman sauntered over to her table, pulling a pad from her apron as she approached. The booth she occupied didn't look like much, but it was actually very comfortable, with an overstuffed bench seat covered in fake leather, the material cracked but still well padded. Alice, whose name was embroidered on her left lapel, smiled down at the girl, "Sorry, sweetie, old Mel is a stickler about the rules when it suits him. Mebbe when the rain lets up we can step outside and burn one." Ana nodded, understanding little of the slang, her weariness showing in her eyes and the dark rings surrounding them. Alice took her order for coffee and handed her a menu, moving back to the counter.

Ana awoke at one point, hearing a distant buzz of angry voices, but was too exhausted to care, and fell back asleep, curled on the cracked surface of the bench. At another juncture, she was vaguely aware of someone standing over her and she felt the warmth of a blanket. She smiled and returned to her dreamless sleep, awaking finally as Alice shook her. "Darlin', you need to get movin'. The day shift is gonna be here, and 'twon't do us no good to have them know you spent the night in that booth."

Ana stepped out into the dawning day, approaching the taxi Alice had arranged to take her to Bowdoin. Welcome to America.