A Busstop Encounter

Last night, I parked my car at a spot near a busstop. It was after 11 pm, and I was surprised to see a very young-looking girl with a shopping bag sitting all alone on one of the seats. She was wearing a skirt, an open spaghetti-strap top, and hangy earrings. There was something very familiar about her look. I almost passed by, but couldn't resist asking her: "Are you by any chance Russian?"

She smiled, surprised, and answered: "Yes, why?"

I didn't quite know why. I have this ability to detect Russians among the crowds, whether they lived in America for 10 years or 10 weeks. There's the attire - usually more European, yet normally a tad tacky. There's the makeup, with women - usually slightly excessive. There's this Slavic melancholy in the eyes. And there's always a certain look on their faces - a mixture of worry, self-conscience and apprehension. But that's not what drew my attention to her - it was an almost child-like expression of curiosity on her wide-eyed face, which only increased once I approached her.

The rest of the conversation carried on in Russian. She told me she just arrived to San Francisco 2 months ago, on a summer job visa, loves it here but complained it was expensive. Her name was Anya and she was from Stavropol. Despite looking about 18, she was, in fact, 22. She told me she would love to stay in the US.

Not even five minutes into our talk, two other Russian boys came over to the bus stop from the nearby Cala Foods store. They looked even younger than her, but both held themselves solidly and politely. They introduced themselves to me - Lyosha from Chelyabinsk and Vova from Samara. Apparently, Anya was waiting for them to finish their shopping. They asked if I had a cigarette, which I didn't.

Then, another two young Russians came over, also with plastic shipping bags (I noticed a vodka bottle sticking out of one of them). Igor from Moscow and Katya from Krasnodar. Then, three more came - Vova, Petya and Alyona, I think all three from Cheboksary or some other city on the Volga.

They all looked at me, obviously about 10-12 years older than them, with respect, probably due to my older age and residence in the USA. They all wanted to stay on, working, studying, any way they could. Girls had a more direct, if more painful way of marrying someone, while guys - well, guys were talking about staying illegally past their visa, or joining some cheap college. I gave them some recommendations, although my own expertise in current immigration affairs is quite rusty.

And I looked at them with envy and nostalgia. I may have indeed managed to settle in this country, and drag myself through all the thorns of its immigration system, and dealt with graduation, jobs, contracts, car shopping, insurances, political correctness, taxes, police, doctors - all of the facets of the "American Dream". But the dream has evapourated without ever materializing.

They were standing there, bright-eyed, hopeful and eager. They were on another stratum, and perhaps many would have given a few years of their lives to be where I was. But I would rather be, at least for a day, for a week, for a month, where they were - facing the crossroads of uncertainties, life choices and the full knowledge that what's ahead would be better than what was behind. And in the more immediate future, their whole group was, perhaps for the first time without supervision, going to have their little house gathering, with vodka and snacks, with girlfriends and boyfriends - all on the same little rocky sailboat, so different from the sterile cruiseship I was on.

They politely excused themselves and moved on. I stayed on the busstop for a minute longer and went home. It was getting late.