America is in a hurry, America is rushing past. America has no time to get to know me. She has a million things to do, and I am no special event for her. In America everyone is either an émigré or a descendant of émigrés. An émigré is something ordinary.
Here I am standing squarely in America, distractedly saying, “Zdravstvui, Amerika”—Hello, America—and in response there comes crashing down on me: “Hello! Okay! All right!” I still don’t know the exact meaning of these energetic words, but sense their kindly intent and bouncy vigor.
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