Crossing the Border

I must be looking lost. No doubt out of my element in this frigid town with so much arctic wind blowing the birds south. A nicely dressed woman in a sun dress. Is it that warm? In this weather, it's difficult to say; my coat and other assorted warmers must make me look even more bag lady like than I imagine myself looking.

She asks whether I need help. I reply: "Non, senorita, gracias. Esta latina, espana?"

I had learned that a free kitchen was nearby from those esoteric signs that only the homeless know for finding their way to the local shelters and giving hands.

Crossing the border had been difficult enough, what with no passport or papers. It is perhaps too much to ask to expect that the locals will let me be--especially given my heritage.

Perhaps if pick up a veil and blend into the local Muslim and Arabic population. Will the authorities harass a woman of the veil?

Right now, I must put such thoughts behind me and get to the soup kitchen or whatever it is that the locals call a shelter.

"I am looking for the local free kitchen. I was told it might be around here," I explain to the young woman, letting her know that I speak English as well.