An unusually chilly breeze greeted the young Mexican as he emerged from the train, worn backpack on his shoulders. Shivering slightly he followed his fellow passengers through the station, his head spinning from the myriad announcements in English, the loudspeaker's distortion enough to render the words unintelligible. Impatient people familiar with the building pushed past him as he slowed slightly to take in his surroundings. Apart from the imposing notice board informing him of the imminent departure of a train bound for New York on platform One there was a coca cola sign and several smaller notices advertising mainly food and drink. He swallowed hungrily, aware of the need to preserve his desperately short supply of cash.

Quit daydreaming, Almeida! You need to get to the University of Illinois and find the student housing if you're to have a hope of buying food before the shops close! You definitely need a map. As though in answer to his thoughts he passed a kiosk with dozens of magazines placed invitingly on top of each other revealing golden haired beauties in scant clothing and a great deal too much make-up. Once the irritable woman before him purchased her copy of Homemaker he found himself facing a large black man with a cheerful smile. Time to use your English, Almeida.

Marco drew a deep breath, praying the man would understand him. 'Have you got a map of Chicago?' he stammered, a thin trickle of sweat running down his forehead. He prayed the man would nod and simply hand him one with the price located conveniently on the front to save him the need for further speech.

'I sure do,' the vendor began, obviously deciding to direct the young foreigner as he lacked other customers. 'It's two dollars. Where were you headin'?'

Marco blinked, struggling to sort through the words. The map was evidently two dollars, that much was clear. Hunting through his wallet he counted out the notes, dreading the man's obvious curiosity. He was bound to speak more; he could read it in his face.

'So where you going?' the vendor repeated. 'You just arrived from Mexico, I'll bet! You're gonna find it a little cold today, it's not been this bad a summer since I've been aroun', and I've been here a real long while! Did you come here to join your family?' This last question was addressed to him extra slowly.

Marco shook his head. 'No, I come only to study,' he replied, taking the map.

'Gee, you tellin' me you got a scholarship! Well I'll be damned. You're a real smart guy then,' the vendor exclaimed, obviously thrilled. 'Where are you studying?'

'University of Illinois,' Marco replied with a hint of pride, his eyes sparkling. Speaking English was proving less of a nightmare than he thought and the first American he had met appeared friendly enough.

'Wow. I got a cousin who went there. He was real smart, he studied medicine,' the vendor boasted, taking the map from him. 'I'll show you where it is. What are you studying?' he pressed.

'Architecture,' Marco explained, shifting his heavy backpack on his shoulders.

'Ah, you're gonna build us some more of them tall buildings,' the vendor said cheerfully, pointing his finger at an open page. 'There you are now, UIC. You got the money for a cab, or should I explain how to get there by bus?'

Marco gave an embarrassed grin. 'The bus is better,' he admitted, his cheeks scarlet.

The vendor nodded, reaching behind him for a baseball magazine. 'I better write that down for you then,' he said, scribbling something on the first page. 'It's okay, it's an old one. Good luck with that architecture now, Mexican.'

'Thank you,' Marco replied gratefully, leaving the kiosk. He emerged into a full blown drizzle, thousands of cars whizzing past him spraying the crowded sidewalk. He shivered as he hurried down the street towards the bus stop the vendor assured him was a couple of feet away, waiting impatiently in the rain until it arrived ten minutes later.

'It's always late when it's raining,' a housewife with two young children complained as he politely stood aside to allow her to enter before him.

Marco nodded, figuring it made sense; the bus would naturally need to move slower along the slippery road. Born and raised in Chihuahua he had viewed rain as an unusual event to be enjoyed while it lasted, necessitating extra care on the roads. Once the first rain hit the dusty roads they had an alarming habit of turning into ice rinks, causing him to spin his father's truck on a number of occasions. He had absolutely adored the sound of rain beating on the farmhouse roof as a child, rushing outside to dance in it with his brothers and sister. The great love of rain was only killed a year ago during his daily drenching in the mountains of southern Mexico where he was forced to stand sentry duty while he got soaked, his boots filling with water till movement required a considerable effort.

Nose pressed against the window he studied the Chicago streets they passed, amazed at the greenery. All the trees were bright with leaves, raindrops running along them. Once he reached the university he paused to examine them more closely, startled at the way they glowed in the faint beam of sunlight. The bushes he saw scattered around were lush dark green and the lawn was perfect, not a weed in place, greener than any patch of grass he had ever crossed. He drew a deep breath, the rich earthy scent calming his nerves. Relax, Almeida! You'll do okay here. You passed their entrance exam with near perfect grades, in English! Once you find a job you'll be fine. He paused before a notice board, following the signs over to the red brick East Campus Residence Hall where he paused before a desk and stated his name to a clerk.

'Marco Almeida,' she said, glancing at him uninterestedly. 'Third floor, room 321. Your key,' she said, and he thanked her, waiting patiently for the elevator to arrive. Filled with excitement mixed with a good measure of apprehension he stepped out at his floor and searched for his room, wondering what his roommate would be like.

Educated in boarding schools in Chihuahua due to the lack of schools in the farming community, dormitories were familiar to him. He had learned to make do with a drawer to keep his clothes in and a couple of hangers for his shirts and trousers, spending a good portion of each night whispering with his friends until a teacher would arrive and haul whichever boy he had discovered talking into the staffroom for a thrashing. Numerous pillow fights or games of hide and seek enlivened the beginning of each night, one especially wild game of murder in the dark with him as the blindfolded 'murderer' landing the entire dormitory a visit to the principal's office in their pajamas to be lined up for a sound caning. He chewed his lip, hoping his new roommate would prove as friendly as his schoolmates had.

The room he unlocked was empty, of a roommate at least. Someone's belongings lay scattered around, books overflowing from the two chairs, a typewriter on a desk and a pile of records on the bed on top of a thick quilt decorated with a lion's head. Marco carried his things over to the unclaimed bed, laying his backpack on the floor. He pulled out his clothes, laying them in neat piles, his t-shirts, his shirts, his trousers, a pair of jeans, shorts, underwear and two plain grey sweaters. Opening a drawer beside the bed he deposited everything inside as the door opened.

Belongings forgotten, he glanced at a red haired youth with non existent eyebrows wearing designer jeans and a sports team's sweatshirt. 'Marco Almeida,' he said, extending his hand to the newcomer whose colorless green eyes opened wider.

'You're a Chicano,' he said coldly.

'I'm Mexican,' he corrected, withdrawing his hand with a heavy heart.

'You don't look Mexican,' the youth replied. 'Our gardener looks nothing like you.'

'My family is mainly Spanish,' he answered stiffly, returning his attention to placing his final t-shirt inside the second drawer.

Pale Eyes studied his things in silence, a disdainful look on his face. His eyes widened as Marco removed his final possessions, a toothbrush, paste, soap, two handkerchiefs, a photo and six books. Leaving them on the plain blue blanket his mother had given him he folded the backpack, depositing it at the bottom of his half of the wardrobe.

'Hey, you can't put that there, Mexican. It's for shoes,' the outraged red head protested.

'It will fit,' Marco muttered, refusing to look at him.

'No, it won't,' his roommate insisted. 'You probably haven't got any more shoes, but I do, and I need that space. Suitcases go on top of the wardrobes, see, up there. That's just gotta go someplace else.'

Marco's fists clenched as he discovered his backpack lying in the center of the room. Pale Eyes watched him carefully to judge the depth of his objection. 'That is my half of the furniture,' Marco began, forcing his voice to steady and cursing himself for his lack of ability to recall the name of the piece. 'My things can go in my half.'

'Gee, if you insist,' Pale Eyes grudgingly caved. 'There's a spot right outside the street over there where you can probably go busk,' he said rudely, turning to his radio.

Unfamiliar with the term, Marco ignored him, hanging his two shirts neatly. What a bastard! Just because he's rolling in money doesn't give him the right to turn up his nose at you. He's a freshman here, just like you and chances are, you're a lot smarter. He caught a sigh in time to prevent it slipping out and letting his new roommate see his hurt. He wished the friendly kiosk owner would have chosen to enroll in some subject instead; it would have been fun talking to him.

Pale Eyes answered a rap on the door, grinning at two blonde youth who entered. 'All set, Pete?' one asked.

'Yep. Let's get some fresh air,' he said, nodding his head towards Marco.

They left without acknowledging him, the silence choking him. He blinked hot tears away and hung up his trousers, leaving the room in a hurry. Unwilling to face anyone else he bolted down the stairs rather than risk a wait in the corridor, emerging into a windy twilight. Dancing wildly in the breeze the leaves deposited their remaining raindrops on him as he leaned against a tree studying his shoes. Hunger drove him to leave the shelter of the tree and seek a store, where he bought a loaf of bread and jar of honey, returning to his room to eat a simple dinner.

Thoughts of his family settling round a dinner table just outside the kitchen caused tears to well in his eyes which he allowed to moisten his cheeks. His father would hand out the food to the family and they would discuss the latest gossip in the community or the progress of their crops, or the desirability of rain. His mother would be sure to tease him gently, telling him yet again that the neighbor's daughter had spent the entire time at Mass staring at him, which would unleash a torrent of wise comments from his three brothers and older sister. After dinner his father invariably settled on a bench on the verandah smoking his favorite pipe, puffing contentedly as he gazed at his lands. Marco would join him on the weekends when he was home from school and give him a rather curtailed version of the week's events, omitting all scolding while highlighting his excellent grades. 'Sí, sí m'ijo, you are learning many things, too many things,' his father would sigh, watching him with a mixture of pride and sorrow. 'One of these days you will seek to experience them all for yourself and you'll leave us. I've seen it before.'

He had shaken his head, vowing he had no desire to leave his friends and family but his father, wise in his own ways had known better. 'You're not like the rest of your brothers, Marco,' he explained patiently. 'You got this thirst inside you and you'll need to quench that. It's not your fault. Just remember one thing – if you get lonely out there, or sad, or hurt, you got a place to come home to. You understand?'

He'd nodded, loving the peace around him. 'Of course I'll come home. Where else would I go?' he had questioned bewildered.

He cupped his hands and drank a little water from the faucet in the bathroom before he brushed his teeth, lonelier than ever before in his life. The face that stared back at him from the mirror appeared pale and drawn, the eyes dull. Toothbrush in hand he opened the door, standing aside for a freckled youth with wavy brown hair, nodding his greeting as he squeezed past.

'Tim Farrington,' the boy said, grinning at him. 'I'm next door. What are you majoring in?'

Marco stared at him in silent amazement, shocked he was addressed as a normal human being. 'Marco Almeida,' he said hurriedly, returning the smile. 'Architecture.'

'You got brains,' the boy said cheerfully, making no attempt to enter the bathroom. 'Me, I was always hopeless at math. I'm doing anthropology,' he explained. 'See you round, anyway, Marco, probably on the baseball field, I guess.'

Marco nodded, puzzled. The baseball field? Is he here to study, or to play? Still, he had been friendly enough. He returned to his room, staring at his bed in grim silence, startled by a knock. Tim popped his head round the door. 'Forgot to tell you, let me know if you need anything,' he said. 'Got to run, the re-run of the game's starting!'

'On the field?' he asked, feeling the need to respond.

'On the TV,' Tim said with a laugh. 'I'm not that good. It's the Cubs!'

Marco nodded desperate not to betray his ignorance about the discussion. Cubs?

'Say, you ever watched the Cubs?' Tim persisted, leaning on the doorknob.

Marco shook his head, deciding it would be wrong to lie, even if it meant losing the one person on campus who appeared prepared to speak to him.

'Gee, I guessed so. They're not that bad, you know. Look, why don't you come watch it with me now, so I can tell you the names of all the players.'

Marco swallowed a lump in throat, nodding wordless. Lonely as he was, an evening spent watching old ladies folding paper cranes would have been appealing, as long as he had someone to speak to. He followed Tim down the corridor and into his room which was a single, he noticed in relief. No roommate would appear and make fun of him. He leaned awkwardly against the door, uncertain where he should sit.

'Gee, I'm real bad at this whole invitation thing. Sit down anywhere, as long as you can see the TV,' Tim told him, opening a mini fridge. 'What would you like?'

Marco stared into a fridge stocked with a variety of beers and a bottle of milk. His eyes rested on a state of the art coffee maker on a corner of the table. 'Can we make a coffee? It is very cold outside,' he asked hopefully.

Tim laughed. 'If you can figure out how to work that thing. I just got it outa the box and the instructions might as well be in Hottentot for all I can get it.' Seeing his guest's blank stare he shrugged. 'Yes, if you make it.'

Marco examined it in silence for a minute before the coffee lover in him set to work assembling the various pieces. Tim watched in awe as the coffee machine bubbled, boiling the water to sterilize it. Marco tipped it out and glanced at him. 'Now we need coffee,' he explained.

'Coffee, yea. I know I got coffee somewhere.' Tim produced some Brazilian beans and Marco made them both a cup, settling in a recliner to watch his first ever game of baseball. Half an hour into it he decided it was prudent to make himself a second cup as his exhaustion was exacerbated by the slow pace of the unknown game. Covering a yawn, he sipped his drink, wishing his new friend would switch the station to find a football game instead.

It was fully midnight before Tim released him after discovering his woeful ignorance about the rules. He had settled Marco at the table, producing notepad and pens and explained the rules of baseball with the fervor of the newly converted. Marco's fears that he would grow tired of him were groundless; his new friend appeared to be enjoying the explanation more than the match. Probably never had a chance to explain anything before, Almeida. Well, sit and listen. It appears this game is important round here. Returning to his room he tiptoed in, not wishing to turn on the light and disturb Pale Eyes, but his roommate was out. Relieved, he searched his drawers to discover a clean change of clothes and hurried to the shower, falling asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

Pale Eyes returned sometime before dawn, turning the lights on and taking an unnecessarily long time searching for his pajamas. Marco rolled over, burying his head in the pillow and attempted to return to sleep, longing to strangle him. His annoyance surprised him. The most easy going of his entire family, he had been thrust into the role of peacekeeper from the time he took his first hesitant steps.

Fortunately Pale Eyes slept through his hurried breakfast of another few pieces of bread spread with the same honey as the night before. He hid them once he finished and brushed his teeth, collecting a few papers. Glancing at the sign post he worked his way over the immaculate lawns to the Office of Admissions and Records, joining a short line. Presented with an armful of paperwork he returned to his room, filling in every question from the details of his scholarship to his birth date and residence status. The last form took the longest to complete. Being a freshman he discovered he was forced to take a few units outside his field of study. Frowning in concentration he read through the list of subjects to make certain nothing he chose would interfere with an architecture class. Sharing his love of buildings only with his passion for history he picked American History 101 hoping to learn more about the place.

Once he returned he joined a longer line snaking round the building. To his relief it appeared he had filled in his forms accurately. He was handed a student number and reminded the classes commenced the following day. Not wishing to return to his room and take more insults from Pale Eyes he resolved to hunt for a job to restore his badly depleted wallet.

The afternoon passed in a whirl of noise as he explored the city of Chicago. He was fortunate enough to appear at the Acapulco Bar Mexican restaurant at the right moment as one employee quitted. The owner grudgingly allowed him to try his hand washing dishes, watching while he worked harder than ever before.

'Alright, Marco, that's not too bad,' he sighed. 'I guess you'll get faster. Now I need you every night from Wednesday to Sunday. Don't bother showing on Monday or Tuesday, it's so slow I don't even open on Mondays. That good for you?'

'Sí Señor, I'll be here,' Marco promised in great relief, eyeing the burritos warming in the oven. Stomach rumbling, he showed Senor Perez his student visa.

'Don't forget to get yourself a tax file number,' his new boss reminded him. 'And quit staring at the food. Are you hungry?'

Marco blushed, unsure what to answer. He was starving, but he had little money, certainly not enough to eat dinner in a restaurant.

Perez sighed aloud, fetching a plate which he set before his newest employee. 'Help yourself. It comes with the job,' he explained kindly. Seeing the young man's astonished expression he laughed, nodding. 'Every night, sí. Just wash those dishes quickly, we get pretty busy.'

'I will senor,' he promised, devouring his first hot meal in three days by the time Perez returned with a glass of water. The man shook his head, removing his plate and refilling it. 'They don't give you much spending money, I take it?'

'No señor, only the college and part of the room is paid for,' Marco explained, deeply ashamed.

Feeling a lot better about his improved situation he explored a few more streets before heading back to the university. Pale Eyes was unfortunately in, listening to the radio. He ignored Marco's arrival, refusing to acknowledge his greeting. Fine, I won't say hi again. He pulled his pajamas from the bed, standing under the scalding shower until the hot water ran out in a vain attempt to feel warm again. Stomach filled, he slept soundly.