WELCOME February 12, 2001 Issue

To Our Readers

Cyril Rakhmanoff

School Was Over . My older brother and I loaded our car and left for a long journey. Ahead of us lay thousands of miles of dusty roads and many countries we had never visited before. We were headed from the heart of France toward the Adriatic Sea. Then on to the Asian side of Turkey, and back through the Balkans and Eastern European countries.

As our trip progressed, we moved through a mosaic of different cultures. We encountered people of various nationalities, as well as a vast array of architectural styles and food specialties.

I wish we could have freely conversed with the many people we met. But because of our different languages, it wasn't always possible. Some of them, however, did manage to communicate with us in nonverbal ways. Like the little five-year-old boy in Yugoslavia who ran down a steep pasture to get to the side of the road in time to see our car go by. As we slowly passed him, he tossed, through the open roof of our car, some flowers he had picked for us. As we drove off, we could see him waving at us for a long time. He couldn't speak to us through his words. But he did so through his heart.

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