Squeezing between the doors of the L train, I kiss my cross in gratitude. It's not a big cross, but its carvings into olive bark smell like home. I close my eyes as we rattle underground and taste watermelon dribbling down my chin. Lebanon: where there's always a feast rising higher than the scars of the land and a debke to be danced despite all the hate surrounding our United Nations-lined borders.

    "Now approaching: Cicero. If Cicero is your stop..."

    I check my bag: dancer gear is all set. Eleven more stops.

    A man in a unique blazer and a, I don't know, presence about him sits by me. He's eswad, beautifully so.

    "Hello."

    "Hi."

    "So, lady, youmustknowhowtouse feet," he smiles.

    Huh? Too fast. English is my worst language and he is rattling off. He probably thinks of me as another foreigner. That's how I feel, anyway. 77 neighborhoods in Chicago and I belong to the only ethnic group not strongly represented in a single one.

    "I'm sorry?"

    Grinning slyly, he points at my shoes.

    "Oh. Yes." I raise my hand to chest, as if to salute. "Danse."

    I'm going to say the wrong words or use childish grammar and look stupid. I hate looking stupid.

    "Where are you from? Ballerina couldbefromha France?"

    I vigorously shake my head. "Lebanon. You?"

    "Oh, don't let my black skinfoolyuh, I'm America born and raiseduh."

    "Ah."

    He snaps his fingers so loudly, I jump. I unsuccessfully pass it off as a snack break, tremulously pulling out trail mix and crunching like an addict chomping nicotine gum.

    "Sorry, dear. Didn't mean to scare."

    I'm from Lebanon. Why should cacophonous, abrupt noises scare me?

    "I bet you are in Sylvia at the Joffrey! Am I right?"

    My puffed cheeks stuffed with nuts squirrelly nod.

    "Wow. What a lucky day for me on the train."

    I make a casual gesture. His confuzzled expression means I've failed Dancekind.

    "I don't know much about that ballet."

    "Music beautiful, very rich, by Delibes. I love this music. 'Boy loves girl, girl captured by bad man, girl restored to boy by god' - that's what Frederick Ashton says. He choreographer in '50s."

    "You should have seen me andmyshenanigansandcrazyhips in the '50s," he dances around.

    "You remind me someone," I tell him.

    Winking, "Boyfriend, maybe."

    "Not - my someone is - you remind."

    My throat catches. Stop. Not here. Not in this piss-stained capsule.

    "Now approaching: Jackson. If Jackson..."

    Two stops left. I want to leave. I have to leave these memories. I get up.

    "You know, now that I have met you, I have to see that ballet."

    I rip out a page from my notebook and write my contact info.

    "Let me know when. I get deal."

    "Give that deal to someone who needs your art. I'll be there."

    That's what Faisal said.