he water recede from our toes。 The first time I saw the Pacific； I almost cried。 It was as vast and blue as the oceans on the movie screens of my childhood。
Sometimes in the early evening； I parked the car and walked up a freeway overpass。 My face pressed against the fence； I d try to count the blinking red taillights inching along； stretching as far as my eyestould see。 BMWs。 Saabs。
Porsches。 Cars I d never seen in Kabul； where most people drove Russian Volgas； old Opels； or Iranian Paikans。
Almost two years had passed since we had arrived in the U。S。； and I was still marveling at the size of this country； its vastness。 Beyond every freeway lay another freeway； beyond every city another city hills beyond mountains and mountains beyond hills； and； beyond those； more cities and more people。
Long before the Roussi army marched into Afghanistan； long before villages were burned and schools destroyed； long before mines were planted like seeds of death and children buried in rock…piled graves； Kabul had bee a city of ghosts for me。 A city of harelipped ghosts。
America was different。 America was a river； roaring along； unmindful of the past。 I could wade into this river； let my sins drown to the bottom； let the waters carry me someplace far。 Someplace with no ghosts； no memories； and no sins。
If for nothing else； for that； I embraced America。
THE FOLLOWING SUMMER； the summer of 1984……the summer I turned twenty…one……Baba sold his Buick and bought a dilapidated 71 Volkswagen bus for 550 from an old Afghan acquaintance who d been a high…school science teacher in Kabul。 The neighbors heads turned the afternoon the bus sputtered up the street and farted its way across our lot。 Baba killed the engine and let the bus roll silently into our designated spot。 We sank in our seats； laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks； and； more important； until we were sure the neighbors weren t watching anymore。 The bus was a sad carcass of rusted metal； shattered windows replaced with black garbage bags； balding tires； and upholstery shredded down to the springs。 But the old teacher had reassured Baba that the engine and transmission were sound and； on that account； the man hadn t lied。
On Saturdays； Baba woke me up at dawn。 As he dressed； I scanned the classifieds in the local papers and circled the garage sale ads。 We mapped our route……Fremont； Union City； Newark； and Hayward first； then San Jose； Milpitas； Sunnyvale； and Campbell if time permitted。 Baba drove the bus； sipping hot tea from the thermos； and I navigated。 We stopped at garage sales and bought knickknacks that people no longer wanted。 We haggled over old sewing machines； one…eyed Barbie dolls； wooden tennis rackets； guitars with missing strings； and old Electrolux vacuum cleaners。 By midafternoon； we d filled the back of the VW bus with used goods。 Then early Sunday mornings； we drove to the San Jose flea market off Berryessa； rented a spot； and sold the junk for a small profit： a Chicago record that we d bought for a quarter the day before might go for 1； or 4 for a set of five； a ramshackle Singer sewing machine purchased for 10 might； after some bargaining； bring in 25。
By that summer； Afghan families were working an entire section of the San Jose flea market。 Afghan music played in the aisles of the Used Goods section。 There was an unspoken code of behavior among Afghans at the flea market： You greeted the guy across the aisle； you invited him for a bite of potato bolani or a little qabuli； and you chatted。 You offered tassali； condolences； for the death of a parent； congratulated the birth of children； and