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starts!” He again shouted the last word. He spoke English so unnaturally that I was certain he’d learned it from a set of Berlitz tapes.
    The waitress showed up and poured me a cup of tea while Leschek told her something in Polish. When she disappeared, I asked, “What did you say to her?”
    “To bring you the breakfast.”
    “Is there a menu?”
    “No, no. Only one breakfast!”
    A few minutes later breakfast arrived: overcooked sausages and some strange Polish processed cheese. I was so hungry that I choked it all down.
    Leschek ate his meal dutifully, neither disgusted nor excited. Midway through the meal, his mouth full of food, he asked, “You are from London, yes?”
    “That’s right.”
    A smile spread across his face. “Then I have favor to ask.” He lowered his voice and whispered, “Can you introduce me to Samantha Fox?” Samantha Fox was a busty English pop singer who’d gotten her start by modeling topless on Page 3 of the British tabloid the Sun .
    I gave Leschek a funny look. “I’m afraid not. I don’t know her.”
    He leaned back in his chair with a doubtful look and insisted, “But you must. You’re from London.”
    “Leschek, I wish I could help, but there are seven million people in London.” I didn’t want to be rude, but this was ridiculous. How was I going turn around a failing bus company if my main connection to the outside world was this strange guy obsessing about a topless model from England?
    After breakfast, Leschek and I left the hotel and folded ourselves into the tiny, red Polski Fiat that the bus company had provided for me during my stay. After several attempts, I got the engine to sputter to life. Leschek smiled as he directed me to Autosan’s headquarters, a seven-story, white concrete building near the river. We parked, and as I passed into the lobby, I detected the same unpleasant smell of industrial solvents from dinner the night before. Leschek and I took the elevator to the top floor and found our way to the general manager’s office. The general manager stood in the doorway like a barricade—his broad shoulders taking up nearly the whole space—his thick mustache perched over a beaming smile. He appeared to be twice my age and had worked at Autosan for his entire career. As I drew near, he stuck out the thick-fingered hand of a laborer, and when I took it, he squeezed so hard it felt as if my small hand had been trapped in a wringer.
    He ushered Leschek and me into his office and began speaking quickly in Polish. “Welcome to Sanok,” Leschek translated, talkingover him. “He wants to know if you would like some brandy to toast your arrival?”
    “No thank you,” I said awkwardly, wondering if I was making some cultural faux pas by rejecting his offer of hard alcohol at 10:00 a.m.
    The general manager then launched into a speech that once again expressed his excitement that I was there. He explained that Autosan was Sanok’s main employer. If the company failed, then the town would also fail. He and everyone else at Autosan thought that BCG—and by default me—was going to save the whole lot from financial ruin. I tried to look serious and nodded at all of this, attempting to convey some semblance of confidence, but inwardly I was completely mortified by the scope of my responsibility.
    When he finished his little speech, he said, “Mr. Browder, before you get to work, I must ask—is there anything we can do to make your stay in Sanok more pleasant?”
    From the moment I’d walked into his office I had realized how warm it was, especially after my fitful night in my freezing room. I noticed a quietly buzzing space heater in the corner that emitted a comforting orange glow. Eyeing it, I nervously asked, “Do you think I could get a heater like that one for my room, sir?”
    There was a moment of silence as Leschek translated. Then the general manager’s face lit up. With rosy cheeks, he winked and said, “Mr. Browder, we can do much better than