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I remember his nervously telling me that he had rented a hotel suite with an extra bed in the living room, just in case we didn't hit it off. I was grateful -- less pressure. But we were definitely attracted to each other, and the living room remained vacant for the whole weekend.

A month later we took two more romantic trips together, to Warsaw and Budapest, where we also had intimate talks about his divorce and his father's death. When we were each back home, Steve wrote in an e-mail: "Let's do this -- let's get married." Although it wasn't the most romantic marriage proposal ever, I knew it was genuine. Looking into his eyes when we were together, I could tell how wild he was for me; I felt an incredible sense of safety, warmth and affection with him. Plus, I was desperate to leave Ukraine. I immediately said yes.

My American Wedding
That was the easy part. What followed was seemingly endless, grueling paperwork and logistics as Steve spent five months dealing with the marriage agency and the Ukrainian government. He had to get me a visa, which required him to take multiple trips to Kiev. Between the agency charges, visa fees, travel and other expenses, he ended up spending about $20,000. I'll admit that the amount made me uncomfortable. Part of it was guilt about how much the process cost him, because we still barely knew each other at that point, even though our love was budding. On a deeper level, I didn't want to feel "bought." Steve never made me feel that way; rather, he treated the money as part of the adventure we were on. And that helped me a great deal. We were constantly in touch over e-mail, reassuring each other that what mattered most was getting me out of Ukraine soon and discovering a new life together in New York City.

My mother seemed shocked that I met a husband so quickly -- or at all, really -- but also relieved that I was about to be married. Years later I realized that even if she didn't show it, letting go of her only daughter at such a young age must have been hard for her.

Almost exactly a year after sending that first message to Steve, I packed all of my belongings into one small suitcase and flew, alone, to New York City. Landing at John F. Kennedy International Airport was overwhelming. Steve was waiting for me, as nervous as I was, but he had that same loving expression I saw on the day we first met. The airport was crowded, and I felt dizzy. Not only was I finally in America, but because of U.S. visa requirements, I would be married quickly -- in two weeks.

We decided to keep our wedding simple and low-pressure with a civil ceremony at City Hall. Without a doubt, even though there wouldn't be a huge party, big white dress or flock of attendants, we both still had our own very unique brand of pre-wedding jitters, given our situation.

As we rode together in a taxi to his apartment, I stared out the window and admired all of the buildings, billboards and stores whizzing by. Steve's place was just as he'd described, with an Andy Warhol print and graphic street art decorating the walls. Although certainly not a huge space -- it's a New York City apartment, after all -- it was roomier than what I was used to back home.

I had packed only my jeans and a sweater, because the rest of my clothes weren't in good condition or fashionable by American standards, and Steve had assured me he would buy me some things to help me "fit in." So in my first days in America, I went clothes shopping in SoHo and Greenwich Village, my new neighborhood. I didn't get expensive, designer stuff, even though Steve offered to buy me whatever I wanted. I have pride and respect for myself, and I didn't want to get too comfortable with a lifestyle that I couldn't afford on my own dime. I couldn't ever be a trophy wife.

(Click Next to read the rest of Lera's story.)



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