Since arriving from a Macedonian refugee camp more than a week ago, Mevlide Krasniqi has had almost everything to make her life comfortable.
The beds are softer, the food more plentiful, the plumbing more reliable.
"The way that Americans live, they should never open their mouths to complain," the 28-year-old mother of three said through an interpreter.
There is one thing lacking in her new home in Fauquier County, however, and that is the daily rhythms and familiarities of life in her small village outside Pristina, the capital of Kosovo.
"When I go outside, I cannot look next door and say, `Hello neighbor,' " she said, speaking in the lobby of the Warrenton Comfort Inn.
That is where Mevlide, her husband, Sejdi, their three young sons and cousin Behadin have been staying since their arrival, orchestrated by local philanthropic groups, including the Warrenton United Methodist Church and People Helping People.
The family has had little time alone. But when they do, the three adults agonize over whether to return to their village or take advantage of their hosts' generosity and make a new life in the United States.
Both options are freighted with uncertainties.
"We'll have to see what's going to happen," said Sejdi Krasniqi, 30, a carpenter by trade. "Whatever is best for our children, we're going to do."
His wife, who dearly misses the relatives they have not heard from since they sneaked out of their house under cover of darkness two months ago, said, "It's a beautiful life here, but there is no family."
With NATO troops moving into their region and Serbian forces expected to move out, it would seem on the surface that the Krasniqis could return.
But there are complications, Sejdi Krasniqi said, because a volatile new element has been introduced.
"We do not trust the Russians," he said.
He is referring to the Russian peacekeeping contingent that is trying to establish a foothold in the security arrangements for occupied Kosovo. The three Krasniqi adults said they see the Russians as proxies for the Serbs and fear that they will carry out the same style of intimidation that drove them from their village.
"We worry about the Russians, because we still have family there," Sejdi Krasniqi said, his speech quickening.
Giving sparse detail, he described how he fled the town of his birth, where his clan constitutes a major part of the 1,500 inhabitants.
He was living in the home of his parents in tight quarters, with his six brothers and their families. His cousin, Behadin Krasniqi, 20, lived next door.
As the NATO bombing campaign began, he said, Serb paramilitary units began harassing villagers. Word came that their part of the village was going to be targeted for extermination.
"We left because we were afraid," he said. "All around were the Serb troops. We were surrounded by them. They wanted to come and kill people."
Behadin Krasniqi said that one evening, the group decided to flee.
"We went to a friend's house," he said. "We slept overnight there."
The next day, they went to the train station, where they were herd ed into cattle cars for what Sejdi Krasniqi estimated was an 11-hour ride, with nowhere to sit and no restroom facilities.
They were dropped off three miles from the Macedonian border and, laden with what meager possessions they could carry, walked the rest of the way, he said.
In the camp, they became separated from other members of their family with whom they had fled.
"One bus was going to Sweden, the other to Macedonian camp," Behadin Krasniqi said.
With the help of their hosts, they have been able to contact family members who were able to flee, but they have had no word from their village. That is where they believe their parents and several brothers and sisters still are living.
With dark news of newly discovered atrocities, even as the defeated Serbian forces withdraw, there has been little time for the refugee family to enjoy the local hospitality.
It has been plentiful.
The Country Chevrolet dealership ponied up a year's rent for a Warrenton town house that the Krasniqis are expected to move into today. The volunteer contingent has arranged almost every meal, becoming more aware of the high premium the ethnic Albanians put on bread. The two men have received job offers.
"We are very thankful for everything here," Sejdi Krasniqi said.
His interpreter, Van Prifti, 80, a native Albanian, has been one of those lobbying for the family to plant its roots into the local community.
"You go back there and who knows what is left?" said Prifti, who worked for U.S. intelligence forces in the Balkans during World War II.
That is the question that prompts all three to look at each other and hold their gazes for an uncomfortable moment.
Mevlide Krasniqi received free dental treatment Thursday and had a tooth pulled. But she said that was not why she was frowning.
"I'm going to go out of my mind if I don't see my father and I don't see my mother," she said.
CAPTION: Sejdi Krasniqi, with two of his three sons, arrives at Dulles International Airport earlier this month.