I am thinking back about Russia in 1994, of flying west from Vladivostok to Moscow, over the golden steppes lit by the distant sun, then passing over a solid blanket of clouds stretching all the way to Novosibirsk, on the western edge of Siberia.  There have been, along the way, occasional breaks in the clouds, exposing wide, shiny gray rivers running north and south, north to the low Arctic horizon and south to the Amur River bordering China.  We have been flying for five hours; there are four to go.  The clouds have finally disappeared.  Below me, as we enter European Russia, lie vast stretches of forest and some low mountains, the southern Urals.   We are passing over Tomsk, between Yekaterinburg and Kazan, Russian cities of half a million inhabitants, cities which were once first strike ICBM targets, military industrial cities which I was forbidden to visit during the Cold War.  Yekaterinburg was “Sverdlovsk” then, where Czar Nicholas and his family were murdered in 1918, and where Francis Gary Powers was shot down in his U-2 in 1960.  Kazan, on the Volga, was the home of Lenin.  Now, we are establishing an American consulate in Yekaterinburg, Boris Yeltsin’s hometown.  From the air, there are no visible highways, cultivated fields, or major cities the rest of the way to Moscow.  Who would have thought that I would know this country like my own.  The overall impression is one of light blue, almost white, skies, vast grasslands, scattered villages, dirt roads, and winding rivers below.

Finally, we are descending into Moscow’s Domodedovo Airport, on the southern outskirts.  The clouds are opaque outside the window as we bump down.  Occasionally there is a visible patch of green countryside below, then we are lost in the clouds again, banking, with the pilots really flying the plane, as Russian pilots do.  Descending for some time, I am wondering how much lower we can go.  We should be near the ground by now.  Still, there is nothing but fog outside the window, and the sound of the engines winding down, then revving up, and more bumps as we encounter a bit of turbulence.  The flight attendants are strapped in their bulkhead seats, facing us.  We bank again, and a section of highway and fields below emerges for a second, but the cars below are just dots.  We make several more turns while descending, the engines alternating power, and finally there is the sound of the landing gear dropping and locking into place with a thump.  We level off and drift down as the engines power up for landing.  Suddenly, we are over the runway, with its white lines leading us. We have broken through the fog.  Misty shapes of trees and airport buildings race by, their tops obscured by low clouds.  The tires skid as they touch down, and the engines reverse.  As we de-accelerate, yellow runway marker signs appear, and the attendants are unbuckling.  Outside is the large terminal, and planes of all sizes with cyrillic lettering, and lush forests visible beyond the runways.

We have arrived, and I feel a sigh of relief, and also some pride of the prodigal, a colleague returning to an Embassy I have been part of for years, now serving in an outlying consulate amid some hardship.   I feel excitement at being back in civilization, in Moscow, in Europe.  I will become part of the Embassy again for a few days, consulting.  I will be part of the large American community, enjoying the cafeteria, American food, and local sights– Novodevidevchy Monastery and dinners at the nearby “Aragvi”  restaurant, ballets at the Bolshoi, concerts at Tchaikovsky Conservatory, shopping on Novy Arbat and Tverskaya Boulevards.  But, part of me is still back in the Russian Far East, in Vladivostok, with its taiga and hills and bays, downtown ports, and commuter trains running down the Pacific coast to the wooded state dacha, where I live.  I miss my Russian friends and the staff at the consulate, the birch forests, the boat rides and picnics on the bay, and the frequent trips to Khabarovsk and other cities in the region.  And yet, I am ready to go back to the States, even though I feel what I am doing is worthwhile, building friendship between former enemies.

It has been a stressful three years in Siberia, fighting for democratic Russians against the old Soviet elites, the KGB, hard-line Governors, local mafias, and angry Russian communists.  We are alone out there in the struggle, and disliked by many just because we are there.  The older Russians are skeptical of change.  We are fighting for democracy, against the revival of the former Soviet Union and communist party under new names, a real threat despite the denials.  We have allies in the younger generation, but Yeltsin and democracy are losing credibility amid widespread poverty and mafia rule.  We are losing battles, but gaining friends, getting our message out gradually through our presence, rubbing elbows, breaking down stereotypes.  Eventually change will come.  The time has come.

There is the emotional stress of being far away from family, and the fatigue of living in the bleak, still somewhat Soviet landscape, and missing the comforts and culture of the West.  How many years can you dedicate to Monrovia, Moscow, and Vladivostok.  Perhaps it is time for the humanities, for archeological digs in Greece, galleries at DuPont Circle, and evening courses at Georgetown.

Walking out of the airport terminal, pushing though the swinging heavy oak doors, I see a yellow bus, packed with overflowing Russians, leaving the terminal parking lot, black smoke pouring from the exhaust.  “Gypsy cab” drivers are soliciting fares.  Grandmothers are running with old suitcases to other busses.  The Embassy driver is waiting for me out front, standing beside the open rear door of the black Chevrolet with CD plates.  I get in, and he shuts the door for me with a “click.”  I think to myself, “yes, “click,” I am closing the door too, on this part of my life.  Sitting in the back seat, I realize I am biding my time, living for retirement and the humanities.  It is ten a.m., Moscow time.  The Embassy has an apartment for me.

The Embassy driver asks politely, “Embassy or home, Meester Le Kok?”

“Home, Sasha.”