When it all started for me, back in 1956, Moscow seemed far more remote than it was for Chekhov's homesick sisters. It was then another vague point on that personal map we all carry with us, that individualized construct, some collage of arts and letters, TV images, newspaper reports, travelers' tales, and gossip, bundled together with the idiosyncratic strings of prejudice, interest, and passion. And for me--as I was a dance person--Moscow was also a place where the connotations of the Bolshoi Ballet, and particularly, of Galina Ulanova, loomed large.

Then, at ...

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