I was six years old when I got on the sleeper train and then ferry that would take me away from the city where I was born. The memories are a blurry haze in my mind now, but as a contrast to my giddy excitement, I remember my mother crying. I didn't realise back then that her tears were farewell tears - what I didn't know was that we were never coming back.
The memory of Moscow faded from my mind, erased by the impressions of my new life: a new language, new friends, a new street to live on, then yet another, and another. I grew up hungry for new destinations, never looking back. When questioned over never having returned to my birthplace, I replied that when it was time, the opportunity to go back would present itself. And this month, it did.