Reading this memoir, I was struck by the fact that, as a Soviet emigre, I would somehow connect with Owen's experiences. I just finished the book and realized that our experiences are not alike at all.

I was four when we left (1979) via Austria, via Italy and finally to New York. I remember nothing. I was told nothing. If I had been a little older I would have been an indoctrinated "Pionerka," a child-Commie. But that never happened. Sure, my grandfather and my parents told me the stories of waiting in lines and fear of Soviet snitchery. But mostly, my family wanted to forget Stalin, Lenin, all of them. They remember only certain things fondly, such as family, school chums, fun times from their youth. My chance to see Kiev (where we were from) came in 2005.

I hated every moment spent in that depressing place. I have been all over the world and had never been more afraid to be detained at Customs than when I entered (and thankfully left) Kiev. I was thinking that it must have been my in-born Soviet fear of imprisonment (similar to my instinct for waiting in lines). After performing the required Russian/Ukrainian duties of visiting every dead relative in the cemetaries, eating at the Pelmenyi, and hailing a personal taxi (this is a real thing that non-taxi licensed individuals do to earn money), I called my mom once on U.S. soil and thanked her for taking me out of that dark, dank country.

My experiences aside, the author had this need to identify with all things Russian--lived there, became absolutely fluent (reading/writing), married a Russian girl. Those are all things with which I cannot identify. Maybe it would have been different if he had been born there. I don't know.

Well, this book is definitely interesting and readable. I recommend.