Another New Year's in Moscow, and another firm resolution: This will be my VERY LAST year in Russia. I have been making the same promise to myself for the better part of a decade, but so far have made little progress. It must be my total inability to think of anything else I would rather be doing than battling the dirt, crime, and frustration of this city that keeps me a prisoner here.


Is there life after Moscow? I'm terribly afraid that my years here have completely destroyed my ability to communicate with the outside world. It is hard to accept that everyone is not as passionately interested in this place as I am.


I was astounded to learn recently that my mother has absolutely no idea where I am. She knows, of course, that I am in Moscow, but with a true Bostonian sense of geography she is convinced that Russia is a continent floating somewhere around Alaska.


"Europe? Moscow is in Europe?" she asked incredulously. "You mean like Paris or London?"


I refrained from pointing out that, technically speaking, London was not part of Europe at all, but I had to agree that she had a point. Moscow, I explained, might be considered by some to be on another planet, but physically it is to the west of the continental divide.


So it was with no great hope of understanding that I told her about the parliamentary elections that have plagued my life for the past few months.


"The Communists won," I said, sure that with her Cold War background she would insist that I get on a plane immediately and fly out of harm's way.


But she surprised me. With a pensioner's grasp of economic reality, she asked, "Well, isn't that good for you? Won't it make things cheaper?"


Has Gennady Zyuganov been campaigning in Beantown?


What would I talk about at cocktail parties? I can just see circles of people drifting nervously away as I start to wax eloquent on Duma factions or the mysteries of the great Russian soul.


The incomprehension is totally reciprocal.


My eyes start to glaze over when my friends begin their litany of mortgage payments, competitive nursery schools for the new generation, and which restaurants and clubs are "in" this year. My friend Robert mocks me mercilessly for my ignorance of American pop culture, but when he turns on "Dead at 21" I just want to run, screaming, out of the room.


I can't imagine having a serious conversation with someone who has never heard of General Alexander Lebed, or, worse, with faux-intellectuals who have dubbed him "Russia's Colin Powell."


And heart-to-heart chats with American women friends with "man problems" would be quite a treat after my adventures in Russia.


"You're dropping him because he's not sensitive enough? He doesn't respect your individuality? Well, let me tell you about Fedya ..."


I toy with the idea of going home, becoming a consultant, writing a book, buying a house, marrying a millionaire ... but my daydreams always come up against one indisputable fact: Russia, with all its faults, is simply the most exciting place in the world.


So when the Kremlin clock strikes midnight to usher in 1996, I will raise a glass of champagne in thanks for all of the wonderful, crazy, aggravating, frightening and unique experiences I have had in this wonderful, crazy, aggravating, at times frightening and altogether unique country.


Another 10 years, maybe?