For almost four weeks I basked in the compliments of friends. "You look wonderful!" they would exclaim when they saw my Cape Cod tan, my New York haircut, my rosy cheeks and bright eyes. I had that indefinable something that distinguishes the newcomer to Moscow: a lively step, a ready smile, and a healthy curiosity about the world around me.


Well, that's over now. I looked in the mirror this morning and noticed that it is back. My Moscow face stared out at me, grayish-green in hue, with a sour expression and a defeated air. Welcome home, I sighed.


Maybe it's the fact that my trusty Soviet-era car has broken down for the third time this month. But after three years of intermittent service from my bedraggled Moskvich I have grown used to these things. I almost look forward to renewing my love affair with Moscow's taxi drivers -- it's my way of keeping my finger on the pulse of the narod. And a few days on the metro gives me time to read the Russian papers and to check out the latest local fashions -- both of which activities have become much more exciting in the past few years.


It could be that my dog, Sasha, has not been feeling well. She has an ailment that in humans might be treated with a healthy helping of prunes, or bran, or both. I don't know exactly what to do for canine sufferers, but the time for action has come -- she has been waking me up every 45 minutes for the past three nights.


So yesterday I tempted her with prunes. Surprisingly, she loved them. And they had some of the desired effect -- Sasha was ill in all three rooms of my apartment this morning.


The final straw came when I tried to take the poor pup outside. The catch on the outer door to the building is broken, making it impossible to open from the inside. So Sasha looked at me imploringly while I hammered on the door, hoping someone would come and let me out.


Specific problems aside, the cumulative weight of living in Moscow just gets to be too much at times. Russians just seem to shrug and sigh, sink into themselves, and go trudging on with life. After all, as my friends never tire of telling me, if you take every little thing to heart you'll go nuts.


It's little wonder that things seem to move so slowly here, I thought dejectedly as I took Sasha for a spin around the park. It's a miracle anything gets done at all. After solving the countless pinprick problems of everyday life here, who has any energy left for the big picture?


For almost the first time since my return from vacation one month ago, I thought longingly of chucking it all and going home. These things don't happen in New York, I kept whining to myself. Things work there.


I cleaned the floor of my apartment, wedged a rock in the outside door to keep it open, and decided to splurge on a taxi to work. A grim-faced man stopped, asked my destination, shook his head, and drove on. As I waited stolidly for someone more accommodating, the grim guy backed up, opened his door, and said, "Get in." He didn't even ask how much I was willing to pay.


As I settled in, he smiled, and said, "I felt sorry for you, standing there looking so sad."


My Moscow face cracked a bit. I almost cried. After all is said and done, I'll take Moscow empathy over New York efficiency any day. At least until the next bad morning.