Just a small band of travelers waited in the far reaches of London's Heathrow Airport for Air Uzbekistan's overnight flight to Tashkent. Quite surprisingly, someone in British authority at the airport presented us with a questionnaire to be filled in: who, why, where; professional details were asked. The invasiveness of the questions added to my nervousness setting off for this rigid autocracy in a former Soviet Repbulic. Who needed to know?

Once settled and airborne, we were presented with everything we needed or were allocated for sustenannce during the entire flight — three meals simultaneously with drinks poured into glasses from pitchers of wine, juice, tea, whatever. Because the 747 was not even half full, it was a pleasant journey.

In the morning, the plane descended through miles of billowing cumulus clouds with snatches of blue sky overhead, a floating, never-ending descent. How indifferent and unremarkable the Steppe seemed from the air — brown, dun-colored land with houses dotted here and there, placed as in any farming community.

When we landed, dozens of white-shirted, black-tied personnel rushed to the side of our plane to direct us to the proper channels. Long tunnels led into the dimly lit building of the Tashkent airport. A ubiquitous sign of the Soviet era . . .