On my first visit to the Soviet Union, soon upon my return to Yugoslavia from the studies in the United States, many a grizzled waitress and hotel cleaning woman was delighted with me. They found me irresistible. They treated me like a prince. Everywhere I went, I heard the same words about my delightful self: krassivy molodoy. A handsome youth, that is. More, a beautiful youth. The words came to me out of the blue as I was eating my dinner this evening. They sounded so true, I could hear them again after so many years. And that visit took place in 1976, when I was no less than thirty. Krassivy molodoy, my ass. On two counts, too.