The first thing you notice upon disembarking at the airport in Moscow is the smell. Or more precisely, the lack of it. The signature pungent odor of rough Soviet cigarettes is gone. At passport control, the pimply-faced, heavily armed teenagers in the ill-fitting uniforms have been replaced by smartly dressed, tastefully made up sulky young women who briskly check your passport and send you on your way.

I last was in Moscow in late 1991 as the wreckage of the Soviet Union gave way to the dubiously named Commonwealth of Independent States. No one could have known then what level of chaos and hardship this country would descend to. Sixteen years later and what seems like at least two lifetimes, I've been given the chance to return for NBC to work on several reports with correspondent Jim Maceda on the state of modern Russia.

I quickly realize that on the other side of the airport doors lies Oz. And the grimy highway that speeds toward the city center is nothing less than the yellow brick road. The intervening years have wrought an amazing transformation - mile after mile of shopping malls, Ikea stores, car dealerships, all with packed parking lots. While we've heard a great deal about the super-rich here, some semblance of a middle class must be doing at least some of this buying.

Along the roads and the skyline is a riot of color and neon - the language of advertising is everywhere. So that's what the words "Always Low Prices!" look like in Russian. Back in the day, advertising came in two colors, red and white, and it was propaganda, not washing machines, that was on offer. "Glory to the 25th Five Year Plan! Peace to the World! All Power to the Soviets!" Repeated ad infinitum. Now Russians are urged to remodel their kitchens, find the best calling plan or check out zero percent financing at the Toyota dealer.But nothing could have prepared me for the eye-popping Euro-style prosperity awaiting in the city center. Glittering stores, a panoply of restaurants (everything from haute French to TGI Friday's) - all await in what my colleague Jim Maceda calls the "Dubai of the North." But more than that surface glamor, there is a level of confidence and self-assurance in the people I see on the cold and icy streets here. People don't walk in the careworn, just-trying-to-get-by manner I remember -- trying to ignore the occasional posh store or restaurant, catering to expatriates, in their midst. Now they patrol the shops and the food courts, enjoying the fruits of the money generated by their country's vast energy reserves.

It's a fascinating time to be here, given the current tough talk from Russian President Vladimir Putin -- about which we'll be reporting -- but it's clear this nation has a robust sense of pride and entitlement - and its people are long past settling for whatever life throws at them.

Photo caption: Clare, yesterday, outside the Kremlin wall. Photo by NBC cameraman Dmitri Solovyov.

You have outdone yourselves -- all of you out there in cyberspace who have taken the time to respond to my posting about my beloved uncle, Peter Boyle.  What I didn't realize was just how beloved he was by everyone he ever made laugh, smile, cry, wince, shiver or think. 

From those who recalled his Philly roots (and so many of you remember my grandfather's television show) to those who mentioned some of his lesser-known roles or who simply wanted to share their prayers and good wishes, you have given my family a lasting gift.  Your words will be a comfort to us and a testament to his life that we can savor for years to come.  Thank you.

Read Clare's original posting

He seemed to always play the curmudgeon, though he was anything but. Peter Boyle, who died last night here in New York City at age 71, was not only a marvelous character actor - he was also my uncle. The acting genes run deep in my family - my mother, Peter's sister, is a tremendously talented stage actress who's still juggling roles at 78. Philadelphians of a certain age might recall my grandfather, who hosted a local children's TV show as "Chuckwagon Pete" in the very early days of television and worked with Ernie Kovacs. His eldest daughter, Lucy, is already an accomplished actress and playwright.

But it was Uncle Pete who had the highest profile career, one he came by somewhat by chance after briefly considering a monastic life with the Christian Brothers.  The first movie I remember him in was Joe, a 1970 film in which he played a bigoted, Archie Bunker type without the charm.  I don't really remember the movie, since I was five and it was deemed unsuitable for impressionable eyes.

In the film, Pete's character is filled with virulent hatred for hippies and antiwar protesters and I remember him telling us how unnerved he was by people coming up to him, imagining he was like the character he played, cheering him on.  In fact, Uncle Pete loathed violence and intolerance.  He turned down the Gene Hackman role in The French Connection because he felt it glamorized violence and would typecast him as some kind of thug.  Given what the part did for Hackman, he might have made a different choice if he had it to do over, but he was nothing if not a man of principle.

He seemed to specialize in playing against his type - urbane, kind, cultured - the green-painted, zipper-necked monster in Young Frankenstein, Billy Bob Thornton's repellent father in Monster's Ball, and Ray Romano's cranky father in Everybody Loves Raymond.  It amused our family no end to see how much people associated him with the character he played - Uncle Pete was the last person I could imagine in a BarcaLounger with the top button on his pants undone, declaiming "Holy crap!" to all and sundry.  He was that good an actor.  But he was an even better uncle. 

I remember visits to movie sets as a child, being invited into his world as an honored guest.  But I also remember smaller gestures that in retrospect seem much bigger - like being 7 or 8 years old, and having a meltdown about something at a family gathering.  Uncle Pete left the party and sat with me for an hour, consoling me about whatever it was that was bothering me, making me think I was the only one that mattered.  Which, to your average kid, is huge.  You just want to matter.  And you want people to notice.  Uncle Pete noticed.  And more than anything, that's why I'll miss him. 

It's a part of New York City most tourists -- and a great many people who live here -- never see. Far down the Rockaway Peninsula, in the shadow of Coney Island and lower Manhattan, lie several communities that together form a cohesive example of small town America in a most surprising place.

Towns with carefree names like Belle Harbor and Breezy Point -- summery seaside names that belie the losses these towns suffered on 9/11 and the crash of American Flight 587 two months later.

The Rockaway area is home to many New York firefighters and police, and the roots of service to others run deep. There's no better embodiment of the Rockaway spirit than the subject of tonight's Making a Difference, retired fire captain Flip Mullen.

Matinee-idol handsome at 62 years old, this proud father of seven could be spending his days strolling the beach just steps from his door and playing with his grandchildren. Instead, he and his neighbors are constantly looking for ways to help their community, and the wider world.

In the wake of September 11, when Mullen and so many others rushed to Ground Zero and spent days digging for their fallen brothers, they formed a group called the Graybeards -- men of a certain age who once had gotten together just to play pick-up basketball, but who found a new mission. That mission, to help where help is needed, has taken the Graybeards to places like the Gulf Coast in the wake of Hurricane Katrina and just down the street, as in tonight's story by NBC Correspondent Mike Taibbi, where they organized a summer sports festival for wounded soldiers and Marines.

The culmination of the Wounded Warriors' visit to Rockaway was a Mass at the Breezy Point 9/11 Memorial. We've done a number of stories here at Nightly about the struggle over the World Trade center memorial site.

What people might not realize is the fact that a very moving and evocative memorial already exists. Out at the end of the peninsula in the dunes of Breezy Point, stands a cross made of twisted steel beams salvaged from Ground Zero. At the foot of the cross, etched glass plaques commemorate each person who died in the attack -- and there are so many for such a small community. Families ere encouraged to make their plaques personal and reflective, and the result gives any visitor a renewed appreciation of the spirit and sacrifice of this unique corner of New York City.

To learn more about the Graybeards, visit www.graybeards.com. To learn more about the Wounded Warrior project, visit www.woundedwarriorproject.org.