They had warned me that the Russians like their vodka.  They had warned me that there would be lots of high spirited toasting to lots of worthy things: U.S.-Russian relations, international peace, justice, Fyodor Doestoyevsky, to name a few.  They had warned me that my social duty would be to participate in the polite, if somewhat dizzying, process of bending the ol' elbow with one shot glass after another.

In preparation for flying to Russia to be a presenter at two seminars within a week, I practiced -- not my presentations -- but the downing of a myriad of shots of chilled vodka.  I have never been much of a drinker.  Admittedly, part of the thrill of being a prosecutor in the pits back in the late 70s and early 80s was winding down the day's battles with boilermakers...or pitchers of stout, depending upon the venue.  But this had been "back in the day" and was by no means preparation for my date with the colorless booze of Mother Russia. 

There would be two receptions during the week, I had been told, one for each of the two classes attending the presentations.  They had not been exaggerating about the toasting either.  And those shot glasses were the biggest I had ever seen!  Thank goodness there was plenty of food spread along one wall with which to line my nervous stomach.  I never realized how much I liked smoked salmon and caviar.  There were other delicacies I couldn't even identify.  I picked and chose as carefully as my besodden brain was capable under the circumstances.

Russian dancers in period outfits performed at one end of the room on a raised, wooden dance floor.  The music was loud, live and spirited.  I remember that, at some point in these proceedings, as warm and welcome as I was beginning to feel, I suddenly sensed that someone was going to put the dancers up to grabbing me and hauling me up onto the floor with them to see whether or not I could ... dance in Russian.  I immediately slithered toward the rear of the room and found a spot as far from the dance floor as possible.  It did not work.  All of a sudden, two of the female dancers were heading purposely toward me, huge smiles wreathing their round faces, strong hands about to grab me by my arms. 

How much vodka I had consumed at that point I could not tell you.  Suffice it to say, it was quite a bit.  Suddenly I found myself before the cheering mass in the large room, everyone clapping and laughing, and me -- with a bunch of costumed Russian dancers -- going round and round in a circle, of all things.  Back and forth I could have handled.  Round and round in a circle was a bit of a challenge.  Maintaining the best smile that I could muster, given the speed with which we were turning and the piercing concussion of the band, I remember thinking only...pleassssse, pleasssse let me get through this without puking.

I did good.  I neither fell nor threw up.  All my prior training, distant though it was, helped me get through it without embarrassing myself.  Finally I was released and allowed to leave the dance floor to receive my reward...more toasting!  Russian vodka is, I must say, good stuff.

"Vhat you dlink?" one bushy browed Russian asked me.  He meant, I took it, what do I normally drink if left to my own devices.

"I drink scotch," I said.  He pondered this for a moment.

"Vhat dis scotch?" he asked.  I pondered that for a moment.

"It's whiskey from Scotland," I replied, and downed another shot of vodka.

We were both silent for a few seconds, savoring the opportunity to share our vastly different, yet remarkably similar, experiences.  Finally, he finished off the dialogue.

"Vee dlink vodka," he said, somewhat unnecessarily.

Then a Russian woman who had been eyeing me from across the room suddenly rescued me from the impasse by taking my elbow and leading me back to the dance floor, this time for a much more sedate turn to more reasonably paced, recorded music.

By the time that I finally fumbled my way to my room and burrowed under the covers to get through the cold February night in Bryansk, Russia, I was warmed by the fact that I had managed to preserve friendly relations between our two countries, survived my first Russian folk dance, and bolstered my immune system with enough chilled Russian vodka to survive even the most virulent virus that might be afloat within the closed confines of the transatlantic airliner that would return me to the U.S.

 

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