A couple of healthy personal records (02/22/06)

Two personal records were set during the past couple of weeks, and I’m probably healthier because of them.

The first — and most surprising — is that I was able to complete two full weeks of work with Russian newspapers without consuming a single drop of vodka.

I’m not a fan of the stuff at all.

But it’s a fact of Russian life that vodka is everywhere, and socially it can be next to impossible to avoid. (I’ve had friends who insisted they were violently allergic to the stuff simply to fend off aggressive vodka-laden “hospitality.”)

This time around, however, I got lucky. No vodka was in evidence at a Moscow conference where I spoke, and at three newspapers where I did follow-up work, vodka was never a part of the social equation.

One of the publishers I worked with is a tee-totaler, which is a Russian rarity. Another was taking medication for a bad back and touched nothing stronger than water. And the third represented a younger generation that’s working hard to avoid the stuff, having watched it destroy too many lives.

The second personal record on my part didn’t involve abstinence, but consumption.

It started the middle of the first week. We’d taken the night train down to Zheleznogorsk, and I had spent the morning working with the publisher and his wife, the editor. At lunch time at the Hotel Zheleznogorsk, built by the local iron mining firm, I ordered salmon shashlik, or kebabs.

As my family knows, I love salmon. And when in Russia, you’re in salmon-lover heaven.

The shashlik was great, and when we returned to the same restaurant the next day, the publisher ordered it. But they were out, and both of us had to make do with grilled salmon.

Returning to Moscow that night, I had 24 hours off in Moscow before hitting the road again. I spent much of it walking around the central city, trying to stay warm while seeing a few sights. About 3 p.m., I ducked into a restaurant hoping for a late lunch.

The most appealing thing on the menu? You guessed it. Salmon.

And so it continued.

Sometimes it was lunch. Sometimes it was dinner. But every day — for ten consecutive days — I enjoyed Russian salmon in one incarnation or another.

By the time I headed back home, I’d begun to worry about things like mercury levels in that much fish consumption. And I had to admit that I’d finally eaten my fill.

So it was with some relief that I sat down to dinner Sunday night, home at last.

On the plate: Meatloaf.

And there wasn’t a single drop of vodka poured.[[In-content Ad]]