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The problem with kissing Natasha was that, being a librarian, she was overflowing with interesting factoids and observations about the universe. Since she didn't speak English, we had to stop kissing and summon Daniil every time a new epiphany struck her. Oiled, no doubt, by several hours of drinking and dancing, her epiphanies came at the rate of about one every 90 seconds.

"Daniil!" she called for the fifth time in 15 minutes. Daniil, a recent St. Petersburg University graduate, was hosting our after-hours party at his cozy, rundown, second-floor crash-pad near the popular Nevski Prospekt district. The ceilings of the old apartment were tall and grimy, empty beer bottles lined the table and an anti-hangover tea kettle boiled on the living room hot plate. The old Soviet-era wallpaper was covered with magic-markered graffiti, some of which was our own.

Daniil appeared in the door with his usual ironic grin, and Natasha spoke to him for a few moments. "Natsha wants to know who I remind you of," he said to me. "What famous person do I resemble?"

I gave Daniil a close look. He was tall and baby-faced, with narrow shoulders and a curly mop of blond hair. "You look kind of like a young Judge Reinhold. He's an American actor."

Daniil translated, then laughed at Natasha's response. "She says that you're wrong. Apparently, I look like Von Kotzebue."

"Who's Von Kotzebue?" I asked.

"I have no idea," he said. He clarified for a moment with Natasha. "Apparently, it's not just Von Kotzebue, but August Freidrick Ferdinad Von Kotzebue. Natasha says he was an unimportant German playwright who worked in the Russian state service 200 years ago." He paused, laughing as Natasha gave him the final details. "Natasha says his plays were superficial, he was assassinated as a reactionary."

I shook my head in admiration. "I envy Natasha's talent for making really weird allusions," I said, "but I think it's better to compare yourself to a movie star."

Enthused, Daniil had me write down "Judge Reinhold" before going back inside his apartment.

Five minutes later, Natasha had another epiphany and called Daniil back out onto the balcony. "Natasha says we must buy American sausages," he translated. "She says she has something very important to show you. A miracle."

"What kind of miracle?"

"She won't say," Daniil said. "She says we have to get the American sausages first."

Figuring it foolish to pass up any miraculous pre-dawn demonstration involving a professional librarian and processed meat, I gave my consent.

"And please have your cousin come with us," Daniil added.

My cousin Dan -- a 23-year-old ex-linebacker who'd recently graduated from a University of Kansas literature program -- had been treated like a rock star ever since I let it slip to the Russians that he'd once had dinner with William S. Burroughs. Quiet and understated by nature, Dan insisted that he'd merely sat with Burroughs at a large gathering several years ago -- but our Russian friends would have nothing of humility. Natasha had already demanded an autograph.

Once we'd corralled Dan, we headed down the stairs and onto the pre-dawn streets of St. Petersburg, ready for any miracles that came our way.

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