Whatever happened to Russian dukhovnost? This term, loosely translated as "spirituality," signified the primacy of the mind over the body, the triumph of the soul over the material world. It's all bound up with the efficacy of suffering, and, like most things, it has something to do with Dostoevsky.


In any case, it's been a mainstay of Russia for hundreds of years. It is what made this country unique, what transformed its trials into virtues.


Even, or perhaps especially, in the Soviet years, Russians would proudly say, "We may not have much: Food may be scarce, our clothes shoddy, and our money worthless. But, boy, do we have dukhovnost!"


The lucky visitor during the stagnation years spent countless hours in cramped kitchens drinking tea or vodka, sniffing black bread and eating pickled garlic, discussing the Great Questions of the Universe. Freed from the conversational burdens of politics and consumerism, Russians could afford to wallow in existential misery.


A lot has changed since then, of course. There are now newspapers to be read, information programs to be discussed, and, of course, work to be done. No longer sheltered by the old "equal pay for no work" ethic, more and more Russians are devoting longer hours and greater effort to attaining the "good life" -- imported cars, expensive clothes, refurbished apartments and trips abroad.


This is normal, of course. But it sometimes seems as though Russians have succumbed to the soulless glitz of Western capitalism. Another couple of years, alarmists cry, and you won't be able to tell Moscow from New York.


Never fear. I found Russian dukhovnost on the 21st floor of the Intourist Hotel Wednesday night.


I had joined some friends to celebrate the first anniversary of a favorite restaurant of mine. In most respects it was a typical ex-pat scene. The Ivy Leaguer on my left droned on about his new business venture, and my friend across the table regaled me with tales of touchy-feely group therapy from her Southern California days. The New Yorker next to her complained that he wasn't making enough money, and I kept up my usual trivial patter about nothing in particular. Suddenly the Russian man on my right, a total stranger, leaned close to me and began to whisper in my ear.


We were all well into the champagne by then, having already dealt with pi–a coladas served in real pineapples and some alarming liquid sprouting flames. So, given my well-honed skepticism about the motives of the Russian male, heightened by alcohol, I tightened my grasp on the stem of my champagne glass, prepared to throw my drink in his face if necessary.


"Do you think you have found yourself as a person?" he said. "I mean, are you really doing what you should be doing in life?"


I thought about this for a while, and began to answer. Soon we were deep into a discussion of Life, with the great food, beautiful surroundings and good friends forgotten. We might as well have been in a Soviet kitchen, gnawing on the last of the cucumber and fatty sausage. I think it's the kind of conversation you can only have in Russian.


So, dukhovnost is still there, underneath the colorful Western trappings. It's probably what keeps me here.


Because, after all, great pi–a coladas I can get in New York.