(FORTUNE Magazine) – Russians rarely let work get in the way of a good party--especially Russian journalists partying on someone else's tab. Philip Morris International has grasped this faster than most foreign companies trying to sell cigarettes in Russia. Which helps explain why Philip Morris recently flew a planeload of Russian journalists (and one non-Russian--me) to a junket in Krasnodar, a town about 600 miles south of Moscow where the company has a cigarette factory.

We arrive at the factory, where there is to be a press conference. There is also a long table creaking with liquor, caviar, salmon, and Russian finger sandwiches--and cigarettes, lots of them. Philip Morris execs and local pols drone on about "economic prosperity for the region"; the press salivates. A ribbon is cut and the media pounce--on the salmon. Vodka flows. A factory manager mingles eagerly, imparting all he can about the new leaf-chopping equipment, output capacity, and...well, it's too late. The journalists sate themselves and head for the door. A young Russian PR man named Vadim hands out free Marlboro shirts, hats, pens, and cartons of smokes. "I wonder if this will fit my brother?" asks a blond TV broadcaster, holding a shirt up to her cameraman for a quick sizing.

That night at dinner: more alcohol, food, desserts, and three packs of Philip Morris cigarettes at every place setting. The toasts begin. Vadim, in flawless corporatespeak and through a thick cloud of smoke, toasts "our big happy family." Before slumping to the floor, the guy next to me makes a toast in a sincere voice to the "success of Philip Morris."

At 6 A.M., we schlep back to the airport--and a two-hour delay. Vadim opens last night's leftovers and the party begins anew around sticky airport cafe tables. Vadim and a columnist sing sad Russian songs, then argue about who's going to tell the anecdote about the sailor and the priest. On the plane, Vadim spills cognac in my lap and later runs up and down the aisle, pouring final splashes of good cheer in the coffee cups of stunned, happy passengers. Our bus pulls into Moscow three hours late, with Vadim and the columnist passed out in the back. Stinking of cognac and diesel exhaust, I creep into my office and endure a full inquiry from my colleague Sergei. "Excellent!" he exclaims, grinning and shaking his head. "How come you get to go on all the good trips?"

--Erin Arvedlund

ERIN ARVEDLUND is a reporter for the Moscow Times.