Anatole, the editor of information (how I love his title!) for the newspaper I am visiting; his 13-year-old daughter Marcia, who wants to be a journalist; Svetlana, the advertising representative; and I are cozily squeezed into the newspaper's white Volga, which Misha drives. Only Svetlana speaks Russian and English ("just a little bit, really," she protests), and so she is the bridge for all of us.

It is Saturday, excursion day. I had arrived a few days earlier in Ekaterinburg, which lies two time zones east of Moscow, to visit Uralsky Rabochy, a regional newspaper serving the province.

My visit is part of an exchange program sponsored by Sister Cities International and the U.S. Agency for International Development. I am to do an assessment of the newspaper's needs and make recommendations about a possible alliance with my newspaper, the San Jose (Calif.) Mercury News.

Ekaterinburg, which is Boris Yeltsin's home base, is a sister city of San Jose, and only from that relationship did I know anything about it. My pre-visit view of Russia had been shaped over the years by dispatches from Moscow; I was well aware from a tender age that Russia was America's enemy. Even though it's one of the largest cities in Russia, with a population of nearly 1.5 million people, Ekaterinburg had not seeped into my consciousness. From Khrushchev's regime until 1991, Ekaterinburg, a defense center, was closed to the outside world.

Today it seems quite open, with signs of America everywhere: on billboards and buses, on the radio and at the movie theater (where "Mortal Kombat" is playing). Like their American counterparts, the editors of Uralsky Rabochy want to wire their newsroom and what a leap that seems. They want an electronic connection to the outside world - and to each other. Today they are connected by red rotary-dial phones; one editor I visit passes along a phone call to a colleague by banging on their mutual wall. They jokingly refer to the well-used abacus on the secretary's desk as "the Russian calculator."

And yet, Uralsky Rabochy has been embarked on a massive change initiative for several years. Perhaps technology is the natural next step.

Uralsky Rabochy (Ural Worker) was founded in 1907, and for most of its years was the voice of the Communist Party in the Sverdlovsk region, a province twice the size of France. Since the collapse of socialism in 1991, it has been independent, owned by employees.

During that time, it has been grappling with just what that means, just as it has been struggling with massive challenges that all of Russia has faced in its pursuit of democracy and a market-based economy. Consider:

• Eight years ago, Uralsky Rabochy, which publishes four to eight broadsheet pages six days a week, had a circulation of 640,000. Today, the circulation hovers between 85,000 and 105,000, depending on the day of the week. Editors blame Russia's rampant inflation and stagnant economy for the drop. People simply can't afford the paper as easily as they once could. Fewer people find it essential, many preferring TV.

• While the government no longer controls the newspaper outright, it holds considerable clout. The state owns the building in which the newspaper is produced. It owns the printing company. It also controls the circulation and distribution, since most of the papers are delivered through the postal service. It also controls who gets housing, which means Uralsky Rabochy must seek approval for plans to add bureaus in outlying areas.

• Before Uralsky Rabochy became independent, the Communist Party controlled all staff decisions, including who - and how many - were hired. The party chose the chief editor, who in turn hired the staff. It was difficult, editor-in-chief Ivan V. Malakheev acknowledges. "It is necessary to have an excellent newspaper." At the same time, he needed to hire people who were loyal party members.

Most employees today were on staff before the newspaper became independent. But the game is different now. Before, the regional Communist Party set quotas on the number and kinds of stories. "Reporters needed permission from the committee to do anything," one staffer said. But with independence, journalists became empowered. "They could do anything they wanted. There were no more plans. That was good. But journalists were accustomed to plans, so many were at sea." Some still are.

Journalists today are quick to disassociate themselves from the party. "It's indecent for anyone now to be at the newspaper and be a member of a party," a longtime writer says. Besides that, "ninety percent of the people who were members of the Communist Party before didn't believe. ... You do what you have to do."

The editor-in-chief, along with the deputy editors, are elected to their positions for two-year terms. Ivan Malakheev was re-elected in April in a contested race. He keeps his position by satisfying the majority of the employees.

More than anything else, the economy shapes life and outlook in the region. It is stagnant - and grim. Many compare Ekaterinburg to Chicago in the late '20s and early '30s, when it was mired in the Depression and gangster wars.

The surroundings reflect that. Paint chips and curls from buildings; hunks of foundation concrete have fallen away. Broken glass glitters from the ground. Few plantings liven the landscape.

At Uralsky Rabochy, lights are dim if they are even turned on. In May, there is no heat to ward off the lingering chill.

Iron bars split toward both sides of the hallways. I must remember to step up when entering a room, over the rise that meets the metal doors that are closed and locked when the occupant is away. It is a closed-door environment.

At the Wintergarden restaurant where we go for lunch, security guards stop my host, Uralsky Rabochy's Deputy Managing Editor Victor N. Tolstenko, and wave a wand over and around his body. Then they pass their wands over me and dig around in my purse, checking for weapons. We are waved on, into the large dining room, where the Village People's "YMCA" blares from the radio.

And afterwards, Misha is waiting to take us back to work.

Our routes take us past many monuments to history:

• The flower-lined memorial square honoring soldiers who died in World War II (Russia's "Great Patriotic War").

• The haunting figure of a battle-weary soldier in the poignant monument to Ekaterinburg's soldiers who died in the Afghan war.

• The poised-for-launch missile celebrating the shooting down of American spy Francis Gary Powers over Ekaterinburg in the early '60s.

• The larger-than-life black granite shrines to fallen gangsters lining the entrance to the city's main cemetery.

• The three markers at the site of the execution of Russia's last czar, Nicholas II. Three, because no one is quite sure which spot is correct.

Unquestionably, Ekaterinburg honors its dead and remembers its past. And its people, many of whom have so little, give so much.

Like at the shrine to Elizaveta, beloved sister-in-law of the last czar, who was executed, as he was, during the revolution in 1918.

On our Saturday excursion, we visit the shrine, where two women are building a new masonry entrance and polishing icons in the chapel. One of the women tells us she had been active in the Communist Party and had worked at the KGB, but in the past few years she has found a comfort in God that has changed her life. She takes Misha deep into the pit where Elizaveta and the czar's son had been left for dead, and she helps Misha dig some sacred soil. Misha will take it to the grave of his son, who recently died because he couldn't get medicine for his diabetes. Now the sacred soil will help Misha's family with their healing.

Over and over again, I am struck by the paradoxes. In this country I've known most of my life as America's arch enemy, I find unbounded generosity and warmth toward me and my country. In this country that prizes education and has a high literacy rate, daily life is a struggle. Things I have taken for granted - basic health, hygiene and sanitary standards - are measured very differently. Good people die because they can't get insulin. Over and over, the contradictions emerge. People fear crime, and put multiple locks on their double-metal doors. Yet they think nothing of thumbing rides from strangers to get across town.

The landscape is changing. Now, all of a sudden, foreign travelers arrive frequently, many investigating the feasibility of establishing business offices. It's progress, and there's no turning back.

Back at the newspaper, where conditions are quite primitive by American standards, we discuss once-impossible dreams of establishing and electronic window to the West, so that Uralsky Rabochy editors can have access to news of the world, and where they can share news of their province.

Ekaterinburg and the Sverdlosk reveal a different Russia than most Americans expect. As chief editor Malakheev puts it, making his case for partnership to enable technology in his newsroom: "Just as America is more than Washington, D.C., Russia is more than Moscow. Much more."

Hurst is deputy managing editor of the San Jose (Calif.) Mercury News. E-mail her at AnnHurst@aol.com or phone her at 408/920-5279.