"How old are you, 36?" asked Viktor Mikhailov, scowling through a cloud of Marlboro smoke. "You've already forgotten your basic high-school physics. You can't possibly be prepared."

We had arranged a meeting with Mikhailov, Russia's former atomic energy minister, as a first step in our plan to visit the key nuclear sites in the former Soviet Union. Things were off to an inauspicious start.

Last year, we took a "nuclear family vacation" across the American West, visiting atomic test sites and weapons design laboratories. It was a challenging itinerary. Each of our destinations had its own set of rules for access, and we had to supply everything from Social Security IDs to the serial numbers on our Dictaphones. But in the end, we were able to conduct wide-ranging interviews on everything from weapons maintenance to international cooperation. We also got to see the Hoover Dam, go gambling in Las Vegas, and visit family members in Nevada and California. It was really fun.

Vacation time rolled around again. Wouldn't it be great, we thought, to try a nuclear vacation in Russia? Nathan began seeking the necessary permissions from Russian authorities, while Sharon started working contacts in Washington. With more than four months to prepare, support from a network of nuclear policy wonks, and backing from the Nation Institute's Investigative Fund, how hard could it be?

Russia, it turned out, took the challenge of a nuclear vacation to an entirely new level. Mikhailov, for instance, was particularly irritated that his visitors had not read his autobiography, Ya-yastreb (or, as he helpfully translated the title, "I Am a Hawk"). As for visiting the closed cities, he offered little help.

"Ask Sergei Kiriyenko, and you'll get the answer: yes or no," he said, referring to the current head of Russia's nuclear agency.

He knew the answer would be no. Under the leadership of ex-KGB Col. Vladimir Putin, Russia has reinvigorated its culture of official secrecy. It is impossible to approach even the lowest municipal official without a sheaf of letters on company stationery, preferably plastered with impressive-looking stamps. The usual response to our entreaties was: Send us another fax. And your passport details. And by the way, where is your accreditation from the Ministry of Foreign Affairs?

It wasn't always like this. Journalists still recall the luxury of reporting in Russia during the Yeltsin-era free-for-all of the 1990s. But now a veteran Moscow fixer—who makes her living arranging interviews for journalists in Russia—complained to us that she was unable to get permission to interview a woman in a dirty smock at a Moscow farmer's market without the explicit permission from the Ministry of Agriculture.

After quickly realizing that the closed cities, which still house Russia's nuclear weapons laboratories, were off-limits, we lined up an itinerary that would still take us to key nuclear sites in the former Soviet Union: the Semipalatinsk test site in Kazakhstan, where the Soviet Union detonated its first nuclear weapon; the nearby city of Semipalatinsk, downwind from those tests; Desnogorsk, on the front lines of Russia's push to market nuclear power; Chelyabinsk Oblast, a hub of conversion projects for Russia's closed cities; and Nizhny Novgorod Oblast, the home of Sarov, the Russian equivalent of Los Alamos National Laboratory. And in Moscow, we visited the Kurchatov Institute, Russia's first nuclear weapons laboratory.

Many of our meetings were facilitated by outside parties. But we remained frustrated that the Russian government did not view the closed cities as a legitimate destination for journalists.

In contrast to Russia, traveling in Kazakhstan was a pleasure. After being told by every Russian official that we had done everything wrong, it was a relief to visit a country where the government seemed genuinely eager to engage us. However, despite some high-level backing, we still encountered snafus. We stayed for three days in Astana, the new capital, waiting for a series of promised meetings with government ministers. They all fell through. Top Kazakh officials, it seems, like to leave town early for the extended May Day holiday, and a surprise trip by Vice President Dick Cheney took priority. No matter. Regardless of what Sacha Baron Cohen may tell you, we recommend Kazakhstan as a great place to visit.

"What exactly do you expect to get out of this trip?" asked a chipper young Kazakh journalist after our return from the test site.

What could we say? That we wanted to go on vacation, but WallyWorld was closed? That Iraq was getting a little dicey? Or that nuclear tourism is the next big thing? Nathan mumbled something about nuclear weapons being very important, while Sharon looked down at her shoes and wondered if they set might set off a radiation detector.

Maybe we just should have told her the truth: Family vacations, like love, are all about compromises—Sally might want Hawaii, Johnny might want the Alamo. In the end, you try to choose something that is meaningful and memorable for the entire family. As two defense reporters wedded to our work (and each other), we couldn't think of any other place we'd rather be than at a former Soviet test site, standing on ground zero. It had meaning. It was memorable. Maybe next year we'll visit the DMZ.