Last week, I decided to do something that I have never done before in the Russian capital: buy a pair of blue jeans, that quintessential western product that flaunts the liberal slogan of freedom and fun from every backside.
For the last decade, I would wait until I could fly back to the U.S. to purchase new blue jeans. Now I remember why: It is less agonizing to hitch a Boeing 747 airliner back to the streets of New York City for a new pair of Levis, than to suffer a shopping excursion in the Russian capital.
The problem with buying a pair of jeans in the Russian capital is no longer the scarcity of the precious denim, as was the case in the Soviet days, or the aggravation of throwing elbows at an empty bargain table. As commercialism quickly devours the remaining vestiges of communism in Russia, finding a mall in Moscow is about as difficult as finding a Mercedes on the sidewalk. The real challenge of shopping in this city of 10 million souls is finding a bona-fide, neon-orange SALE.
In this sleek capital of metal magnates and bank barons, even the lowest quality brand name goes for the price of a barrel of oil: about 100 bucks (2,500 rubles) - and that would be considered a real bargain.
Granted, this is a far cry from the communist days when a pair of Wranglers allegedly fetched a fashionable Bolshevik's 200-ruble monthly stipend. In those days, as one Soviet scholar told me, the demand for denim (and other Western "abominations") gave rise to the so-called fartsovshchiki, a back-alley market where Russians secretly purchased their coveted western apparel from "speculators."
Another observer even went so far as to suggest that rebellious blue jeans, with a little help from Rock ‘n' Reagan, of course, played no small role in toppling the Soviet Union.
"Blue jeans were the best counterargument against Soviet propaganda," writes Sergei Boukhonine, on the website www.lewrockwell.com. "In the pantheon of objects that brought down the Soviet communism, blue jeans have a very special place, second to none."
Okay, back to the brutal reality of ultra-expensive Moscow. Armed with a skinny wallet and robust dreams, I set sail for the Bermuda Triangle of dubious discounts - Okhotny Ryad, GUM and TSUM - those treacherous islands of price gouging, purse snatching and general pirating (gangsters don't generally read in foreign languages, do they? Just joking, guys). Of course I have seen the headlines depicting the Russian capital as the most expensive city in the world. This bit of forewarning, however, did not prevent me from letting out an audible gasp each time I read a price tag on a pair of blue jeans that would have seemed more natural on an Armani suit. I guess as a patriotic Americanus consumeris, born and bred on the promise of capitalistic excess, not to mention constantly changing fashions, I just can't shake the belief that a sale (a REAL 50 % Sale!) does not lurk below the bling. Two hours into my shopping trip, on the third floor of marbled Okhotny Ryad, I stumbled upon the best deal for Levi Original 501's - a mere 2,975 rubles ($119 dollars). And in consideration for any readers out there with weak hearts, let's just forget about the "discounts" at Calvin Klein or Tommy Hilfiger.
To be fair, the Okhotny Ryad, GUM and TSUM malls are just about the most expensive addresses in Moscow. The tiny parking lot outside of TSUM, for example, a Gothic-grey uninviting structure that sits next door to the Bolshoi Theater, looks like an invitation-only affair, with Bentley chauffeurs jockeying for the spot nearest to the doorman. Inside, it is not uncommon to see well-dressed bodyguards doubling as bag carriers. Clearly, the clients who regularly shop at these places are not hunting for sales; indeed, they would probably be appalled to find one.
So I swallowed my pride, headed back into the depths of the metro, and made my dismal way to a sprawling rynok at Konovo, a suburb in southwestern Moscow. This bazaar is one of the most, well, bizarre, shopping experiences I have had here. Three massive metal structures, which almost resemble airplane hangars, provide the dubious roof for hundreds of little kiosks that sell everything from chickens to, yes, Levi 501 Originals. After making numerous circuits through the tight aisles of the clothing section, I found a dealer who specialized in the holy cotton apparel. Since the space for each seller is so limited, the products practically reach the ceiling of the building. With the help of a long metal pole, Natasha plucked a pair of jeans down for me. I inquired about the legitimacy of the goods as I inspected the holographic sticker and the myriad labels claiming authenticity. Natasha explained that the Levis were handmade by the industrious people of Turkey, and I could not find fault with the quality. But the price tag - 2,000 rubles ($80 dollars) - could not compel me to crack open the rawhide. Hopefully my quickly fading blue jeans will hold up until my next trip back to the myriad malls of Pennsylvania.
By Robert Bridge
