My friend Adam and I had decided to go the famous television
tower, Ostankino in the North of Moscow. We were going with some Russian
buddies, Roman and Volodya. I had a few hours to kill, so I decided to go
shopping — my favorite way of passing the time in Russia.
Shopping in Moscow in 1993 was an incredible feeling. You
could leave home with $100.00, buy tons of arts, antiques, and junk, and come
home with numerous bags of goodies, and still have $95.00 in your pocket.
It was going to be the usual routine of hitting some of my
favorite stores looking for some kitschy items. I went to Red Square, to shop
at GUM (pronounced GOOM, not gum, like bubble gum), one of the largest
department stores in the world.
GUM was a great place to shop in the Soviet Days. All the
other stores in the USSR were stocked with nothing. GUM too had a plethora of
empty shelves, but Red Square location, and the ornate 1893 building always
made it a pleasure to visit.
Empty shelves and all, GUM made shopping for nothing a bit
more pleasant , than the run of the mill Soviet Super Store featuring nothing
in a stale and dull setting.
By 1993 consumers actually had a selection. I found many
great household things there before, like my Byelorussian down comforter which
cost me about $20.00, and there were plenty of neat imported Tefal items.
This day it seemed there was nothing to buy, until I hit the
second floor and there it was – it had all the makings for a legendary
purchase.
It was the mother of all summer wear — it was a Russian made
purple colored T-shirt with a legendary English slogan.
I knew that the artificial fiber purple canvas-like cloth
would be super uncomfortable on a summer day like today. And with such a great
slogan, there was no way I could resist. The cost was about $.75 and I couldn’t
wait to give the vendor my money.
I was running late, and had to meet my friends. So after I
put my hot little purchase in my backpack I was off. I finally met up with my
friends, and showed Adam the buy of the day.
Adam could not stop laughing. The color, texture, and slogan
were all just too much. He dared me to put it on. Being a person that accepts
almost any dare, I changed shirts, and we were off on our merry way.
On the walk to Ostankino, we explained to our Russian
friends the meaning and significance of this shirt. Knowing we were in Russia,
no one would comprehend a T-shirt with an English slang saying on the front. I
would be safe from embarrassment, and all the while I was looking forward to
wearing this out to the disco one night. It would be such a campy hit with the
my foreign friends.
We finally reached the Ostankino TV Tower. Inside they had
some cute little modern art exhibit where I purchased yet another thing for the
walls. My Mom still has it on her mantle.
My ticket to Ostankino. I saved the ticket from that day all these years!
We enter the elevators to go up and then are jettisoned up
probably 30-40 stories to the inside observation deck to have a view of lovely
Moscow. The only problem is, Moscow is not very lovely from that part of town,
and the windows on the tower, were last cleaned in 1972 with a coffee colored
staining cleaner. Very little was visible outside the windows.
Nothing was visible. It was a complete disappointment.
Luckily, admission was only a few pennies.
Adam and I just did what we did best, we laughed and bitched
about where we were, and what the people around us were doing. Being the only
two English speakers within earshot had its distinct advantages.
Those advantages dried up when the elevators opened and
there was a load of British college students coming to see the grimy aerial
view of Moscow. It was probably part of their package tour cost, and I
guarantee, they must have felt ripped off.
The inside of my Ostankino Ticket. The picture of people
sitting at the table is where we were seeing the view of the city.
So the British tourists did what we were doing. They laughed
and bitched about where they were, and what the people around them were doing.
All of the sudden, one of them noticed me in my new fabulous
T-shirt. And then it all started. My eyes widened with the fear knowing I
looked like a complete buffoon.
Adam stood there and almost fell apart with laughter. The
Russians around us, had no idea what was going on. “These bloody limeys had to
choose Moscow for a vacation. They decided to skip Mallorca or Torremolinas,
and come here.” I thought to myself. It was just my luck.
All of the sudden there were dozens of British tourists
taking my picture, and their pretentious accents screaming out the slogan on my
shirt:
“Wine me, dine me, 69 me!”
“Who would wear such a stupid shirt?!”
“Wine me, dine me, 69 me!”
“Gotta get a picture of this for the girlfriend back home!”
“Wine me, dine me, 69 me!”
“He has no idea what it says! What a fool!”
“Wine me, dine me, 69 me!”
It was ringing in my ears, and the cameras were flashing in
my face. I now know how Madonna feels when she goes out to dinner, except she
dressed much better and is known for different reasons than I was at that
moment.
I pulled Adam aside and told him that we are going to
pretend we are now Russians, so that ended our English conversation, and we
started chatting away like two little Russian babushkas.
I beseeched Adam and Roman and Volodya that we should leave
quickly and quietly. The last thing I wanted were fellow English speakers to
think I was some trailer park redneck from Anytown, USA, now in Moscow.
I bet that they returned to England and showed their friends
and families, pictures of this foolish, naive Russian wearing the “Wine me,
dine me, 69 me!” T-shirt in Moscow.
At least, they didn’t know that I was from America.
Neil Glick, commissioner, realtor, writer
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