Vladivostok Cat Walk

Some say the '70s were the Soviet hippie decade -- when rock music first made its appearance, along with long hair and whatnot -- and looking around the streets of Vladivostok, or listening to tunes playing in any of many cafes, you'd wonder if the 2000s is their '80s. Forgotten songs by Bon Jovi, Journey and Mr Mister are blasted in Italian-run pizzerias, reminding me of how earnest, and shameless, and over-the-top in the wrongest ways, that decade was. By the '90s, we learned some subtley, or at least that it might not be such a bad thing to dress up like we were eternally raking leaves -- in used clothes, beaten-up clothes, whatever.

There's a lot of status made by the pants and top you're wearing in Russia. There's the saying here that in Russia 'you're greeted by what you wear, then judged for your mind.' I met an ethnic Korean manager of Vladivostok's hottest club OKNO -- which refers to the full window that overlooks the bay as well as the idea that it's 'OK' or 'No,' meaning do what you want, or don't. It's $120 to get in. But that includes all you want to drink. From 10pm to 4am. The manager, wearing a 1000 euro pair of Dolce & Gabbana pants he bought in Italy, said, 'It's a club for priveleged people. Though sometimes people come with their last rubles, wanting to seem like they live a luxurious life, even if they don't.' He made his way up from nothing. 'I had $6000 six years ago, started an advertising company, now this.' He says most Russians are 'too lazy' to work for what they want. He bought a Bentley a week ago. 'Right now it's a great car, next week it'll be good, in four weeks, I'll forget about it.'

That sounds bad, but he's really not. He was genuinely interested when I mentioned how 'suits' is often a derogatory term in the US, and that we dress more like Soviets than they do. 'This shirt I'm wearing,' I said motioning to a button-up shirt I wear on every research trip, 'cost me $5 at a used store ten years ago.'

Vladivostok's setting -- on Twin Peaks' style hills, overlooking a bay named after Istanbul's Golden Horn -- is gorgeous, but the scenes on the streets aren't. Small parks are overrun with knee-high weeds. Even central plazas are laid in concrete, adding to the gray. But the cracked sidewalks are practically a catwalk. Whenever I speak to someone, they're friendly, but sometimes I feel like I'm back in a high-school hallway, ashamed not to be wearing Tommy H.