Evgeniy A. (LII)

As a child, I regularly went shopping at my mother’s request—buying groceries and various household chemicals. She would write me a shopping list and note next to each item how much it was supposed to cost.

First, I would scout out prices in shops in different directions from our home. One day I’d head toward the market, stopping by a couple of kiosks along the way to check prices. Then I’d compare them at the market. If something was cheaper at a kiosk, I’d buy it on my way back. Another day I’d go toward the bus station and do the same kind of price checking.

Kiosks, for example, had limited selections: one sold sausages, another bread and rolls, a third dairy products. I would compare a few options first—if something was cheaper than elsewhere, I’d also check which one was fresher.

Usually, you’d end up buying the same type of sausage or bread in the same place until the situation changed.

Most of the kiosk saleswomen knew me. It was disappointing when prices went up or a kiosk got demolished—you had to find another suitable place.

Minimarkets were a bit different: they sold a wider variety of goods, prices were usually slightly higher, the quality was decent, but the bread or sausage wasn’t as fresh.

I rarely shopped at minimarkets, but if I found something acceptable, I’d buy it there.

Then there were shopping rows—great places with several kiosks under one roof, offering everything from laundry detergent to cakes. If I couldn’t find something elsewhere and there was no point in trying to save money anymore, I’d go there—I knew I’d find it.

A full-scale store was a wild place. It seemed like the same kind of shopping row, but with strange rules. You offer money—they won’t take it. You want the product—they won’t give it. You memorize the total, run to the cashier, state the amount and the department number. There are no department numbers posted, you just know they sell fish—but not the number. If you forget the total, you run back to check. And you have to do this for every department, standing in line each time. If you get confused, the salespeople and cashiers get annoyed. It took me a long time to get used to it.

The market was a completely different story. There were always several stalls selling the same kind of goods. Once you remembered who sold what, you were set.

Everything was fresh. When buying vegetables, I’d think: “Better to buy from the grandmas than from private entrepreneurs—they might slip in something bad or cheat on the weight, and everything is more expensive. The grandmas are cheaper, they grew it themselves, everything’s fresh, and you can pick it yourself.” Then you’d look at the prices.

One woman would have picture-perfect tomatoes—red, clean, firm—perfect for a salad, but very expensive. Another would be much cheaper, but they’d feel soft; once you cut them, they’d collapse and spread across the cutting board. Then there’d be someone in between—slightly cheaper and a bit softer than the first, but still good for salad—so you’d buy from her.

Though sometimes you’d come home proudly saying you found firm tomatoes at a reasonable price, and your mother would say, “You should’ve bought cheaper ones—I don’t need them for salad today, I need them for soup.” And you’d think, well, great—why didn’t you say that earlier? Now, make a salad.

Or with parsley: the best was only sold by the old ladies. One would have a big, fluffy bunch for five rubles—beautiful, but expensive. Another would have a less fluffy bunch, but about the same amount of parsley for three rubles—of course you’d take the second one.

Household chemicals were easy at the market: two stalls facing each other. You’d check prices at one, turn around, check the other, then buy different things from each. I even enjoyed bargaining sometimes, if I was in the mood.

You couldn’t bargain much with business sellers, but with private ones you had more freedom: sometimes you’d get greens cheaper if you bought three bunches instead of one, or a grandma would sell her last two kilos of tomatoes at a discount. You don’t get that in stores.

When prices started rising, I ran around the market wide-eyed: even the grandmas’ tomatoes cost as much as store ones—except they weren’t the firm, beautiful ones, just average tomatoes. Meanwhile, I was given the same amount of money as before, and the change became much smaller—sometimes there wasn’t enough at all.

Looking at the change, my mother was often surprised. I had to explain how much everything cost, sometimes even bring receipts from stores. That’s when my lists started to include an estimated price next to each item and its quantity. The numbers were often wrong, and I had to explain all the discrepancies, because I was given money strictly according to my mother’s estimates—and prices were almost always higher.

My mother tried to make her estimates more realistic, but it didn’t work very well. In the end, I managed to get her to give me an extra fifty rubles on top of the calculated amount to cover the difference between the list and the real prices.