Istanbul for Aficionados - News - 09 July 2007 - Istanbul Bargain-Hunting, or, The Dangers of Cheap Blue Jeans

Istanbul Bargain-Hunting, or, The Dangers of Cheap Blue Jeans

by Beau Higgins
Published: 09 July 2007 3:00 a.m.

Clothes shopping in Istanbul can be something of a challenge, particularly if you’re both picky and cheap. The reason is simple enough: imported brands are expensive, and local brands have learned that, if they can produce similar styles and quality, backed by two dozen glossy magazine ads and a few billboards showing some judiciously placed skin, they can charge just about the same as the big boys. In business terms, that’s fair enough and quite savvy of them, but for the shopper intent on reasonable brands at reasonable prices, it’s rather demoralizing. However, as always, Istanbul’s sprawling diversity comes to the rescue. One of the world’s top textile producers, supplying everyone from Abercrombie to Gap to Lee and Levi’s to Victoria’s Secret, Turkey’s strength is in cottons, particularly denims. Of course, the combination of Turks’ natural instinct for cutthroat competition and the China factor means that the business is no longer as profitable as it used to be, and profit margins are down to about one dollar per pair of jeans, with most producers selling a pair that doesn’t have extra fancy rips, fading or whatever the latest gimmick is for about ten bucks. And, of course, no matter how good your equipment, no matter how many of the latest ISO total quality certificates you’ve made your poor staff jump through hoops to acquire, there are going to be defects, so you’ve got to produce a few extra pairs of jeans to ensure that you fill the order. Or, you could produce a lot of extras, as long as you’ve got a bunch of fabric and a few thousand extra labels lying around. And then you could sell those “extra” Levi’s or Lees or Wranglers directly to retailers who don’t ask too many questions, earning a whole lot more than you could by exporting them to a wholesaler or major brand. All of this is by way of introduction to admitting that I hate paying more than thirty dollars for a pair of jeans. Particularly since if I catch a sale somewhere, like most recently at the Levi’s shop in Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, I can get genuine, authentic, consumer-instinct satisfying brand name products for about one third their original price. In Istanbul, my answer is to fall back on shopping emporiums whose names end with the word “Pasaj”, the Turkish rendering of “Passage”, most probably from the French. These are arcades overflowing with shops that are somewhat less than reputable but whose wares are temptingly priced. One of these, the Atlas Pasaji, just off Beyoglu’s pedestrian thoroughfare, Istiklal Caddesi, is my perennial source for discount blue jeans. The place is literally awash with Levi’s, stacked ten high in rows on the floor of cubbyhole shops lit with harsh fluorescent tubes where the changing room is a garish shower curtain hung from a steel pipe in the corner. Although it may be willful self-delusion, I am of the opinion that these are in fact genuine Levi’s that simply have happened to find their way outside the normal distribution channels. The Pasaj descends something like four stories down into the bowels of Beyoglu overflowing with knock-off fashion of every description, some of it literally piled in big cardboard boxes, with prices starting as low as about $3.50. Maybe the best way to describe it would be as some sorcerer’s apprentice’s answer to what happens when you mix Chinatown with a gritty Orwellian ethos and add massive quantities of growth hormones so it expands to hundreds of stores manned by shop assistants decked-out in their own wares of dubious provenance and taste who chain-smoke idly behind a motley assemblage of counters. Anyway, on my most recent outing to this shopping paradise, I was dutifully following my better half’s instructions to update my wardrobe by acquiring some dark blue jeans to replace my faded standbys. Because it was a very targeted expedition and since I had not only said girlfriend but also her cousin in tow, on this occasion I did not venture into the very bowels of the Pasaj where the best bargains are to be had but rather remained on the top floor in the somewhat civilized periphery that is grey-market Levi’s nirvana. Selecting a suitable looking pair of 501s, I stepped behind the shower curtain to try them on. Reappearing to model them for my companions, I asked the salesman, who looked like a cross between an aging juvenile delinquent and a DJ-wannabe, if they had any with a shorter inseam. The answer that all the jeans in the Pasaj were the same length, 34 inches, should have been my first warning sign. But it wasn’t and, after a little dithering and half-heartedly trying on several other pairs, I acquired my dark blue jeans for the princely sum of 35 YTL ($26). As it happened, I wore them the very next day and, as the day progressed, I began to have the sneaking suspicion that my hands were turning blue. Deciding that that was ridiculous, I dismissed the notion and got on with my work, but every now and then I would happen to glance at my hands, which seemed to be taking on noticeably bluer cast. Finally, I could stand it no more and, when talking to the accountant, Latif, I turned to him and asked if my hands looked blue. Naturally, he was puzzled by the question and, to his quizzical look, I responded that I believed my new jeans were turning my hands blue. Once apprised of the situation, he agreed that my hands did, indeed, appear to have a bluish tint. Resolved to find out for certain if my new jeans were dying my hands, I repaired at once to the bathroom and subjected my hands to the soap test. As the lather foamed, it turned an unmistakable blue gray and, once washed, my hands were visibly not the same color as they had been prior to this experiment. Initially, I was annoyed but also amused, chalking it up to wearing jeans dyed with natural indigo without ever having washed them. Several times throughout the rest of the day, noticing that my hands had become blue again, I washed them, each time shaking my head in disgust but with no little amusement. My girlfriend was not amused and, while she was kind enough not to dwell on it, she did say that this was what one should probably expect from jeans purchased outside the proper confines of authorized shopping establishments and perhaps I might not want to wear these particular jeans again. Although I protested that it was just natural indigo that would wash out in time, she raised the specter of all manner of carcinogenic dyes, a veritable panoply of toxic chemicals that might be being sucked into my body via my pores all because of my refusal to pay more than thirty dollars for blue jeans. On the other hand, she did have to admit that they looked quite nice and that she had been entirely right in telling me to buy dark blue jeans. Months later, it is summer now, and my Pasaj jeans have been washed at least a dozen times. Nevertheless, I am always wary of white upholstery when I wear them and keep a close eye on my hands, which, without fail, take on a telltale blue tinge. The story of my Pasaj jeans and blue hands has become an unfailing part of my cocktail party repertoire, and I think to myself that, while I may be almost pathetically cheap when it comes to clothing, the results never fail to amuse, me in particular, and typically manage to look good as well. For those bold enough to venture into its depths, the address of the Atlas Pasaji is Istiklal Caddesi No. 209, Beyoglu. To be honest, street addresses are largely pointless in Istanbul, so just walk down Istiklal Caddesi from Taksim Square and the Atlas Pasaji is on your left about 200 yards past the Yapi Kredi Cultural Center’s Kazim Taskent Art Gallery.