My parents recently invited me to spend a week with them in Eastern Europe. They booked my flight -- business class -- and sent me the ticket. They arranged for accommodations in hotels that are beyond my means. It was one of those offers you just can't refuse.


No sooner had we settled into our hotel suite in Prague than my mother dug into her suitcase and pulled out a package for me from my favorite department store. (It was her birthday, mind you, but my mother is nothing if not generous.) It was a coat. Neutral color to camouflage months of winter grime; detachable hood; long enough to keep your legs from freezing without restricting movement. It is, in short, the perfect Moscow parka.


"I was tired of looking at that blue zipper," said my mother, referring to the wine-colored parka with its trademark royal blue zipper in which -- much to my mother's embarrassment -- I parade around New York when I am home on vacation.


The blue zipper, as the parka is now affectionately called, is one of those Chinese specials I picked up at VDNKh last year. You know the kind. It looks presentable for about 15 minutes before its threads start slipping, its seams start splitting, and its pockets start sagging. It is the kind of coat that raises a critical eyebrow from any cloak-room attendant whenever she locates my rag from among the more respectable furs and shearlings. At least she never expects a tip.


But enough about the coat. Let's get back to the zipper. The original zipper, of course, was not blue. When I first spotted the coat at one of the kiosks inside the former exhibit to Soviet metallurgy, it had a maroon zipper that started buckling even before I got it out of the dressing room. "Don't worry about the zipper," said Svetlana, my companion and confidant in all matters consumer. "You can buy another one and have it replaced for a few dollars."


It seemed a shame to let anything as insignificant as a zipper get in the way of such a major purchase. At $25, it seemed a steal compared to the near duplicates selling for three times the price.


So I bought the coat, and within a day the zipper would not zip for all my cajoling. With frostier weather approaching I set out to find a replacement, popping into several fabric stores before I ended up, still zipperless, at GUM. Roaming the second floor of that shoppers' paradise my heart sank as I passed buttons, sequins and polyester galore -- but no zippers. I was about to kiss my $25 investment goodbye when a flash of royal blue caught the corner of my eye.


There it was. A plastic blue zipper the requisite number of centimeters. I dashed over to get a closer look, but I was not alone. The full-figured babushka standing next to me had also planted her eyes on that zipper. My zipper. There was no time to waste. While the unsuspecting babushka was still in deep contemplation, I paid the cashier and handed my check to the women behind the counter.


"No more zippers," she called out to the cashier, taking down what had been the last one and handing it to me. My heartbeat slightly elevated, I walked away with my new purchase in hand, silently reveling in my good fortune and shopping savvy. Moscow may be much more consumer-friendly than it was a few years ago, but I can still always find reason to celebrate if I return home with the very item I set out to purchase.


But the story of the coat only begins with the successful purchase of the blue zipper. I still had to find someone handy enough with a needle to detach the old and install the new. Again, I turned to my friend Svetlana. She gave me the address of the tailor who had hemmed her winter wardrobe. "She's very fast and she is very cheap," Svetlana said. "Only a few thousand rubles."


I found the atelye, or tailor's workshop, in question with no trouble. It was a typically unadorned storefront with one wedding dress and a few Jean-Claude Van Damme videocassettes in the window. I entered a cavernous room where a young woman was sitting behind a desk.


"I'd like to replace this zipper," I told her, placing my coat on her desk.


"Do you have a zipper?" she asked me.


"Yes," I said, showing her my new purchase.


"It's blue," she said skeptically.


"I know," I said, sensing trouble.


"Black would be better," she said -- attempting to be helpful.


"Do you have black?" I asked.


"I guess not," she said.


"Then I'll stick with the blue." The young woman excused herself and slipped into the back room.


I stood by myself in the empty room for several minutes before an older woman with a tape measure around her neck appeared in the doorway. She stood there, staring at me, without saying a word.


"Are you looking for me?" I said.


"Oh, are you the one who wants to replace the zipper?"


"That would be me," I said, looking around the room to confirm to myself that no one else was there. She came over to examine my coat, and I apologized for the color of the zipper before she could comment.


"Do you think you could get it done soon? I'm leaving town," I lied.


"No problem -- I'll do it for you today," she said. But when I asked her how much it would cost, she excused herself and slipped into the back room.


Another several minutes passed before there appeared a large woman with large hair. When she opened her mouth to speak, her voice turned out to be even larger.


"Who is the one who wanted to change the zipper?" she called into the empty room, sizing me up as she bellowed.


"I want to change the zipper," I said, raising my hand for emphasis.


She walked to the zipper in question, and wielding the authority of an administrator, examined my coat.


"I was told I could have it by the end of the day," I said, trying to settle affairs before a fourth person appeared to check out the zipper.


"You will have to pay extra for one-day service."


"How much?"


She hesitated and looked me over, trying to determine how much she should charge for my accent. After a suitable period of glancing back and forth at me and then the coat, she finally decided that $5 was the going rate. Perhaps a little more than Svetlana would have paid, but it could have been worse. I returned that afternoon with money in hand, and left that shop with my maroon parka -- its brand new zipper duly attached.


The blue zipper, I can happily report, is still attached to the maroon coat, which my mother keeps pressuring me to throw away. Sure, the coat is ugly. Sure, the new one is ten times better. But I can't get rid of the blue zipper -- this pampered Westerner's trophy over the muddled forces of Russian consumerism. Besides, it's a great ice-breaker at parties.