Shortly afterward, I met with a well-known collector and the editor of
the watch site TimeZone who goes by the nom de plume William Massena, an
ursine man with a strong Continental accent and even stronger
horological opinions (“I used to get death threats!”). The timepieces in
his collection were subtle yet striking. As Massena showed me the
gorgeous faded-brown dial of a Rolex Submariner, akin to a model issued
to members of the British Navy, I told him how I had got into watches at
the start of 2016, when our nation was vulnerable but still whole. “Ah,”
he said, in a burst of European pragmatism, “but you are a little
Russian émigré. You know if you need to you can put these watches in
your pocket and sneak across the border to Canada past Buffalo. And you
can survive.”
A memory arrived unbidden. The year was 1978, and my family and I were
at Pulkovo Airport, in Leningrad, about to become Soviet refugees in
America. A stern customs officer took off my furry shapka and poked at
the still warm lining, looking for diamonds my parents might have hidden
there. A six-year-old is humiliated, but perhaps a lesson is learned.
What if we had stashed away some diamonds and somehow got them through
to freedom? In talking to collectors, I have heard the tale of a
grandfather who was able to escape Occupied France because he gave a
gold Omega to a stationmaster. Is this it, then? Is that what my
obsession is about?
I will stop buying watches. But allow me one last purchase. It comes,
via eBay, from San Luis Potosí, a city in north-central Mexico. It is a
Casio H-108 12-Melody-Alarm, the kind I had lost to the Hebrew-school
bully and my grandmother had reclaimed. The watch feels small, digital,
innocent. It dutifully plays all the songs I remember. The word “happy”
appears in eighties letters as the birthday song plays. And, for a
moment, I am.
https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2017/03/20/confessions-of-a-watch-geek
я когда читал, гуглил упоминаемые модели и тащился