![]() Drive past billboards for 24-hour sushi delivery and antiques shops and croissant nooks where village markets stood only two years ago, and play the favorite local game of Guess-Whose-Dacha (rhymes with gotcha). Welcome to the “Rublyevka,” a ten-mile stretch of road that is coming to symbolize the country grandeur that the wealthiest Russians seem to prize above all else these days, as well as the outlandish consumption that the less fortunate so resent. ![]() ![]() Alexander, his wife, Olga, and their dozen guests are architects, developers and brokers in a Moscow market that has risen 40 percent over the past year. The talk is of skiing at Chamonix, duck hunting in Argentina, the relative merits of top-model Audis versus BMWs and, of course, real estate. Eight freshly built houses are nestled among the summer pines, all of them, from the looks of it, as grand as the one owned by my friend Alexander (he asked me not to use his real name)-a ten-room, three-level affair with a sauna in the basement, a heated pool steaming in the backyard, minimalist blob-art in the capacious living room, and jazz tinkling off a state-ofthe- art stereo system.ĭinner on the poolside patio is caviar and sturgeon, barbecued king prawns the size of turkey legs, sparkling wine and cognac. Turn off the Rublyevsky highway 12 miles west of Moscow, negotiate two unmarked lanes, say the right name at the unmarked gate and a guard with a Kalashnikov will wave you expressionlessly through.
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