A Visit to the Apple Store
One’s first impression on approaching the Apple store is one of scale. It is an enormous glass cube projecting into the street, like a giant aquarium or a jewellery box. The plate-glass panels are an inch thick and three storeys high.
It is evening, and the shop is lit like a magic cave, its huge Apple logo glowing like a holy grail, calling out to the believers.
Inside, the Italian stone floor is the colour of latte flavoured gelato. The table tops glisten an icy white. The objects of desire (the apples) are arrayed around this virtual Eden in their cute little boxes.
The overall picture is one of quality and functional indulgence. In advertising terms, it sets a very clear tone, one that is adopted by designer brands the world over. Similar examples can be seen wherever the newest European stores are unveiling their own retail edifices. Opulence, expense, lugzury.
In crass commercial terms, it is a simple formula. Heighten the perceived value of the goods for sale, raise the implicit price at which they will be acquired. It’s basic human psychology, fully realised by the Apple marketing honchos.
The store is peopled by young, stylish acolytes. Radical individuals all dressed in identically hued t-shirts and wielding their portable devices as badges of honour. I have what you want. You can buy one, but you will never be me.
They are all singing from the Book of Jobs. It’s like a Mormon convention except for the blue t-shirts and the unkempt hair.
BabbelOn joins the shuffling queue of the unworthy and is eventually attended to. The acolyte is gentle, and does not make too much of megabytes and wi-finery. The object is acquired with a swipe of a card across a hand-held reader (cash transactions are conducted literally under the table, nothing so vulgar as a cash register exists in Apple world).
After the transaction is complete, BabbelOn rejoins the yearning masses, leans against an alley wall and smokes a metaphorical cigarette. From his hand hangs an Apple bag. Inside it, a shiny white box full of infinite promises. It is strangely exhilarating, becoming a member of the tribe. This must be what a New York secretary feels like post-Tiffany or Chanel. But it is more than that, it is like joining a cult.
As BabbelOn discovers when he turns on the iPad and can’t activate it without an iTunes account.
Damn you Jobs. Damn you to bakelite hell.
