There are many reasons
why I failed as an expat wife. The fact that I would rather have a root canal
than go shopping ranks high on the list.
My lack of enthusiasm
for wasting hundreds of hours (and dollars!) roaming through faraway markets to
buy cheap tchotchkes that will eventually languish or worse, tarnish in
my basement alongside my four dozen bronze goblets of all sizes from Thailand, goes
completely against the natural order of life abroad. An eavesdropper on an expat-to-expat
conversation typically overhears something like this: “Do you know what I would
have paid for (fill in the blanks) back home?”
Living in Asia back
in the days when boutiques were rare and market stalls my only option, shopping
for clothes became my worst nightmare (along with having outfits made from
scratch by a local seamstress. I always managed to look like a re-upholstered
sofa.) Can there be anything more
humiliating then a size 0 Thai market vendor shaking her head woefully at a
giant farang woman, informing her that absolutely nothing in her
kiosk could fit the big white woman in a million years? No wonder shopping became such a demoralizing
experience.
And don’t get me
started on bargaining. That’s a skill that eludes me to this day, much to the
dismay of my husband. He once soundly reamed me out for revealing—in front of
the vendor, horrors!—how much I wanted a rattan bag while we were wandering in
the souk (warning: place-dropping
alert!) in Marrakesh a few years ago. Bargaining over pennies in a developing
country just seems wrong to me, no matter what the guide books may say.
My personal philosophy
is that it’s better to collect experiences rather than to buy stuff I don’t
need. Presented with a choice between shopping and exploring, I will always opt
for the latter. But I’m not made of stone. It isn’t always easy to avoid being
tempted by some of the gorgeous items on offer, especially if I’m looking for
gifts.
On a trip to
Rajasthan late last year, we had to come up with a new strategy in the
interests of marital harmony: I now wait for my husband to say the words “leave
Robin!” before taking this none-too-subtle cue to shut up, exit the scene, and
leave the haggling to him.
This can often be
easier said than done. We were completing negotiations for the purchase of pashmina shawls for Christmas presents in
Jaipur near the gorgeous Hawa Mahal or the Palace of the Winds, when Rodney gave me my marching orders to make myself
scarce. There isn’t much room to wander off, though, along the busy main street
of Jaipur’s chaotic, over-stimulating Old City. I looked out onto the crowded street
scene and imagined being carted off into the sea of humanity—and cows—never to be
heard from again.
I didn’t need to worry.
“Getting you safely across the street is my job
description,” our pashmina vendor
assured me, taking my arm and guiding me to another store he just happened to own,
this one offering jewelry.
“Well, I’m an old woman,” I responded, losing sight
of Rodney. “I hope that makes it less than likely you are going to sell me to
the white slave market.”
Now that would have been a priceless experience!
Thankfully, I confess I did buy jewelry. And at a good price too, negotiated by
my husband of course.
