A shopping traveler I'm not....

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.