Current listening: Manu Chao, “Baionarena”
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I know that I haven’t told many stories of my time in America, as the request to, “tell me everything about America!” does not produce anything but mumbles and assurances that, “uh, it was fun.” Shopping, however, was one of the things I found to be an epic stressor. More than telling stories to glazed-over audiences or having conversations where people try to correct me on what living in the Muslim/developing world is really like, shopping was the one thing to which I could not re-adjust or even mildly tolerate. The number of times I went into a store and came out empty-handed require more than just fingers to be counted. And what about the times that I’d go into a Target, Meijer, Kroger or elsewhere with a list and only manage, in an hour or an afternoon, to emerge with one purchase? Those types of trips were also, sadly, frequent. Bargain hunting, comparison shopping, name brands and the act of buying everything in one store are ideas that send a chill through me as I type. I used to shop with the best of them; now, I have to be reminded that I can’t bargain down a cashier for milk that’s near expiration.
Whether because of the lack of browsing practice that I get in Morocco or the over-stimulation that American store displays promote, my first reaction in malls and big stores is to touch things… well, to be more specific, to touch everything. Near the end of my trip, I did a quick sweep of an Express to get a whiff of my previously well-dressed life. I will be the first to admit that I got more excited than most that walk through the door, but it wasn’t until we were about to walk out that the friend I was with commented that I had touched – and stroked, and compared, and beamed over, and commented on – everything in the store. He laughed it off, but that afternoon I grew self-conscious about my tactile habits. How long had I been doing that? Did I tend to do that when I was shopping solo, too? And had I been doing that since the very beginning, without even realizing it?
(Yes, yes and yes. It was later confirmed that I had been overly-enthusiastic about every product I’d encountered, in every store I’d been in.)
There was only one shopping trip in which I did not spread my wings and fly, and that was in a Barnes & Noble. My mom and I were running errands one morning (which, since I was small, has always included a stop at a book store), and my mom saw my presence and willingness to drive as an opportunity to patronize a large B&N about an hour’s drive from our house. I was in the middle of a story as we walked through the first set of double-doors when suddenly, in that small breezeway connecting the store and the outside world, my breath caught in my chest.
We weren’t even in the store yet and there were already books out to be looked at, browsed through, purchased, read cover-to-cover and then loved. I tried to continue my story, but I found my voice trembling with excitement and my brain too occupied to focus. I don’t remember which one of us made the move to go inside, but once we were there, I felt myself start to sweat. My heart rate had increased, and I was suddenly wondering if I looked alright.
The next fifty minutes involved me doing laps of the store, looking at every title on every shelf but not cracking a single book. A stark contrast to my other purchasing endeavours, my time in that bookstore was very different. I have a notorious love for books, but I felt too overwhelmed to express that love openly. I thought that it would be like riding a bicycle again, but that bike was far too new and shiny for me to climb onto right away. Instead, I texted my friends frantically that I might never leave [that B&N]. An all-consuming love for literature would sustain me, right?
I eventually opened a book, lowered my heart rate and started enjoying myself properly. But when it came time to pick something out, I couldn’t make a decision. After a labourious internal debate, I selected a red, soft-covered journal in which to write my deepest, darkest secrets (or something like that).
Yes, you read that right: with 9895738957308 titles at my fingertips, I selected a blank notebook. I either love to write that much, or I’m just a sad, sad soul.
Most everything came back to me (driving, showering everyday, not inviting friends to spend the night at my house and not burping openly in public) with the exception of shopping. I didn’t manage to resurrect this skill in my three weeks back in the States, and I came back to Morocco missing a few key items that had been on The List since I first assembled it.
