Big Foot

Walking Street Market


I may be wrong. It may not be called "Walking Street." That's just what my friends call it, since no motorized vehicles are allowed there. Or, it could very well be that it's actually called "Wa Kin Street," and I've chosen to misunderstand. Could be a hundred things. But, for now, we're going to assume I'm right.

It's something of a mall here. Rows upon rows of garage door shops. Some looking nicer than others. Most all selling "Factory Runoff." Runoff is the term for american products, made by Chinese factories, that were for some reason rejected by the American buyers. A lot of "Mickey Moose" T-shirts. Sorry I don't have more pictures, but I was having lighting problems.

As many of you know, I hate shopping. This was a bit different, though. It wasn't the usual rooting through bargain bins, fending off overzelous commissioned sales, or sitting on my keister waiting for someone else to try something on and spend 6 hours staring at themselves in the mirror deciding if they're going to buy it. Not that I'm harboring any residual angst, or anything.

This time, I was going shopping for the first time in a foreign and alien country, and damnit I need new shoes. It's in the 80's with 100% humidity, and all I've got are black boots. I'm in the market for some Chinese Nike's. The kind with both the Nike Swoosh and the Puma Logo on them. "Double Happiness Cool" as the locals say.

So, I knew this would be an adventure. Shoe shopping has always been a chore for me. Thanks to purveyant genetic traits of my father's family line, I have abnormally large feet. Not just for my height, but compared to the general populace at large as well. It's not as bad now as when I was a kid, but it still poses a bit of challenge.

As I found out that night, as far as China is concerned, my shoe size is not only a difficulty, but an unheard of impossibility.

By the time I hit the fourth shoe store, I didn't even bother looking at any of the shoes. I simply walked in and asked them to bring me the biggest shoes they had. I couldn't even squeeze into them.

After accepting defeat, we made our way back to the bus stop. On the way out, we stopped at a T-shirt shop and browsed for a moment. I could use some new shirts too.

I found something that suited me, and Sienna asked the shopkeeper how much the price was.

"150," the shopkeeper said. About 17 dollars. Not an unreasonable price considering...

Sienna frowned, feircely.

"150? Is that the guela price?" I don't know exactly what "guela" means, I just know that it's the Chinese racial slur for white people.

"Is very good quality," the shopkeeper said.

"Bullsh*t," Sienna said, not caring if the shopkeeper understood her or not. "I'll give you 30."

The shopkeeper tried again to stress the quality of the fabric.

Sienna tossed the shirt aside and turned away.

"Let's go," she said, "they're trying to rip us off."

We were barely five steps away when the shopkeeper ran up to us, shirt in hand.

"Okay, 30."

As we left with my new shirt, Sienna fumed the entire way out.

"The worst part about this," she says, "if we were locals, she would've started at 30 and I could've talked her down to 15."

Either way, I was ecstatic. The shirt would've cost me about $30 in the US. After the exhange rate, I just paid about 4 bucks.