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Under the Sun Cynthia Oi |
Shopping through the
tedium of same-o, same-oYOUR problem," said a friend, "is that you don't go shopping enough."
Not true, I protested. I go every week.
"No, you don't go shopping. You just go out and buy things," she declared.
What's the difference? I asked.
She paused, then explained slowly and patiently, like I was a 6-year-old knucklehead. "Shopping is when you go to a mall or you go to a store and look around, check if there's something you like."
Oh, well, foolish me. I thought shopping was going to a mall or a store, picking out what I need or want, paying for it and taking it home. But according to the grand goddess of shopping, the buying part is optional. The point, at least to her, is to browse and scan, roam and wander from boutique to discount outlet to see if there just might be something you'd like. By her definition, shopping is more a concept than an action.
I guess, then, that I'm not a shopper, but merely a buyer. I don't often wander shilly-shally through miles of aisles without purpose or goal. As a matter of fact, I dislike doing that. Unless the venue is interesting.
I don't mind wandering through the World Arts Bazaar at the Honolulu Academy of Arts. The annual sale staged in the weeks before Christmas has all kinds of intriguing and novel stuff, like old wooden casks once used to make Chinese pickles, ebony hairpins from Africa and woven rattan mats from Borneo. There are fabrics with scents that suggest their exotic origins, sculptures and carvings flaunting indigenous cultures, and baskets and bowls inviting curiosity and examination.
Certain craft fairs appeal, especially the ones that feature artisans of skill, not just dabblers who stamp cute pink teddy bears on mass-produced plastic food containers. The difference is that the ceramist who creates a vase from clay and glazes and fires it with specific woods and grasses forms something unique while sustaining a worthwhile expertise. The volatile nature of heat and moisture is such that even he can't predict how a piece will turn out.
I like going to the farmers' market at Kapiolani Community College, where you can get sweet, sweet strawberries from Maui or the Big Island, crisp vegetables from the people on the North Shore who get their hands dirty growing them, substantial breads kneaded by students striving to acquire a technique and honey gathered from bees that pollinated melon plantings in Ewa so that the taste of honeydews and cantaloupes whispers through the golden liquid.
The indispensable element in shopping -- ahem, excuse me -- buying at these places is that things you get are different. The monotony of the American marketplace assures a parity in quality, but it also breeds a bland sameness. I suppose that's why a visitor who comes all the way from Florida will eat at McDonald's in Moiliili or buy a sweater from Old Navy in Kakaako. It is because it's safe, there are no surprises -- the Quarter-Pounder with cheese tastes just like one in Miami, the acrylic turtleneck fits just like one in Tallahassee.
My niece, recently relocated to Hawaii from Pennsylvania, was amused and puzzled to find that a trendy clothing shop at Kahala Mall was stocked with wool coats when the temperatures were in the high 80s. Because, I said, it is a chain, and chains don't generally fine-tune their seasonal merchandise to specific locations and, by god, if it's winter in Harrisburg, it's winter in Honolulu.
I imagine that someday, big box stores and national chains will overwhelm the marketplace. All we'll have to look forward to is the newest Wal-Mart and Macy's, the biggest Sam's Clubs and Home Depots, a Mickey D's on every second corner and a Starbucks on the others.
I've no objection to these businesses; they offer most consumers what they want. But they are not fun. They are invariable, limited to what most people buy. Shopping goddesses would be thoroughly bored.
See the Columnists section for some past articles.
Cynthia Oi has been on the staff of the Star-Bulletin since 1976. She can be reached at: coi@starbulletin.com.