Nuts. As we wander through street markets, I wonder what the people think about us, browsing, uninformed, more inclined to admire food than buy and eat it.For instance, we come upon a nut vendor. The wagon is loaded with hazelnuts, sunflower seeds, pumpkin seeds, almonds, peanuts in and out of the shell, pistachio nuts, and dozens more we didn't recognize. Dan is attracted to the form and colour arrangement since it will make a kind of geometric photo he likes to collect. He asks the vendor permission to take a picture, not of the vendor, rather to shoot his wares. Satisfied, Dan praises the vendor in carefully constructed Mandarin. “Your nuts are beautiful”.
Eggs. We fall on a boiled egg vendor who is tending what's known as "century eggs'. These are brown eggs hard boiled in tea, cracked at the point of hardness so the solidifying whites turn the colour of tea. While century eggs are common enough in China, these are different than others I’ve seen. The boiling liquid is filled with prunes, cloves, nuts, and I get a whiff of fermenting fruit. The concoction smells to me like the Christmas I'll miss in Canada and I call Dan over. Before long, each of us has our head pressed deep into his steaming cart. No we don't want to buy anything. We just want to plant our faces over his poaching machine and make cooing noises. Then walk away.
Bargaining. Dan is in his element in a marketplace where no prices are fixed. He's a talented negotiator by North American standards although everyone knows that the bar is raised here. I observe the bartering over a silk polo shirt starting at 180 Yuan (about $27).
"180!! You mean three for 180!"
"This is finest quality! 135."
"40".
"125. Final offer"
“50.”
“100, Final offer.”
I feel like a spectator at a tennis match following the volley of "final offers". As someone who always pays full price with a smile and a tip, I'm both embarrassed and exhausted. Dan is just warming up.
Supermarket. My introduction to supermarket shopping was in Shenzhen, specifically in a westernized suburb called the Overseas Chinese Village. Our friend tells us that this is the area in which Chinese, like himself who have worked or studied abroad, feel most comfortable when they return to China. The village offers a kind of western urban environment that the returning expats have come to enjoy. It’s spacious and well-treed. A university campus is at the centre of several acres of parkland. Walking paths wind past fountains, waterfalls and well tended plantings, spreading out from the heart like veins towards a cluster of high rise apartments. These modern residences hover like planets around their sun, which is this case, is none other than a WalMart superstore.
Unlike many westerners who recoil from what you find in a typical supermarket in China, it fascinates me on several levels. I’m a cook for one thing but admittedly with slim experience judging from the assortment of ingredients I’ve never worked with. I am riveted to the range of natural products giving evidence to the cliché about people from Guangzhou province (according to our Chinese friend): “they eat everything in the sky except planes; everything in the water except boats; and everything on land except cars.”
While the selection of live fish and reptiles was sometimes off putting, the other side of the story about Walmart is that Dan and I found these supermarkets consistently clean, well organized, and well serviced.
Besides the food, another special characteristic of supermarket shopping in China is the number of employees on the floor. Two young girls patrol each section of an aisle. They answer your questions, help you reach up for a product, and generally spend their day arranging and rearranging the goods. I see one. She’s attached herself like a gnat to a shopper. I think it’s safe to approach the toothpaste. Too late, another one has discovered me and plunks herself between me and the shelf.
She waves her arm across the array of brand choices.
I know, I can see that.
She points to the price sign.
I know, I can see that.
I’m saved by Dan who suddenly shows up. He’s scowling. We both know what the issue is. Despite the differences between China and Canada at the supermarket, there’s one thing they have in common; spouses will get separated there and the husband will spend fifteen minutes looking for his wife.
Packaging. There is a proverb that goes something like “purchasing the box and returning the pearls”. This refers to someone who is so taken by the image, he lets go of the substance. It speaks to a character flaw shared by people of any origin. In respect to China, though, since they manufacture beautifully decorated boxes there, the instructive power of the proverb loses something. During the annual moon festival, stores are heaped with “moon cakes”, tasty confections, individually wrapped and packed in over-sized ornamental cardboard boxes that take marketing into the realm of art. Given a choice between an empty box and pearls, I’d take the box. Unfortunately, Dan didn’t share my opinion. Always practical, he refused to spend postage mailing empty boxes back to Canada. Still, I managed to keep a small one stashed at the bottom of my case and I treasure it today. It’s the perfect place to store my pearls, a lovely set I bought from a street vender in Zhouguang. (by C.Moisse at maturetraveler.blogspot.com)
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