Category — community

I’m not generally a big fan of shopping. With the exception of things that come in shiny or iridescent containers, I can’t be suckered into buying things I don’t need.

Of course, this sensible attitude goes right out the window when it comes to books, or art/office supplies.

So, the other day as I am walking around North Vancouver, I see a big group of smokers standing in the middle of the sidewalk. Normally this irritates me – I despise having to walk through clouds of smoke coming out of people’s mouths. I always want to yell at them, “Thanks for making my hair smell like the inside of your mouth, you cretin!”

But, this time, they were standing a few feet away from the entrance of an art store. So I thought, “I’ll just pop in here and have a look and when I leave, they will have left.” I was just escaping the cigarette smoke you understand. I couldn’t possibly be expected to just go around them, right? Right?

So anyhow, weak excuse in hand, I walk in.  Art stores are the perfect place to make your credit card company love you. All those pens, pencils, fancy paper, water colour paints, paint brushes and ink. I know right then and there that I am not leaving until I have purchased something. It doesn’t have to be much – a gum eraser, a mechanical pencil with neon pink leads, a small notebook – I’m not fussy, but I will be bringing something home with me.

I say hello to the woman sitting behind the counter and I hope to have the following exchange:

Me: Hello.
Her: Hi there. How are you?
Me: Good, thanks. You?
Her: Oh, can’t complain. If you need any help, let me know.
Me: OK, thanks.

This is my ideal shopping experience. Say hello, maybe tell me what’s on sale, and then leave me alone. I’ll ask for assistance if I need it – I’m good like that.

Sadly, this was not the experience I had. That part where she was supposed to say, “Oh, can’t complain. etc.”? It went more like this:

Her: Oh just feeling kind of crappy – one of those days, you know? My boyfriend’s daughter is thirteen and I’ve known her for, like, …well, she was born in…I can’t remember now, but I’ve known her, like, forever. Anyway, he wants her to play soccer, but she doesn’t want to and he can’t really afford it anyway, but he keeps pushing, you know? And I told him if you keep pushing her, you’re going to lose her. I mean, she’s really tiny, like not even five feet and her Dad is huge – like, nearly six feet tall and at least 225 pounds, so he can be really intimidating and she just talks back and says no, but he keeps bullying her anyway. So, I told him off, I was rude to him actually and I’m never like that, and he told me he didn’t want to hear my opinion, so I made him get out of my car…”

Even worse than listening to her personal life and that of her 225 pound boyfriend and his short-but-feisty 13 year old daughter, was how oblivious she was to my discomfort at hearing all this. I wandered away, not looking at her – she followed. I made totally non-committal noises in response to anything that sounded even vaguely like a question – she kept talking.  Finally another customer asked for her help, and I fled with a “seeyoulaterbyebyenow” and I hadn’t purchased a thing.

If this was a chain store, I could just go to a different location, or complain to a manager, or even just  hope that one day she’d be let go for scaring customers off, but this is an independent store – the sort of place I generally feel strongly about supporting – and the chances of her being fired are pretty much nil; she’s the owner’s daughter and, I believe, part-owner herself.

I wish I could say this time was the first time I’d had an uncomfortable experience shopping there, but it wasn’t. I’ve listened to rants on many things there: people who shop at the big art chain store, how much they despise the chain store and the most of the suppliers and all the jerks with art supply warehouses on the Internet who undercut their prices. I’ve also weathered unasked for opinions on politics, weather, local news and religion.

I’ve also been given what I call the “jammy-handed child” treatment: “Please don’t touch that paper. It’s expensive. We don’t want your finger prints on it.” Really? Sorry, but I buy paper based on how smooth it is – textured paper and pencil crayon look bloody awful together – if I’m going to ensure I’m making the right purchase, then I need to touch the paper. Period. You’d think I came in cradling a bucket of KFC under one arm while licking my fingers and making a beeline for the expensive paper so I could use it to wipe my mouth on.

At any rate, this latest display of un-professionalism has cemented my decision to not go back. I probably should have said something like, “I’m really not comfortable hearing this much about your personal life, but I hope it all works out for everyone involved.” But, even that seemed rude somehow and I couldn’t bring myself to do more than wait for a good opportunity to run.

Bottom line? I’m willing to pay more elsewhere – even a chain store – to have the sort of shopping experience I want.

There is a heat wave in Vancouver right now – 30 degrees Celsius with a humidex in the mid-30s.

Normally I’d be typing this at home in mine and Joe’s apartment – which is a lot like a meat-locker with comfortable furniture – but, even our basement apartment is not cool enough to work in right now.

So, I got myself organized and came to the library for 9:45 a.m. figuring it probably didn’t open until 10 a.m. When I arrived, already hot and a little uncomfortable in the early morning heat, I saw a huge crowd of people standing before the glass doors looking anxious.

My first impression was that I was in a George Romero film, but this time looking at things from the zombie’s point of view.

A bunch of slightly sun-sticky shamblers, hands clutching plastic protected books with bar codes on the front chanting “Books….air conditioning…”

I was surprised at the assortment of people desperate to get into the library so early. A strange looking man with a little suitcase on wheels, a young man who looked like a smaller version of David Bowie during his Ziggy Stardust days, and any number of students with heavy looking backpacks.

The glass doors slid open and we all went inside, some people rushing to favoured reading tables and others directly to the toilets.

I hunted around for a table where I could plug my laptop in and do some work, and found a great table on the first floor. Window view, shaded by the overhang on the building and wonderfully quiet. Then I discovered a huge mess of what looked like rebar with a plug at the end that lead directly to some dead outlets.

Damn. Bye bye window seat.

I headed to the information desk and after waiting for the woman there to stop her personal conversation with a fellow employee she looked at me. I asked her where I could find working outlets in the library and her helpful answer was:

“There are seven floors in this building, one of them is bound to have something.”

The look on her face clearly said, “What do I look like – an information desk?”

I took the escalator to the next floor and asked a woman at the desk there – she was much, much nicer and pointed me to the desk I’m using now. The only bad part is that it is directly over the kid section and there are no less than three crying children making their displeasure known.

So, I have some pretty serious doubts about getting any work done, but the people watching is nearly as interesting.

Two desks behind me is an older gentleman reading a newspaper, the desk to my left (across a small opening surrounded by glass and metal railings) is a rather serious looking young man staring intently at his laptop. I wonder if he is writing a similar blog post about the “weird red-head who keeps looking at me.”

I kind of hope so actually.

To my right are tall metal shelving units filled with books about writers. From here I can read the spines of a few: A Writer’s Ireland, The Idiot’s Guide to English Literature, Eliot, Joyce & Company.

And, to make things even more interesting there is a man setting up across from me with his HUGE Mac notebook. I mean, the screen must be 19 inches at least. He also just taken off his shoes – bare feet on the public library carpet. Ew.

Oh well, there is some comfort in knowing that I could get a medical book and look up the symptoms for athletes foot without too much effort.

On my way back from Granville Island this morning, I noticed an older couple taking each others photo in-front of the ships.

I approached with a smile on my face and offered to take a picture of the two of them together.

The gentleman smiled back – a little hesitant to hand his camera over to a complete stranger. I set my purchases on the ground and he shrugged, grinned and handed me the camera as his wife came over.

“This nice young lady said she’d take our photo!” he said. His accent seemed to be somewhere from the southern United States.

His wife smiled and started pointing out what she’d like for me to get in the photo with them.

I took two pictures, including the boats and mountains, and handed the camera back.

“You Canadians are so nice!” the wife said.

The husband laughed and said, “I’m moving to Canada! You guys are just so sweet and helpful.”

I couldn’t help but laugh myself – it’s the old Canadian stereotype: we’re polite and friendly. However, if making that stereotype a reality for visitors to Vancouver makes their day, I’m happy to do it.

I wished them a good visit and as I picked up my things and started towards home, I heard them offer to take another couple’s photo in-front of the ships. “‘That nice young lady took our picture and we’d like to do the same for you.”

The other couple happily accepted and I continued on. I have to admit to feeling absurdly happy; it really is the little things that count.