Shopping In The North

For the last two months we’ve been vacationing in the United States – also known as the Land of Return Anything …No Questions Asked.  And, like all good tourists, we’ve abandoned our diets, visited museums, and we’ve Shopped.   We’ve bought cheap jeans, $120 tennis shoes, vitamins, a Home Depot light fixture and, for my birthday - a Mazda Miata. The Miata tops the list of my Best Buys but not all of our choices have been so wise - for example we bought a gas bar-b-que, Trader Joe’s Lime & Chile Mixed Nuts and an Italian-Stove Top-12 cup-Stainless Steel-Espresso Maker.

During the summer we house sit in The States but we own a cute house in La Paz, Mexico.  It has a tiny back patio and an outdoor kitchen which keeps our house cool and odor free.  We have no room for a bar-b-que on that patio.   So, Alex wedged the big box back into the Miata’s adorable little trunk and I prepared my “Why I’d Like to Return This” speech.  I approached the clerk – sales slip in hand and I said, “I’d like to return this because…”  He picked up a telephone and said, “Manager, to the front, please”. My heart constricted.  The Manager appeared and I began explaining again but he interrupted, “Do you want an exchange or refund?”  “Refund, please” and I resumed my speech because, after all, it was a good one.  He handed me the money, smiled and said, “I believe you”.  It was that easy.

In Mexico the experience would have been different.  A few years ago we decided to buy a gas kitchen stove.  We drove to the local appliance store, pondered which of their three models we wanted, packed one into our Blazer, paid someone to install it, and prepared to roast a chicken.  I put my hand on the temperature knob and froze.  The dial was there but there were no numbers.  I looked more carefully.  In place of numbers I found the English equivalent of Low, Medium, and High.  How can you bake without numbers?  Impossible.  Alex disconnected the stove; wrestled it back into the Blazer, and drove back to the stove.  I handed the sales receipt to the formally friendly sales clerk and said in my best Spanish, “There are no numbers so we need to return the stove”.   Mr. Hyde scowled, “No refunds allowed.  Didn’t you see that the model doesn’t have numbers?  You should have bought the more expensive model; that one has numbers”.   I explained that we’d be happy to exchange the numberless model for the more expensive one – with numbers.  He called over three men who talked and shook their heads.  After an hour of frustrating negotiations, we drove home with an oven that has number but in the end, those numbers are only a vague representation of: Low, Medium and High.  However, we did learn to be careful before we buy anything in La Paz because the rules say “no sales slip – no refund”

My favorite market In the States is Trader Joe’s.  I love the tiny cups of free coffee.   I’m awed by the purple haired and tattooed personnel.  I buy 99 cent greeting cards and $14.99 orchids.  Waiting in line at the checkout, I always salivate at the chocolate choices.  Last week I selected a No-Sugar Added Chocolate bar and asked, “Can I return, if I don’t like it?”  I carefully watched the ringed tongue lisp, “Of course”.  The chocolate was great but I made a painful error when I put a cute little green chili into my mouth that was hiding in the bag of nuts. Nothing but time put out the fire.   The following day I returned the nuts.  Without the sales slip.  No problem.  They never asked for one. I wanted to describe the agony I experienced but by the time I was ¾ of the way through, I had received my money and an apology.

And finally, my latest hand-wringing, much researched choice to purchase an Italian made, Stainless Steel, stove top, 12 cup Espresso maker. I ordered over the internet then I waited. I anticipated the taste of the strong coffee we’d soon be drinking.  Finally the box appeared.   It felt like Christmas.  I read the instruction in English and Spanish.  I ground the beans.  I used bottled water. I turned the burner on low.  Just as promised steam escaped the release valve.  The problem was that a small amount of water was squeezing out where the top and bottom units connected.  I reread the instruction.   I screwed the two parts tighter.  Same problem.   I e-mailed the company asking for suggestions.  Neil instructed me to send the machine back.  I wrote again and asked about shipping charges.  “We’ll refund them”.  I wrote a third time, “Gee, Neil, I don’t know if I can go 5-7 business days drinking the weak coffee that the home owner’s machine brews”.  He wrote, “Okay, Judy, use the first machine until the new one arrives then send the original back”.  I think Neil and I have become buddies.   I wait for the UPS truck confident that if this machine isn’t satisfactory, I can return it.  I walked back into the house humming, “Everything’s Returnable in Amereeeeca” from The West Side Story.

I don’t need to leave Mexico to go to great museums.  And I can gain weight without crossing the border.  But customer service in the States is …different. So, as I plan our next shopping expedition, I realize that vacations are about doing things that you don’t do at home.  And, for this Older Woman Living in Mexico, being able to return my mistakes is an exciting adventure.

 

First Love

The love affair started when he was just a boy.  Her aroma intoxicated him; he said that she smelled like honey and he loved her taste.   She was thin and pale and Alex would do anything to be with her - even lie to his mother. He’d sneak out of his house to spend five minutes with her.  He felt like an adult and used her to impress friends.  He grew up. We met and married, but the affair continued. Old movies taught that a good woman’s love could save a bad boy.  They lied. She was demanding and expensive; through guilt stained teeth he promised to leave her but it never lasted.  Alex was totally hooked on cigarettes. 

I refused to share my home with her so when we lived in Boston stood outside puffing his way through snowstorms; he smoked in our Minnesota garage during minus 30 degree winters and the  rain of Vancouver had him huddled under our overhang.  Through cold, snow and rain he smoked outdoors while I stayed warm and smoldering indoors.

Fourteen years ago we bought a small house in La Paz. The climate is almost perfect.  We tossed out ties and pantyhose and threw open doors and windows.  Paradise?  Not quite.

Our patio is tiny and walled.  Our bedroom is within puffing range.  Each morning I woke to the stench of cigarettes. Paradise is gardenias not Marlboros.   I complained.  I nagged.  I begged.  Finally, I closed the doors and windows.  Once again I stayed indoors while Alex spent most of his days on our patio watering plants, reading, enjoying the weather and smoking. 

All that changed four years ago when Alex got pneumonia. Trying to smoke became so painful it was like swallowing a volcano. He quit.  He now claims he hates the smell of tobacco.  I’m thrilled.  For his health.  For the money we save.  And because I no longer smell Marlboros 50 times a day.  I love our patio filled with flowers, hummingbirds and, in the evenings, the kissing sound of geckos. But it’s odd how unexpectedly things work out.  Most of the time I’m alone.  Alex stays indoors using the computer or reading.  He says that it’s so sunny that the glare gives him a headache.

Is he avoiding me? No, he’s happy when we’re inside reading or chatting. It was in deference to me that he spent his time outdoors and I appreciate it.  So while Alex waters the flowers that I get to enjoy, I take pleasure in his company until he turns off the hose and goes back indoors.  As I sit alone on the patio I accept the vow he’s made; when he gets terminally ill, he’ll reach into the back of his closet, pull out the ancient pack of Marlboros, inhale deeply, and rekindle the affair that started long before we met.