Culture Shock

Despite the fact that it often seems to be a popular sport amongst others to tell people that I spend 100% of my time on assassination missions, people who know me well frequently know that I rarely kill people.

That said, traveling to other countries is often an odd experience for me.

Many of you already know that I spent the past several weeks in southeastern Asia for reasons that can be best described as “unclear.” Coincidentally, the nations I was visiting experienced government upheavals, riots, and a sudden, dramatic upswing in the value of the US dollar, just as I was leaving. (All true.) This part of the world, along with many others, contains many street vendors. Compared to these street vendors, my skin is a shade of luminescent white akin to a fluorescent light bulb. To them, that extra brightness often stands for “Big Bucks.”

That would be fine, except that the dazzling bright light reflecting from my pearly exterior can wake even the most comatose of street vendors from great distances. Startled from his or her boring slumber, the vendor springs to life, usually yelling something that is presumably more or less English, and means something along the lines of, “Hey big boy! Me love you wallet long time! Love you wallet long time!” This response to my opalescence is the same regardless of the product being offered. From an outstanding tailored suit at an amazing price (desirable) to a sickly-looking live frog in a food market (customs-hostile), all vendors feel that I will clearly want to buy several of all of their goods, if they can simply get my attention.

Some of them are right. And the ones who are incorrect do not (in my opinion) need to be told otherwise. I’m totally fine letting night markets do their thing without ranting about how they should be more like shopping malls.

However…

As promised by the early ramblings of the setup, there is a slight exception. Sometimes, a product being offered looks very good from afar and I take a closer look. Upon inspection, I discover that what looked like a 70 carat diamond from nine paces is actually something coughed up by the ice bucket dripping onto the floor. No longer interested, I exit the store. Having never spoken to anyone inside or made eye contact, I assume that my browsing was not noticed. Then, suddenly, I hear someone behind shouting very loudly at me.

“Oh, how quaint!” I think to myself. “A local wants to fight me to the death!”

As I turn, preparing to extract his tonsils via his bellybutton, I discover (to my surprise) that his facial expression is not even remotely hostile. I pause my planned evisceration just long enough to discover that the merchant felt that I was expertly opening a fierce negotiation process regarding a cup of old ice.

I have not yet discovered an entirely graceful solution to this situation.