How To Pay Twice as Much as You Ought To
Welcome to my random musings about the world, on a weekly-to-occasional basis.
Where we are: The cast is off, and I’m hobbling around in a storm trooper boot. After a bit of Bangkok hotel-hopping, we’ve settled in for the duration of my physical therapy.
How to Pay Twice as Much as You Ought To
There used to be a man who would show up at the NC State Farmer’s Market around the 4th of July every year; we called him Shrimp Guy. He’d arrive early on a Saturday and set up an umbrella across the street from the market. All day he’d sell freshly-caught-never-frozen North Carolina shrimp (the best in the world, in my humble opinion) out of Igloo coolers in the back of his truck. He’d be there every weekend, the shrimp getting progressively larger all summer, until shrimp season finished, usually around the end of September, depending on storms.
I bought shrimp from him every weekend we were in town, all summer long. He had something he called the Raleigh Special: he’d take this one particular metal bowl, fill it to the brim, and take the heads off in two minutes flat, all for twenty dollars. That usually got me a couple of pounds of shrimp. We used to eat a lot of shrimp in the summertime.
Over the years (many years) of consistently and loyally buying from Shrimp Guy, I only got to know him a little bit. He was gregarious in a way that made him a good salesperson, but not in a way that really stuck, if that makes sense. I was never totally sure if he recognized me from year to year, or even from week to week, or if he was just that chatty with everyone who bought shrimp.
Now, I’m not a morning person, so as word got out about Shrimp Guy, I was sometimes challenged to get that Raleigh Special before he ran out entirely. Eventually, Lee started hurrying me along on a Saturday morning, afraid we’d miss out on shrimp. He’s much better at mornings than I am, but I’m much better at farmer’s markets, so I’d grumble and take my mug of tea out to the minivan. [As I write this, I’m looking out at the Bangkok skyline, and having a little whiplash remembering that I used to live that life, and now I live this life.]
Anyway. The last summer or two that I bought from Shrimp Guy, I realized that the reason he was selling out so quickly was that people had begun to show up first thing in the morning to buy really large quantities—much more than my dinky little Raleigh Special. It began to feel like a competition: could I get there before the shrimp were bought out from under my nose? Sometimes I even got stuck waiting in line in the heat, and I realized these early-birds were haggling.
I don’t know how to haggle. At that point in my life [see above—different life], I had never really seen anyone try to bargain over prices. I’m accustomed to looking at the price tag, deciding whether or not I can afford the item, then either paying for it or walking away. It would never occur to me to offer a lower price.
Shrimp Guy seemed kind of irritated by the bulk-buying negotiators. At the time, I was a little perplexed by the whole scenario; it made me uncomfortable.
Fast forward a few years, and we’ve arrived in Hoi An, Vietnam, where the number one tourist activity is having clothing custom-made. This seems like a luxury activity that I must engage in.
“You’re supposed to bargain,” Lee tells me. I warn him that I am constitutionally incapable. He insists that I can, that it would be rude not to, and talks me through the process.
They’ll name a price. I should counter with a number that is about one-third of that. They’ll respond with a number that’s about two-thirds of the original. We’ll go back and forth until we get to about half of the original number. Smile, laugh, make jokes, enjoy the game.
Here’s how that went: I got measured, chose three fabrics, and the seamstress and I talked through three shirts that I wanted. Then she used her calculator to do some math, and showed me the total—$75. I took a deep breath, and said $25. She laughed, and said no, pointing at the number on the calculator. I panicked, and plucked a random number out of thin air—60. She said 70. I completely folded, and said okay.
Lee still thinks it’s funny. I still squirm with embarrassment whenever the topic of negotiating comes up.
Back when I was watching people haggle with Shrimp Guy, I was sort of uncomfortable. I wish I had known then what I know now: negotiating is a cultural thing. In some places, in some cultures—even in some segments of American culture—it would be weird not to try to negotiate the price (houses and cars and Craigslist, for instance).
The fact that I’m no good at it just means I need more practice.
Take care,
Lisa
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