Tools, Gift Items, Etc.

The first time a Spaniard told me to go see the Chinese, I thought maybe I’d been dissed. Ve a los Chinos: Spanish for Go play in traffic. Then again, why was Araceli, my new landlady, insulting me? All I’d done was ask where I might buy a roll of cellophane tape. I hadn’t meant to insinuate that rolls of cellophane tape should come with the flat. With Obama in the White House, I didn’t think the tiny American flag I’d staked in the window box — my very first American flag, a modest starter flag — could be held against me a priori. And anyway, what gripe did the Spanish have with the Chinese? Had I missed some grim episode in Sino-Hispano history? When Araceli picked up on my confusion, she didn’t do much to clear it up: she simply told me exactly where I might find these Chinese people. Four blocks up Calle Aguilar, on the right. Across from Manolo Dapena’s fruit stand.

Four blocks up Aguilar, across from Frutería Dapena, illumination and a little relief: SUPERBAZAR CHINO, a discount store the size of a small residential neighborhood, presumably owned and operated by Chinese people, and presumably offering rolls of cellophane tape among the Herramientas, Articulos de Regalo, Etc. (Tools, Gift Items, Etc.). It turns out that in Spain, Ve a los Chinos isn’t an insult at all. It’s kindly shopping advice. Wherever in Spain you may be, you aren’t far from a Chinese-owned discount store. The place might be called “Superbazar Chino,” “Euro Chino,” or “Cash Asia,” but among locals it will invariably be known as Los Chinos. Whether you are looking for a beach ball, a toilet brush, or a pair of slippers, you will be directed to Los Chinos. Los Chinos have it all, and then some.

Take Superbazar Chino. Beyond purely practical concerns like clothespins and spatulas, Superbazar Chino offers fanciful items like flesh-toned girdling devices and hardcore pornographic DVDs. There is such a vast array of products on offer at Superbazar Chino, at such amazing prices, that even if you don’t really need anything, you’re bound to find something. In this way and a few others, and excluding the hardcore porn, Superbazar Chino is kind of like Wal-Mart:

1) Like Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino would seem to go on forever in all directions. It is possible to get lost in Superbazar Chino, or lose a loved one in Superbazar Chino. If your phone is smart enough to feature a GPS app, you might find it useful in Superbazar Chino.

2) Like Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino is seriously impressive at first glance. There is just so much, of everything. At first glance, it’s hard not to be amazed by what the human race is capable of.

3) Like Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino is seriously depressing after a half-hour or so. There is just so much, of everything. After a half-hour or so, it’s hard not to be disgusted by what the human race is capable of.

4) Like Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino carries products that are principally manufactured in China. In such a way Superbazar Chino might be said to cut out not just the middle man, but the end man, too. It’s kind of like the front man has moved to town.

5) Like Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino store carries products that might principally be called “crap,” extended exposure to which will inevitably beg questions of the following sort:

a) Did someone actually get paid to design a refrigerator magnet that looks like a miniature fax machine?

b) How could it possibly be profitable to manufacture boatloads of fax-machine-themed refrigerator magnets, ship them to another side of the world, and sell them for 40 cents apiece?

c) What happens to the boatloads of fax-machine-themed refrigerator magnets that no one buys?

d) At what point did civilization come to need boatloads of fax-machine-themed refrigerator magnets?

e) Are boatloads of fax-machine-themed refrigerator magnets perhaps good for the economy, i.e., remotely redeemable in some way?

Having so much in common with Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino will surely offer comfort if ever I get to feeling nostalgic for my local Wal-Mart back home. But before we go so far as to call Superbazar Chino a “Spanish Wal-Mart,” or so far as to call Wal-Mart an “American Superbazar Chino,” we should note a few key differences between the two:

1) Unlike Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino smells like a jinormous condom. This can happen when a business concern amasses vast quantities of petroleum products, products made of polymers and plastics and silicone and such. It’s called off-gassing. Without the sophisticated climate-control systems Wal-Mart shoppers have come to expect, Wal-Marts would surely smell like a jinormous condom, too. Energy is more expensive in Spain, and Spanish discount-store shoppers are maybe a little less fussy. In any case, while the smell of condom may not be agreeable, it’s not entirely disagreeable, either, and is maybe a small price to pay for a good price.

2) Unlike Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino is, in one sense, actually local, i.e., within walking distance of the local population. I have walked to my local Wal-Mart back home, once, but only after blowing a head gasket, and at risk of grave personal injury.

3) Unlike Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino is staffed by Chinese people, most of whom do not speak the local language. As a result, interactions with the clerks at Superbazar Chino tend to be more limited than interactions with clerks at Wal-Mart. If interactions occur at all, they are seldom productive. This is especially true if the customer in question is himself new on the scene, e.g. an English instructor from the States with considerable gaps in his Spanish vocabulary. When an American man tries to communicate, say, “cellophane tape” to a Chinese man in Spain, much gesturing is involved, much pointing and nodding and shaking of the head. Often, a kind of Mandarin roulette ensues, with the Chinese clerk guiding the American customer around to various products — to the brassieres, to the shovels, to the toy farm animals — but probably not to the cellophane tape. Exasperated, the American man shifts to English in a last-ditch, nothing-left-to-lose effort at just about the time the Chinese man, also exasperated, shifts to Chinese in a last-ditch, nothing-left-to-lose effort. These shifts only further complicate the matter. Each party will invariably spend some time baffled, wondering why he has never heard a particular, presumably Spanish word or expression before. The baffled party may fear he’s even further from knowing Spanish than he thought, when in fact what is happening is that the other party is not speaking Spanish at all, but Chinese or English — whichever language the baffled party does not in any way speak. The end result of this linguistic train wreck between Spanish, English and Chinese might be called Changlish, or Chinglés. Whatever we call it, it serves no useful purpose whatsoever, beyond crude entertainment for those observing from a distance.

4) Unlike Wal-Mart, Superbazar Chino is not open 24 hours a day. It is, however, open during afternoon siesta and on Sundays, which by Andalusian convenience metrics is more or less equivalent to being open 24 hours a day. These practices may embitter the local business community and irritate the local clergy, but they delight anyone who suddenly finds themselves needing a spatula, a pair of slippers, or a hardcore pornographic DVD on a Sunday.

On balance, then, what Superbazar Chino loses to Wal-Mart in business hours and ambient aroma, it maybe gains in proximity and mature-audience merchandise. In the end, both are massive, economy-of-scale business concerns with shit-tons of cheap crap in them. Times being what they are, and because I cannot myself manufacture, say, a roll of cellophane tape, I am bound to find myself among the shit-tons of cheap crap from time to time. Because I have lamented the effect massive business concerns have on smaller, local businesses, this inevitably feels a little hypocritical. To help control the guilt and gloom, I try to make my shopping trip an in-and-out affair. If I am looking for cellophane tape, I stay away from the clothespins, the beach balls, and the flesh-toned girdling devices. I try to remember what dear old Dad used to tell dear old Mom, bless her bargain-hunting heart: It’s not a bargain if you didn’t need the thing in the first place. I try to just locate the cellophane tape, and get the hell out of there.

If you’ve ever been to Wal-Mart, and I’d bet money you have, you know just what I mean.

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Charlie Geer is the author of the novel “Outbound: The Curious Secession of Latter-Day Charleston.” His work has appeared in Tin House, The Sun, Bloomsbury Magazine, and The Southern Review.