In Which I'm Defeated by Commerce

There's a place in Mangonia Park, Fla., called the 45th Street Flea Market. It is 10 pounds of crap crammed into a five-pound bag -- a place to get your nails (and toenails) done, buy cheap hair extensions, have those extensions glued to your head, acquire enormous earrings and designer knock-off purses and jeans that will dye your underwear blue, eat barbecue, purchase stuff with cheap silk flowers glued to it, get a haircut, get your pocket picked, get hustled, do some off-track betting, maybe have your butt kicked, shop and buy and eat and get lost and wander around and get vertigo and lose your sense of direction and stagger in circles untilallyourthoughtsjumbletogetherlikethisandyoucan'tbreathe andit'slikethatonestorybyKafkanotTheMetamorphosisbutthat
otheroneandaaaiiiieeeeeee!!!

I discovered that it's been translated into Chinese.

It's called the Golden Triangle Market and it's multiple buildings and four floors of holy cow, I just want to die. Oh, it's probably fun if you like shopping, but I don't. I shop like a ninja: in and out, a finely honed tactical strike. This approach does not jibe with China. In this country, you linger. You consider. You take your time and peruse the kiosks and don't panic.

I panicked. I just wanted a small camera bag, OK?!?

But I didn't want to pay a lot, so I was referred to the Golden Triangle. After putting on a mime show for a man who works on the relatively calm ground floor -- pantomime camera, pantomime bag, smile winningly -- I was pointed to the escalators.

Upon reaching the top... oh, crud. My breath caught. Was I back in Florida? There were kiosks, kiosks, kiosks, crammed together in sardine fashion, offering fake hair and knock-off purses and cheap shoes and shiny clothes and jeweled barrettes and fake nails and bowls of noodles and yarn and toys and perfume and basketballs and there were so many people and it smelled like K-Mart -- Chinese K-Mart! -- and the third floor was just as bad and why was I even up there and I was a little lost and my Chinese sucks so I couldn't remember how to say help and would it really be so bad if I just laid down to focus on my breathing and do I always sweat this much and shoo, dude who's following me and my brain interpreted it as a fight-or-flight situation.

I chose flight. Screw the camera bag. What little vestige of pride I had left struggled to calm my vapor-locked brain, which was screaming "Runnnnnnnnn!!!" Be cool, my pride countered. I compromised by hustling and nodding at people in a friendly fashion. "Zai-jian," I even told a few of them as I sauntered out the door at 30 mph.

Why was I telling strangers good-bye? No clue. All I know is, I'll just carry the stupid camera.