If you have a spare ten minutes (and you probably have as you're reading this), read this wonderful account from my friend Peter on his recent travels to Jerusalem. It's like a sketch from a monty python film and it had me in stitches, the bitter determination of the shop keeper vs. my lovely friend who was so keen not to hurt anyone's feelings.... hapless male shoppers beware!
Here goes:
I come across a shop with proper displays and a till rather than some guy with a money belt, and head on in. I have a look at the nicely painted wooden carvings on display and think that they’d be something suitable for my parents. Within 0.5 seconds the obligatory cheery salesman appears out of nowhere.
“Hello my friend” says the broad shouldered, baggy-clothed Mr Salesman, an exaggerated smile poking through his unshaven tanned face.
“Hello” I reply. “I’m just looking, thank you”.
“You see something you like?”
“Well these are quite nice” I say, pointing at the wooden carvings. Big mistake.
I can see the salesman do the mental equivalent of flexing his fingers as he prepares to get stuck into a routine he’s probably done countless times before.
“For these, I can give you a very good price”. Here we go. He trots off and returns with a calculator.
“Actually I’m happy just looki…” I begin to say.
“These were carved and painted by hand by authentic Byzantine monks” he proclaims proudly. ‘As opposed to fake Byzantine monks?’ I think to myself. He picks up one of the carvings and points to a little sticker saying ‘Made in some Byzantine monastery’ (I forget the name). Evidence if ever I saw it. Nonetheless they are very well made, feel nice and solid and I can see my folks liking them, so I decide to see where this goes.
He picks up three of the carvings – one of Jesus, one of Mary and one of the disciples – and lays them out on the counter.
“I’m only really interested in these two” I say, pointing to the carvings of Jesus and Mary.
“For you” he says “I give you 3 for the price of 2”.
For me? Aww shucks. This would normally sound great, but as they’re not labelled up with any price whatsoever he could name any price he wanted and I wouldn’t know any better.
“Now, you are from England?” he asks. I nod. “OK, so I will make this easy and give you price in English pounds”.He taps furiously into his calculator with the accuracy and speed of a touch typist. After pondering the end figure, he looks up proudly and says, “For you, for the 3, I can give you a price of 80 pounds. Not 120 pounds, but 80 pounds”. Even with the amazing ‘3 for 2’ offer, that’s still about £60 more than I was intending to spend. Unsure of what to say I stand there looking gormless as I ponder how best to politely excuse myself. My thoughts are interrupted by his next offer.
“Because you say nothing, I offer these for 70 pounds”.“Oh?”“60 pounds”.
The cheerfulness is gone, and now he’s looking at me with a serious business-face. Still somewhat stunned by my unintentional bargaining skills which has seen the price plummet by 25%, I realise it’s probably my turn to put forward how much I think they’re worth, and barter until we reach a price agreeable to both of us.But I’m not going to do that. As I’ve said, I loathe haggling with a passion, and I’m not going to spend an inordinate amount of time playing psychological games with a man who’ll be considerably more experienced at this than me.“Thanks, but no thanks”. This is what I should have said. Instead, my aversion to offend kicks in.
“Sounds good” I lie. “I…errr…just need to go and draw out some money”.
I am pleased with myself. It gives me a perfect excuse to leave the store and never return. This is – of course – a rather mean thing to do to the guy, but at least I won’t be there to see his disappointment when he realises that this mug won’t be coughing up.
“Ah – no need!” he says, reaching under the counter and pulling out a card reader. “I take visa”. He looks at me expectantly.‘Hmmmm’ I think to myself. Quick thinking time.
“But I prefer to pay cash” I respond. For a little while we debate the merits of paying by cash vs paying by card before he eventually says
“OK, well I prefer cash too”.
A narrow escape! Now I can get myself out of this awkward situation. But the salesman has other ideas.
“Let me take you to the cash machine”.
I insist this isn’t necessary and that he should stay with his store. Surely it’s not a good idea to leave it unattended?Undeterred he marches me to a cash machine only slightly out of his shop. I stand in the narrow alley, facing a cash machine that looks suspiciously like those you’d find at the pub and charges £1.50 for each withdrawal. Numerous sheets hung across the alley walls provide makeshift protection from the sun, but the heaving sweaty crowds barging past still make things unpleasantly warm.
“Here you can get money”.
“Ummm….great!” I exclaim, exasperated.
Now I know that at any time I could just have said “No thank you” and walked off with him yelling at me. Instead, I continue with this charade and formulate a plan of utter genius.I put my card in the cash machine. I then intentionally type in the wrong pin. My request for money is declined right in front of Mr Salesman.
“Oh no, my bank has frozen my account!” I say, over-acting my disappointment.
He looks at the screen and frowns.
“It says you have entered the wrong pin” he says matter of factly. Damn his eye for detail!
“Mmmm yes, the bank changes the pin when the account gets frozen.” He looks at me with a somewhat unconvinced look.
“I’ll come back later when I’ve sorted it out”.
This isn’t good enough for Mr Salesman, who beckons over a fellow shop-owner. They speak in Hebrew and shrug shoulders while looking at me and at the cash machine. Mr Salesman turns to me and says “Try it again”. Well, if I must. I insert my card as the two Israelis stand either side watching the screen intently. I type in an incorrect pin and re-enact the ‘Oh no!’ routine when I’m declined cash again. There, that’s it. No money for me, no money for you. But they’re having none of it. I barely see my card ejected from the cash machine before Mr Salesman has grabbed it and put it back into the machine.
“Please….try again.”
A look of semi-desperation falls upon his face. He’s not going to let me go that easy. This time I hesitate, and with good reason. Enter a pin incorrectly 3 times and the bank will lock me out of my account. For real. I’m out of ideas beyond hitting ‘Cancel’, grabbing my card and running away as fast as the crowds would allow. But I don’t do this.
You know how in movies when the hero taps a ‘disarm’ code on some nuclear bomb with only seconds to spare, and the whole thing is filmed in super slow motion? Well, that’s what this was like, only instead of being a hero saving the world, I was the idiot intentionally typing in the wrong pin because I didn’t have the balls to say “No”. I tap it in and a message pops up. It didn’t say ‘Nuclear detonation imminent’, but it might as well have done.
The ‘Account Locked’ message meant that my financial lifeline had been cut, leaving me with just a small amount of cash in my wallet. Boom!
Mr Salesman frowns.
“Now it says your account is locked”, “Well I did say” I regale, weeping inside.
Still, at least it’s over now.
“Guess I’ll have to call my bank now”.
He latches onto this statement like a bloodthirsty leech.
“No problem!” he says excitedly, marching me back into his shop.
He walks round the counter, puts a phone on the desk, picks up the handset and stands poised to dial.
“What’s the number? I dial them for you”. I look at him incredulously. Does he never give up? Does he not know how much he is tormenting me? Of course not – as far as he’s concerned I’m a guy willing to pay well over the odds for a set of ‘handmade’ wood carvings. It’s probably no less than I deserve. It’s time to be honest, say I don’t want them, and walk away. But no.“It’s OK, I’ll use my mobile” I say, pulling out my phone from my pocket and waving it in the air.
“That will cost you money” he says. “Please, use mine”.
I convince him that the banks number is an international freephone number. What I’ll do is pretend to call the bank, and when he’s not looking I’ll wander out of the store, never to return. As if reading my mind, he gives me a chair and sits down next to me. I sit down, pretend to phone the bank and hold a fake conversation about my locked account.
Mr Salesman listens intently as I get angry and gesticulate wildly with the imaginary customer service person. I sigh, roll my eyes and point to my phone as if to say; ‘Sorry about this but they’re being rubbish’. Not once does he get out of his seat. I continue the act for a further 10 minutes.
Finally, I see a look of resignation on his face as I hang up and tell him I’ll have to wait 4 hours before my account is unlocked. He makes one last desperate attempt to persuade me to at least try his card machine, before eventually accepting that I’m going to be the fish that got away. He tells me that he’ll set aside the carvings and to come back once I have access to my funds, and puts a business card in my hand.Needless to say, nobody got any gifts.
