Romancing the Shell

I wonder how often south americans come to an Oregon beach and sit there thinking, "Gosh, I could really use a shell necklace right about now. And maybe a massage from a self-taught, but pretty un-professional."

See, in Cartagena, Colombia's emerald jewel on the Caribbean coast, you don't have to preoccupy with such worries. They are right there in front of you. And behind you. And to you right and left, an armful of shell necklaces conveniently nudged your way so you may compare and contrast as closely as possible.

Lucky me, I went to Playa Blanca, Cartagena's 'nice' beach and got my own armada of shell necklace groupies, enthusiastically encouraging me to pick the right one for such a regal neck.

I realize this isn't harassment in Colombia. Or stalking. But rather good salesmanship, because they knew better than me my mind would change with just a bit more shell nudging.

"This is a one-time opportunity, my queen!"
"Youthful princess, you cannot find this style anywhere but THIS beach!"

This style being so special, it is only manufactured in China.

Colombians must be nonplussed to find no one selling ANYTHING on the Oregon sand - no mango slices, no half-melted ice cream, no cocaine (well...), and definitely no shell necklaces.

"You mean I have to go to a mall? But I'm right here! On the beach! Sell me SOMETHING!"

I fear, in the end, my persistent posse are the victims of some kind of South American Shell Necklace AmWay scheme. Nobody bought their stuff. Mangoes, yes. But the puka shell rosary? Surely someone must buy them, lest waste precious time?

The patience and time-wasting award for the day goes to Big Bird, a pretty lady with the most vibrant canary yellow romper - that's right, I wrote ´romper´ - of all time.

As our boat abutted the beach, she was the tallest of her 10 friends, spoke English, and took to me immediately in what was to be a doomed attraction.

Big Bird wasn't selling necklaces, her gig was a massage. And normally, I'm all over that, but I was distracted, fiddling with my life vest, warding off conch bracelets and in the organizational kerfuffle, I uttered the single word every traveller should exorcise: maybe.

Maybe, in my mind, almost unilaterally means no.

Would you like to have a meeting with HR to discuss your poor attitude? Uhh... Maybe?
Do you want cow entrails soup for breakfast? Well - maybe!
Feel like digging ditches in the rain today? I dunno. Maybe.

But maybe to a woman whose only job is to sell her hands to tourists on the only nice beach for miles is simply an invitation to employ your most unflappable sales strategies.

For Big Bird, this meant hovering. She followed me to lunch. She watched me eat said lunch. She waited for me to finish my dip in the lovely warm water. I kept turning her offer down, generous as they were.

"But you tell me maybe!"

It was true. I said it, not realizing she would understand it, or use it like an effing scarlet letter. Worn down, I said in my most snappy Spanish, "No! Do you understand the word NO?"

And Big Bird just sniffed, looked away and left, as if now I was annoying her. She completely ignored my existence, which is what I had done to her and every shell necklace salesman all day as if they were subhuman.

And then a wave of guilt overcame me. Big Bird was just trying to do her job. It was an irritating job, but honest employment nevertheless. And I am a rich tourist who should treat others with more respect. So I thought about apologizing... you know, maybe.