I met my best friend in a small
little restaurant in Scotland after two months of solo traveling. I would love to
say that at the precise moment she walked into the shop door that our eyes met
and it was platonic love at first sight; or perhaps that I knew Ms. Pancake
would be my non-romantic forever; however, that wasn’t the case. Instead, I was
shoveling haggis and mash potatoes into my face at such an alarming rate I am
surprised I didn’t choke. I was more willing the food into my starved traveler
body rather than actually tasting it. She saw me packing food into my mouth
laughing obnoxiously and I saw her standing there in typical stoic early Ms. Pancake
fashion...translation she looked like a bitch. Needless to say we did not “bro-out"
on our first meet up. Instead, Pancake and I bonded a few days later in a pub,
beer in hand. It wasn’t the alcohol that helped us bond, nor the dancing. No it
was the one thing that would be the scaffolding to our budding relationship. We
bonded over being the embarrassingly cheapest people we knew. More
specifically, two words were spoken that night that sealed the deal: “Charity Shops”,
and that was it.
Charity shops are the UK’s
equivalent to Goodwill stores in America except the UK shops have a very
charming and quaint vibe. On first inspection an American could mistake an
Oxfam Charity Shop for a boho boutique. They also have that musty smell like an
old fur coat that has hung in the hall closet for the last 20 years. Goodwill’s on the other hand are massive
warehouses of pestilence. I firmly believe that they would sell used needles and dead bodies if
they could make a buck. Anything is a go. David Sedaris once wrote about how he
contracted crabs from a pair of Goodwill pants all for the price of a few dollars.
Being a hypochondriac germaphobe,
visiting a Goodwill is always an interesting endeavor. When I walk into one my
body does two contradictory things. It cringes from repulsion and buzzes with
excitement. I imagine watching me wandering the warehouse floor would be more
entertaining than watching two drunken transvestites fighting in the crowd of a
sporting event. I have the token “stink face” as I pick through the racks. I try on clothes like I’m forced to wear a
homeless person’s pee rag. But after several scalding hot washings (both my
body and the clothes) I am tickled by my find. I brag like a hipster (definition:
today’s version of an alternative hippie). Under the surface I know I am a fake
because hippies aren’t afraid of what might be hidden in polyester.
I still held onto my new world
stink face as I perused the shelves of the quaint Oxfam Charity Shop; however, in
the UK my stink face was seen as just being British. I no longer was rubbing elbows with
crack addicts or chain smoking grandmas in a large warehouse; instead, I was
skimming the shelves with the cool college students of Edinburgh University or
the cute old granny’s in tartan. I was hip and I had my future best friend on
my arm.
Our first charity shop purchases
have become tokens of our earlier friendship. She still has her first edition
Harry Potter Philosopher’s Stone, and I still have that New Look black zip up
shirt (albeit with several more holes and a potent smell that I don’t recall came
with the initial purchase). This seven year long friendship has grown beyond the
mutual love of all things frighteningly cheap and into a love for life,
adventure, and each other. However, we will always feel closest when are filing
through the racks at the nearest goodwill with the transvestites and
prostitutes of the world. Ms. Pancake you have
indeed become my non-romantic forever.
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