My youngest is a sucker for Goodwill and Salvation Army stores. He likes to look for strange sports gear, and he has managed to accumulate a collection of jerseys from up and down the eastern seaboard as well as quirky things, like a China basketball jersey that was made for a giant.
There are several workers whose job is to dust and keep the aisles and displays clean, and they are polite and cheerful. The cashiers are helpful, chatty, animated, and funny. The store, relatively busy for a Saturday, is full of people moseying along and smiling, talking to each other whether or not they are already acquainted.
People are pleasant here, and things move along at a slow, patient pace. Just an hour earlier, I wanted to smack someone in the bagel shop as the line snaked out the door without any forward progress. No one else in the place seemed the least bit bothered by the fact that not a single worker came to the aid of the sole order-taker nor that they were even in a line. Back home in Boston, this kind of service would be considered legal defense for a stabbing. Here, the most strenuous things the knives are used for is spreading cream cheese when and if you ever get to it, or if you ever really care.
We are not totally without reminders, though. Tucked into a rack of color-coordinated apparel, we discover a little taste of home: a t-shirt from Boston that screams "Wicked Pissah" at customers who happen across it. In the end, we adopt some local lacrosse shirts and leave the Boston shirt behind. We'll be back to the frenetic pace soon enough without trying to get it through airport security with us, as well.
