A Walker in the Suburbs

The heels were worn but the shoes were still comfortable, so I decided to repair them. A friend directed me to an environmental clothes cleaners with a shoe repair business on the side. When I walked in with my peep-toe pumps I was met before I even reached the counter. “The man who repaired shoes for us, he died,” said the clerk.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I told myself. A few years ago, I’d had a sandal strap repaired at a little hole-in-the-wall place in the mall, barely bigger than a closet. I parked in the large, scarcely used lot, entered the sad, empty mall, and found the cubbyhole. A grate was closed and a sign posted. “I am sorry, but I am closed. Please call me if I still have your shoes.”

Two strikes now, but for some reason (naiveté?) I was confident I could still locate a cobbler. I did some googling and found a phone number for a man named George on Route 29. Not exactly my neighborhood, so I called first to make sure he was there. A booming voice answered the phone. “Yes, I am George,” he said, “and I am here. The guys with the websites, they are closed.”

Two days later, I drove to George’s place. It was bustling. While George worked in the back, clad in a no-nonsense black apron, customers entered to drop off and pick up their footwear. George took one look at my shoes and shook his head. “No way I can repair these,” he said. “I don’t have the material for it.”

“But I’m willing to spend some money because I like these shoes so much,” I pressed.

“I’m sorry,” George replied. “I won’t take on a job if I know the customer won’t be satisfied in the end.”

I couldn’t argue with that. George knew his limits. He had mastered the art of saying no. I wish I could say the same for myself. Maybe it’s easier for a cobbler than a writer.

I slunk out of George’s with my banged-up pumps, drove home and threw them in the trash … photographing one first, just for the record.

Yesterday I found myself in a place time forgot, a real, old-fashioned toy store. I’d heard about this place for years but had never visited it. With many kiddos on my list these days, it seemed like a place I should visit. And I was right.

I knew from the minute I walked in that I had found my happy place — or at least my happy shopping place, non-shopper that I am. Here were dolls and dress-up clothes and scads of Legos and Duplos. Here were books and science kits and adorable stuffed animals. Here were toys of my youth, like paddle balls and those little gizmos with magnetic filings that you can use to give a man a beard or a ’60s do.

It’s all part of my “make shopping fun” campaign, at which I’ve only been partly successful. After I left the toy store I spent some time wandering in the wilderness that is Tysons. But even there, buoyed by my earlier shopping experience, I could right myself and make good choices.

Most of all, I’m glad to know toy stores like this still exist, that they haven’t all vanished. Because children are what Christmas is about.

Over the weekend I had two very different kinds of shopping experiences. Yesterday I took a deep breath and went to the mall, lured by sales. The day before I visited a local crafts fair and my favorite used bookstore —- both located at Reston’s Lake Anne.

There, I met and chatted with the artisans who made the bowls and plates, who wove the textiles, who published the children’s books. There I chatted, laughed and snapped pictures as holiday-makers awaited Santa’s arrival by paddle boat. (I missed Santa but caught the Grinch, who was causing a ruckus in the crowd above.)

I’m not a big shopper, but I have many presents to buy. This year, I’m trying to make the process as much fun as possible. Shopping local helps.

Granted, I was there on an odd Thursday afternoon, but at first I was optimistic. There was a crowd outside the Cheesecake Factory, a post-graduation celebration from the looks of it. Maybe the mall would be bustling, as it used to be.

But once inside, my spirits sagged. It was the usual sparse crowd: a few mall walkers, some mothers and children, people marching determinedly from one store to the other, completing their errands with dispatch (one of them me).

So many mall memories: taking the girls there to buy summer play clothes, First Communion dresses, prom gowns. To have their ears pierced or celebrate with lunch on the last day of school.

I miss the girls’ young selves more at the mall than most places, which is strange because we often had battles there. I didn’t buy them skanky shorts and tops at Limited Too. I humiliated them when I asked the clerk at Abercrombie and Fitch to turn down the music. The mall was one of those places where we interacted with the world — and the world seemed to be winning.

Now the children are grown and the mall is empty. I know that these two states are linked mostly in my own mind, one truth personal, the other sociological. But it’s hard not to see a connection.

On Friday, I ended up in an old-fashioned hardware store in a tony neighborhood closer to the city. I was there only as a browser, but even I, who can barely tell a Phillip’s head from a hex head, was asked if I could be helped a half-dozen times.

Moseying my way through the narrow aisles I found some fun non-hardware-store kinds of items, and even bought a couple of them, a heavy aluminum jellyroll pan and a roll of cellophane tape.

It was only after I saw the price tags on these items that it hit me. Old-fashioned customer service is comforting. You feel important. You feel seen. And more to the point, you might actually find what you’re looking for.

But it doesn’t come cheap. These days, old-fashioned service is mostly for the well-heeled. Once upon a time, though, it was for all of us.