A Day in Chinatown

Before every vacation I spend in Brazil with my family, my grandmother calls a week in advance with a list of items that she wants me and my mom to bring from New York. Although the products change from dresses to perfumes to teas, she always asks for a designer bag from Chinatown. So, last summer, before leaving for Rio de Janeiro, my mother and I ventured down to Canal Street on a hunt for a medium-large sized Goyard (french designer) handbag.

For those of you who have never been to Canal Street, trust me (I know it’s hard to do after this class) when I tell you that it is an anomaly to the rest of New York City. Right after the cobble roads of Soho that are lined with beautiful, high-end stores and before the quiet, family-style neighborhood of Tribecca, you have Chinatown, which is famous for Canal Street. The noise level is always a few notches above the rest of the city as the inhabitants shout at you, “Gucci bag. 50 dollars, 50 dollars. For you 40!” and “Real Chanel watch. Look look!” while thrusting the goods in your face. When you look down to avoid the hubbub, you can barely notice the sidewalk as it is covered with tourists’ feet and forged items laying out on tarp. If you look up, I Love NY shirts and backpacks are hanging from store ceilings. When I usually cross Canal, I take a deep breath and shove my way through the crowds until I finally emerge at a Starbucks on the next block. But, on this particular day, I had business to attend to.

My mother and I roamed the street, observing different bag styles and price ranges depending on size. Nothing called out to us and no one had any Goyards. Apparently they were not being sold anymore. After about 25 minutes of walking, one man whispered to us as we passed by him, “Real Goyard bag. 100 dollars.” This appeared to be our only chance to get one, so we spoke to the man for a minute and promised him that if he really had a Goyard bag, we would take it. Now, most people at Chinatown write one number on the price tag when they really intend to sell it for about 40% cheaper. This makes the customer feel special because he thinks, “Oh, they are selling it at 80, but for me they will make a special deal for 70.” In Chinatown, everyone is a “special” customer. However, our guy would not sell for less. Nevertheless, the bag was still much cheaper than one from the store, so we agreed to his price.

The man pulled us over into an alcove of an apartment and told us to wait there. It seemed like he was trying to keep us out of view...but from what? The only thing I could think of was the police. On his way out, the man pulled one of his friends aside and asked him to keep an eye on us. This is when my heart started to beat a little faster. I’m fully aware that Chinatown is full of sketchy transactions, but my mother and I are not the type to get involved and we most certainly have never been watched. The “friend” was so big and our alcove so small, that we were basically trapped in a 1’x3’ space until the return of our seller. My mom and I waited for at least 20 minutes. After about 10 minutes, we wanted to leave, but were unsure of the consequences of moving, so we stayed.

We had asked for a brown bag, but the seller only returned with black and red. When my mom tried to haggle for a discount due to the color mix up, he still refused. In general, I am a firm believer that all of the bags in Chinatown are fake, even though some sellers try to claim that their products are real. But, since our guy put so much effort into keeping the deal out of sight, imprisoned us while he went to get the bag, and would not settle for a lower price, I honestly believed him when he said the bag was real. And since my mom and I put so much effort in to finding my grandmother’s bag, we told her that it was real and bought at the store.

Only the seller knows the true authenticity of the bag, but my mom and I chose to believe him at face value just as my grandmother chose to believe us and similarly my grandmother’s friends will believe her when she tells them its real. So where does the authenticity lie?