Horse with No Name on Shop: Not a Mall World after all

It took us a whole month in Arizona to see the inside of one mall. Count them: One. Singular. Uno.

It wasn't that I'd become a shopping celibate since we moved here. Quite the opposite, actually: Since we landed in Arizona last November, my husband and I have, very possibly, revived the American economy - by shopping online 24/7. (Hooray for free shipping!)



You see, the reason we physically covered just one mall in over a month is because there is only one major shopping centre around here for miles and miles around.

And by shopping center, I mean, a multi-storey building housing at least one department stores or smaller shops and/or a food court – much like what we're used to in Singapore.

Now, we don't exactly live in the boondocks. I don't walk out the door and see cows and sheep or acres of farmland. But suffice to say, we're in a pretty newly developed neck of suburban southwest Arizona. Much of the view surrounding the neatly landscaped, brown-colored housing here is matching dry, brown desert, followed by more dusty, dry, brown desert. You get the idea.

Being a city girl at heart, I'm used to having all my amenities within walking distance, no matter where in the world I travel. So it was a huge shock to my system to have to (gasp) drive ten minutes to the nearest grocery store just to pick up a quart of milk.

But the very Singaporean concept of a “one-stop shop” seems pretty foreign around these parts. Most of the so-called shopping centers here are actually a handful of single-storey standalone stores clustered in large compounds.


A handful of standalone stores are what make up a shopping centre in this neck of the woods.

Sure, there are places like Target and Walmart, where you can buy groceries and sundries under one roof. But it's not quite the same thing as the full-blown Orchard Road shopping mall experience.


The upside of standalone stores? Awesome variety.

So after a month of mall withdrawal, we said, enough, and hastily googled the nearest one we could find. It was 12.8 miles away – technically a 20-minute drive. No worries. That's like a trip from Punggol to Marine Parade, right? Wrong. Especially if, as neighborhood newbies, you forego the high stress of highway driving for arterial roads, which effectively double your travel time.

But being unabashed mall rats, we sought out our elusive cheese. Hungrily. Not rain, nor hail, nor road works, nor screaming children on a 40-minute car-ride were going to deny us our shopping fix.

Boy, were we in for a surprise...

Mauled mall

I was always under the impression – thanks to too much American television – that a mall experience here would be the shopping equivalent of finding the holy grail: shiny, uplifting, with a choir of angels singing in the background as I walked through the sliding doors.

This mall was, indeed, an artifact of sorts – dusty, dark, and looking as if it had been buried underground and forgotten by humans for a good long while.

Nonetheless, the older kid, Sweetpea, needed furniture, so we gamely trawled each and every department store we came to. Two hours and many unstable, slightly unhinged, and rattly bedframes later, we decided the place just wasn't for us.

Deflated, but undefeated, we returned home to google a new destination – it was 32 miles away.



It began to to dawn on me why America is the birthplace of online shopping. When you have to jump in the car and drive three miles just to buy a quart of milk, sitting in front of the computer and getting stuff to come to you is plainly a whole lot easier.

Even Sweetpea, who's six years old, cottoned on to that fact early on, when I fancied a long afternoon shop at the humongous craft superstore nearby. (And by nearby, I mean, a ten-minute drive and another twenty minutes spent hauling children in and out of the car).

“Can't you just order the stuff online, Mom? I'm tired. I don't want to go out,” she grumbles, eyes never leaving her computer game.

“No, it's not the same thing. I want to see exactly what I'm getting.”

“But it's just felt. And cloth. Why do you need to feel it? And the UPS guy will bring it here tomorrow if you order it now.”

“But...”

“He brings stuff everyday for Daddy. He can bring your stuff too. And Daddy says shipping is free on Amazon, right?”



That new black magic

Did I mention people go a little crazy shopping online when they arrive in the United States because of the free shipping?

Case in point: I am now on a first-name basis with the UPS delivery guy because my husband orders something from Amazon every other day.

I must confess, it is rather exciting to be getting so many packages in the mail, even if they aren't for me. But when does the lure of free shipping turn your brain to mush, and make you start adding everything in sight to your online cart?

Apparently, in a matter of minutes. I'm a fairly experienced online shopper back home in Singapore, but because of shipping costs from the United States, I tend to watch for sales so I can get everything I want at a single go. And Amazon, that coy mistress, requires such surreptitiousness – Vposts, American mailing addresses. It's almost a cloak-and-dagger affair trying to get a couple of books sent over to Singapore.

No such problem here. Shipping is free, remember? And so I spend a couple of hours happily clicking my family into debt until my husband rings, and I can literally hear his eyes bug out over the phone at my shopping list.

“(Tense pause) OK, I see your point about your super extra-special nursing bras. Everyone needs underwear. But do we really need organic crib sheets? Can't the baby sleep on regular sheets?”

“But she has eczema! You don't want your baby to be scarred for life, do you? Plus I'm getting the mid-range ones. It won't cost a thing! Free shipping, remember?”

“Ok, fine. But I draw the line at the organic diapers.”

Oh poo.