I had some time to kill after lunch, and decided to check out a clothing store in downtown Boulder that I had seen multiple times, but had never gone into. Getting in was a little tricky; it was slightly uphill, over a threshold through an angled door about the size and style of an old-fashioned house door. The space was small and I was the only customer. The clothes were very expensive, artfully un-fashionable garments of hemp, linen and organic cotton in muted blues and neutrals—just my cup of tea, really. Racks were spaced fairly widely apart not, I suspect, out of any tender regard for accessibility, but in order to say, “We don’t need to cram a whole lot in here. At these prices we only have to sell one hand-crocheted linen ribbon tape sweater a day.” I could see three dressing room doors, all about 22″ wide.
I wandered about looking at things for a bit. Soon the sole saleslady, possibly the owner, came up to me, smiling slightly. “This building is very old,” she said, apropos of nothing. She seemed to be sharing a confidence.
“Hmmm,” I said, not really looking at her, not wanting to encourage her.
“It’s one of the oldest buildings in Boulder,” she continued. She nodded at the door. “That door is probably a hundred years old.”
“Hmmm,” I said again. She was not trying to apologize in some oblique fashion, I realised. Rather, she was forgiving me for the unvoiced evil thoughts she assumed I was thinking about her business.
I don’t know why people think that explaining is somehow going to help mitigate the fact that their businesses are inaccessible. Will an explanation will somehow make it all better?
Realizing that the inability to try anything on was undoubtedly saving me from an unwise fiscal decision, I left.