Call of the Mall: The Author of Why We Buy on the Geography of Shoppingby Paco Underhill
Paco Underhill, the Margaret Mead of shopping and author of the huge/i>/i>
The author of the international bestseller Why We Buy—praised by The New York Times as “a book that gives this underrated skill the respect it deserves”—now takes us to the mall, a place every American has experienced and has an opinion about.
Paco Underhill, the Margaret Mead of shopping and author of the huge international bestseller Why We Buy, now takes us to the mall, a place every American has experienced and has an opinion about. The result is a bright, ironic, funny, and shrewd portrait of the mall—America’s gift to personal consumption, its most powerful icon of global commercial muscle, the once new and now aging national town square, the place where we convene in our leisure time.
It’s about the shopping mall as an exemplar of our commercial and social culture, the place where our young people have their first taste of social freedom and where the rest of us compare notes. Call of the Mall examines how we use the mall, what it means, why it works when it does, and why it sometimes doesn’t.
Retail anthropologist and consumer behavior specialist Paco Underhill has spent much time in the malls of America, Asia and Europe. He has returned from the enclosed shopping environments of the world with many discoveries about the ways consumers spend their money in these retail behemoths. As someone who studies the details of retailing, Underhill wrote Call of the Mall to shed new light on how malls, stores and parking lots are experienced by consumers.
Underhill writes that, at last count, there are 1,175 malls in the United States. A typical mall covers about 46 acres, including its parking lots. According to a poll from the 1970s in U.S. News and World Report, adult Americans spend more time at malls than anywhere except for home and work. Today, malls account for nearly 14 percent of all U.S. retailing (not counting cars or gasoline), and about $308 billion in annual sales.
'Big Wall With a Little Mouse Hole'
Recounting the history of retail architecture, Underhill bemoans the boxy look of most malls, and reminisces about a time when department stores bore impressive edifices. Now, he writes, most malls that look like a "big wall with a little mouse hole" do a dismal job of signaling us as to what goes on inside. Although Faneuil Hall in Boston and other urban malls can become beautiful landmarks, he explains, most are huge and unsightly.
Underhill also spends a chapter of Call of the Mall on the lowly mall parking lot, and while describing the difficulties he has had finding his car in them when they are crowded, he imparts many suggestions about better ways retailers and marketers can use a mall's parking lot to make more money. One tip: Have staffers park in front of the mall as a signal to morning shoppers that the mall is open, rather than park around back, leaving the lot vacant.
Today's malls, Underhill points out, have become suburban functional Main Streets, filled with the activities once consigned to small-town main streets, schoolhouses, community centers or village greens. Today, Boy Scouts, ballet schools, drama clubs, and roller hockey leagues are all using the space on the mall's ground floor to perform their activities.
Underhill also addresses the question "Are malls racist?" After briefly discussing the legal issues involved in mall access, he writes that "it seems clear that malls hope by limiting public transportation they can control who may enter and who may not." Underhill writes that "keeping the mall unattainable by public transportation goes a long way toward segregating it from anything even potentially scary."
In malls, Underhill explains, there is no weather to worry about and the pace is slower, but there is also no tradition of talking to or even helping strangers in a mall. He points out that even the maps within malls are not much help to those who are trying to find a particular store. He suggests that department stores might benefit by placing maps instead of directories inside their doorways. He even describes what a good store map would look like.
The Decompression Zone
Another observation Underhill makes about malls is that there is a decompression zone between the door of a mall and the mall's high-profile retailers. He points out that the stores between the mall's doors and the deeper interior of the mall are usually low-profile tenants, such as post offices, video game arcades, beauty parlors, and exercise equipment stores. He writes that this transition stage is one of the most critical things he and his researchers have learned about how shoppers move through retail environments. "Nothing too close to the door really registers," he writes. So, because of this transition zone, the best stores in the mall are never near the entrance.
Throughout Call of the Mall, Underhill recaps dialogue between himself and several other mall experts, including an executive with a major corporation that specializes in selling things to women shoppers, a 20-year-old shopper who walks Underhill through the process of buying jeans, and two adolescent girls who provide him with details of their mall shopping habits. While recounting their insights, contemplating their ideas, and tossing out a few researched statistics, Underhill presents numerous bits of advice for retailers and marketers that can put them more deeply in touch with the vast world of the mall.
Why We Like This Book
Although Call of the Mall reveals more anecdotal and personal insight than empirical data and statistical evidence, the ideas it covers add many new dimensions to familiar terrain. Underhill's conversational tone, clever wit and extensive experience make the knowledge of malls he imparts as informative as it is fun to read. Copyright © 2004 Soundview Executive Book Summaries
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Call of the MallThe Geography of Shopping by the Author of Why We Buy
By Paco Underhill
Simon & SchusterCopyright © 2004 YOBOW, INC.
All right reserved.
Chapter OneAmerica Shops
We're driving toward the mall.
I spend a lot of time in malls. Too much, I think. I daydream of life on a ranch out west where I'd go to Wal-Mart every two weeks for groceries, and that would be it for me and shopping.
It will never happen.
You are riding with a tall, bald, stuttering research wonk on the cusp of his fifty-third year. I am called a retail anthropologist, which makes me uncomfortable, especially around my colleagues still in academia who have many more degrees than I do. For whatever combination of reasons, I've spent my adult life studying people shopping. I watch how they move through stores and other commercial environments - restaurants, banks, fast-food joints, movie theaters, car dealerships, the post office, concert halls. Even in church, I study people. It is an odd skill, not one I would have sought. Yet I am good at it, and it pays the bills. I can't imagine not doing it.
I am definitely not a shopper. I don't own lots of stuff. When I do buy, in spite of whatever professional knowledge I have, I perform like an ordinary guy.
I own a research and consulting business called Envirosell. Wework with merchants, marketers, and retail bankers around the world. Our specialty is looking at the interaction between people and products, and people and spaces. We look at all the ways in which retailers, product manufacturers, bankers, restaurateurs, and commercial and other public spaces either meet (or fail to meet) their customers' needs. It is a niche business, but it's our niche. We've been doing it for almost twenty years.
Our home office is in a funky landmark building, a former hotel, in New York City, in the middle of what was the department store district at the turn of the nineteenth century. We have an old-fashioned manual elevator run by a guy named Billy. The company occupies the hotel's second-floor lobby. I sit in the old manager's office, which has a gas fireplace I have never used. My south-facing windows look out onto what was once a Lord & Taylor store. It's now a shop that sells fancy dishes. We also have offices in Milan, Sao Paolo, Mexico City, Tokyo, Moscow, and Istanbul.
We have done hundreds of research jobs in mall stores. There are only six states of the fifty where we haven't worked a mall (the Dakotas, Alaska, Montana, Wyoming, and Louisiana). I average 130 days a year away from home, nearly all of which are spent in retail settings. I have been inside about three hundred North American malls, and some in other countries - Canada, Argentina, Brazil, Mexico, the United Arab Emirates, Italy, France, Spain, Holland, Germany, Sweden, Finland, Britain, Norway, Portugal, Turkey, Australia, Japan, Korea, Malaysia, Hong Kong; the list goes on and on. If someone mentions a mall somewhere in the United States - the Galleria in Houston, say, or the Del Amo in L.A. - I can picture the place, whether I want to or not. There are more than one hundred American malls to which I could give you accurate driving directions off the top of my head. I don't know whether to be proud or ashamed.
Okay, look around.
We're getting close to the mall, but you'd never know it. There are no directional signs anywhere on this highway, as there might be if we were headed toward Disney World or New York City or some other destination. The mall itself isn't a looming, dominating presence, even on this flat suburban landscape. We're just about to pass the only marker, a smallish road sign directing us to our exit, but beyond that there's nothing to steer us toward the mall, no attempt to inspire an impulse purchase, no billboard aimed at the road-weary traveler with an hour or two to kill. A mall is a huge commercial entity, but it tends to appeal strictly to the local shopper, the one who is already familiar with it and what it has to offer.
It's our mall. Maybe you have a mall, too.
You see a lot of a community's life in its mall. Families especially tend not to be on display in very many public spaces nowadays. You can find people in places of worship, but they tend to be on their best behavior, and they're mostly just standing or sitting. Increasingly, cities are becoming the province of the rich, the childless, or the poor. I love cities. But America hasn't lived there for a long time. The retail arena is still the best place I know for seeing what people wear and eat and look like, how they interact with their parents and friends and lovers and kids. If you really want to observe entire middle-class multigenerational American families, you have to go to the mall.
It's also not a bad place to shop.
A French historian I like named Daniel Roche wrote a book called A History of Everyday Things. In it, he examines and reconstructs the lives not of kings, queens, and generals but of ordinary French people in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries - what they ate, what they wore, what they knew, and how they acquired what knowledge and possessions they had. In the spirit of Daniel Roche, this book is not about the official history of shopping malls and the tycoons who build and manage them. This is about malls, stores, and parking lots as experienced by us consumers.
Studying shopping provides the rhythm that governs my life - pack, leave home, fly somewhere, pick up a rental car, check into a hotel, then drive to a mall or store. For myself and my colleagues, it's a life of science and research, except instead of going to an excavation site in Peru, we end up at Tyson's Corner, a mall outside Washington, D.C. It's an unusual way to make a living, and an even odder way of experiencing and understanding a time and place.
On the other hand, I never run out of socks.
The job has become a habit. If I have two hours to kill before a flight out of Dallas, I'll visit the Irving Mall or Outdoor World on my way to the airport. I don't know what I expect to find; but like any research geek, I'm constantly on the lookout for something I haven't seen before - some innovation in digital signage, or a new sneaker style, or an interesting way to manage the line at the cash register. If I'm on vacation and get bored with the beach, I'll find the nearest mall and spend an afternoon there. It's not such a weird thing to do. If I said I enjoy a stroll along Madison Avenue in Manhattan, where Armani and Calvin and Donna Karan sit cheek by jowl, you'd understand. Doing it at the Beverly Center in Los Angeles or Bluewater outside London isn't so different.
I remember the first big research project my company landed, studying AT&T stores in two suburban Chicago malls. Back then it was just me and a few freelance researchers out in the field. Over a four-month period, we studied several incarnations of the same basic store, which meant I practically lived in those malls. I'd arrive at the telephone store and arrange the time-lapse cameras to watch how shoppers interacted with the merchandise and displays. The film cassettes had to be changed every two hours, so I couldn't stray too far, but unlike my researchers, I didn't have to remain inside the store. Moreover, I felt it was my responsibility not to appear in my own research footage. As a result, I spent many days roaming those malls - from ten a.m. to ten p.m. without a single productive thing to do except change film. I went into every store. I didn't buy much, but I saw a lot.
My fascination with stores is rooted in childhood. My father was a diplomat. As an offshore American raised in Third World nations and behind the Iron Curtain, my national identity was secondhand and based heavily on the Sears catalog. But to those around me, I was all-American. Sometimes I paid the price, like when I was beaten up on the street in Warsaw after the Bay of Pigs in 1961, or when rocks were thrown at our car in Seoul. When the kids in the British Army School I attended in Malaya chose sides for playground games, it often wound up as the few Americans against the rest of the world.
Still, to me America was always a far-off, mystical place, familiar yet completely exotic and fascinating. I wanted to feel connected to it, even long distance. When we'd return briefly to the States, I'd look at what the other kids were wearing, or playing with, or watching on TV, and realize how hopelessly out of it I was. It was painful to ask my grandmother to send me rock records, knowing that what she'd get would be awful, given her preference for Lawrence Welk. In Kuala Lumpur in 1963 there was no American Bandstand on TV, no T-shirts or lunch boxes. I was in cultural exile. My friend Steve was a little older than I and listened to a radio station he picked up from Bangkok. Thanks to him I knew that the Beatles existed, but that was about it.
Even today, that early cultural deprivation haunts my life. I am no good at the board game Trivial Pursuit, having missed too many cultural references from the 1960s and 1970s. I've had friends try to explain to me what was so hilarious about Rocky and Bullwinkle, or who the Waltons were, and why girls who favor Laura Ashley always liked Little House on the Prairie. I still don't get it.
Having gone from life abroad to living in downtown Manhattan, the shopping center was still an exotic locale, something I'd heard about but had little real exposure to. It's where, for the first time, I felt completely swallowed up inside white-bread middlebrow median-income America. It wasn't bad at all. I suddenly understood those 1980s emigres from the Soviet Union who would come to this country and cry tears of joy over the splendor they found in the produce aisle of an average supermarket. At last I found what seemed to be the real America, and it was out shopping.
The morning of September 11, 2001, I was stranded in Dallas, unable to get home, which is a twenty-minute walk from what was the World Trade Center. On September 12 I spent the day wandering around the new mall in Plano, Texas. I just gravitated there. I needed to be around something familiar. It was the eeriest thing, though - a sparkling mall, in the middle of a beautiful September afternoon, with all the stores open and not a single shopper in the place. Around one-thirty I walked into a RadioShack and asked the clerk, "Am I the first person you've had in here today?"
"Yup," he said.
Strolling around got too lonely, so I decided to see a movie. I was just in time for Tortilla Soup. I was the only person in the theater. They screened it for me anyway. After the show I returned to my hotel, but I still had lots of time on my hands, so a few hours later I drove back to one of the mall's restaurants for dinner.
I was the only customer, but by the end of my meal the manager and the waiter had joined me at my table, and we three sat around drinking and talking, just the same as many people across the United States did that night. It felt all right to be doing it in a mall.
As I said before, I've devoted a lot of my life to malls, and in a few minutes we'll begin spending another Saturday in a typical one. We'll have lots of company.
Look up ahead - you still can't see it, but take my word, we're almost there.
Excerpted from Call of the Mall by Paco Underhill Copyright © 2004 by YOBOW, INC.. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Meet the Author
Paco Underhill is the founder and CEO of Envirosell, Inc. His clients include Microsoft, McDonald's, adidas, and Estee Lauder. He is a regular contributor to The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times. He lives in New York City.
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Um someone else can be the manager. I just thought it was a good idea. Thanks for the offer though!! See ya around Johnna