The market had used clothes piled so densely it was difficult to browse through them. Vendors, mostly ajummas, idled by their goods, chit-chatting through the mothball fumes, peeling chestnuts, or otherwise passing time. No pressure peddling here. I found a stall stocked mostly with men's clothes, manned by an ajoshi. As usual, I pointed, shrugged, and used facial expressions to communicate. The old man eyeballed me briefly and in seconds pulled from a wall of clothes a jacket that fit me. He then repeated this trick with a pair of jeans. An extra-large pair of jeans was strung up as a divider and I changed amidst the piles. After haggling and completing the transaction, he handed me his business card. My denim guy has a calling card featuring Snow White and the Seven Dwarves.