Brave new world
Fighting off bursts of fatigue brought on, no doubt, by six months of fretting, worrying and all of manner of burning energy best used elsewhere, I managed to brave the new world today all by myself for the first time and I went to the grocery store.
I’m not feeling particularly confident or comfortable yet – it’s too soon, too soon – but the yawning gaps that are my allotted shelves in pantry and fridge respectively are quite adamant that I do something about them. So I do.
Generally I like going to the grocery store in foreign countries. It’s an edible snapshot of the culture: in Toronto, it’s frozen green Thai curries and pizza pockets as far as the eye can see, while here it is piles of tropical fruit, row upon row of spices, and a tragically familiar stack of Count Chocula.
Except it’s not called Count Chocula. I’ll have to make a note of the Spanish name next time.
I start off well: I pick up fresh avocado, two lovely mangos, carrots, bell peppers, garlic. I grab a bag of muslix and a container of yoghurt. Bread, cheese. Chicken breast. Not entirely sure what I’m making for dinner out of this motley crew but my cart is filling up nicely.
I’m getting a bit cocky now. When I see an aisle full of pop and juice, I get all worldly and sage-like: ah yes, thinks I knowingly, I should probably pick up something to drink while I’m here. Hepatitis in the water, you see. Everything must be bottled.
There are a LOT to choose from – it’s exciting. I spend a few moments jubilantly deciding between the fruity looking red drink in my left hand and the sporty looking blue drink in my right hand. I’m a little bit put off by the fact that neither one is telling me what flavour it is with a jaunty dancing strawberry or whatnot on the label, but nothing’s that easy in life. Eventually I decide on the fruity looking red one.
I’m just about to leave when I spot the Pine Sol. For a second I think, “wait, why are they selling Pine Sol in the juice aisle?” Then I realize there IS a jaunty label on my bottle of fruity red drink… of a mop.
Three aisles over, I pick up a bottle of Coca Light (Diet Coke).
I’m not feeling particularly confident or comfortable yet – it’s too soon, too soon – but the yawning gaps that are my allotted shelves in pantry and fridge respectively are quite adamant that I do something about them. So I do.
Generally I like going to the grocery store in foreign countries. It’s an edible snapshot of the culture: in Toronto, it’s frozen green Thai curries and pizza pockets as far as the eye can see, while here it is piles of tropical fruit, row upon row of spices, and a tragically familiar stack of Count Chocula.
Except it’s not called Count Chocula. I’ll have to make a note of the Spanish name next time.
I start off well: I pick up fresh avocado, two lovely mangos, carrots, bell peppers, garlic. I grab a bag of muslix and a container of yoghurt. Bread, cheese. Chicken breast. Not entirely sure what I’m making for dinner out of this motley crew but my cart is filling up nicely.
I’m getting a bit cocky now. When I see an aisle full of pop and juice, I get all worldly and sage-like: ah yes, thinks I knowingly, I should probably pick up something to drink while I’m here. Hepatitis in the water, you see. Everything must be bottled.
There are a LOT to choose from – it’s exciting. I spend a few moments jubilantly deciding between the fruity looking red drink in my left hand and the sporty looking blue drink in my right hand. I’m a little bit put off by the fact that neither one is telling me what flavour it is with a jaunty dancing strawberry or whatnot on the label, but nothing’s that easy in life. Eventually I decide on the fruity looking red one.
I’m just about to leave when I spot the Pine Sol. For a second I think, “wait, why are they selling Pine Sol in the juice aisle?” Then I realize there IS a jaunty label on my bottle of fruity red drink… of a mop.
Three aisles over, I pick up a bottle of Coca Light (Diet Coke).
Comments
Wow!
Good for you.