Supermercado Numero Uno

The supermercado in this town is a trip. I love it.

The store is no bigger than a convenience store at home, but don't let the size fool you. There's lots going on inside- always a real hive of activity. There is a horse pasture to the right of the building fenced off with barbed wire. This pasture was a parking lot last time we were here. The front of the store is so cluttered you must negotiate through precariously leaning towers of beer bottles and huge racks holding gallons of purified water.

Now that you've entered the store you give yourself a minute to let your eyes adjust to the dimness. You make a b-line straight for the produce section in the far corner. Here you find large wooden bins holding red onions, pineapples, limes, key limes if you're lucky, papayas, long root things covered in dirt that you decide must be cassava, softball sized avocados, potatoes, cubanell and bell peppers, fat carrots that you never buy because you prefer skinny carrots, and eggplants that you always buy because they're the best eggplants you've ever tasted. You make your selections and place them on another counter nearby. You know better than to present the produce at the checkout. You've learned this much.

You pick out a cold beer to buy. Anything cold is a luxury, but especially a cold beer.

Then, you scout the rest of the store. You head straight for the non perishables. Here you find a cat taking a nap inside the box of dry beans sitting on the floor. You notice the array of colorful labels on products and think about Andy Warhol. There are brand names like Don Rodrigo and Ranchero. Occasionally during these forays into the store's innards you emerge holding a prize like balsamic vinegar or some other exotic product that you did not expect to find. On those days you are thankful for the expat community here.

It's time to start the process of waiting in line to pay. You find a place near the counter and stand patiently. Your daughter asks you who the man on the calendar behind the counter is. You tell her it's Jesus. She asks you what he's doing with his hands. You tell her he's making a mudra with his hands like Buddha does. She gets that.

You begin to feel impatient. You look at the design of the store. You re-design the store in your head making it more streamlined and efficient. Then you berate yourself for always thinking like an American. You wonder how long it would take living in a foreign country to ever shake that mind set. You think it would probably take a long time, and even then there would still be vestiges.

You look around at the products for sale at the counter. There are single maxi-pads for sale behind the counter. Sadness fills your heart for the women and girls who can only afford enough pesos to buy one pad, and you imagine their shame at having to ask for it behind the counter from these macho guys who work here. You remember how when you worked at the book store the bibles were always closest to the counter because they were the most likely book to be stolen. You imagine that's the same thing with these pads. Your heart aches for that kind of desperation. You notice the name brand of the pads is "Nosotras" (the feminine form of "us") and you think about what a lie that is, so seemingly all inclusive, and you begin imagining the fat cats in the marketing board room who named it that. Most certainly they were men. You start thinking about all of the corporations who are ruling people's lives, and you get angry at the world's endless injustices.

You've been waiting here for a really long time. You become concerned about the fleeting coldness of your beer.

You listen to the slang Spanish whizzing past your ears with it's strange sounding cadences, and you wonder where a good place to go to Spanish immersion school again would be. You think Ecuador because the Spanish there is beautiful and so easy to understand. Ecuador was the place you had your first dream in Spanish. That seems like a sign.

Your child wants to ride your hip like a baby, which causes any new person who walks into the store who sees this white woman holding a black child to pause and consider this strangeness. Your daughter grips your neck tightly, and you are thankful that she does. You remember when she was a baby how she never held on, and how you walked around with a ready self defense against those who might accuse you of having kidnapped her.

There's another white couple in the store now. The guys who work here are oogling the blonde headed baby. So that's what's taking so long. You wonder what nationality the blonde family is- you haven't heard them speak. You go through a list of all of the possibilities then admonish yourself for thinking in such stereotypical ways.You get into an argument with yourself about how one would go about determining someone's national identity without using stereotypes. The dad of the family is wearing a Ramone's shirt. You imagine randomly saying to him, "Gabba Gabba Hey" in order to illicit a response that would tell his language and therefore his nationality. Then it hits you: your bangs are like Joey Ramone's. You promise yourself to pin them back with a barrette as soon as you get home.

Now things are starting to move in line. It's your turn. Each transaction requires the work of four men:

One man is over where you left your produce sitting. His job is to weigh it all and call out the weights. One man punches the numbers into a calculator and takes the money.

One man's sole responsibility is to give the customer change from the drawer.

The other man puts your purchases into a bag. Sometimes he forgets to put all of your things into your bag. You watch for this remembering your missing package of crackers last time.

You leave the store. You put down your dark sunglasses which have become a crucial tool in ignoring the stares of passerbys who can't help but notice that your family doesn't match. You walk out into the noise of the busy, motorcycle filled street. You notice an old woman sitting in the shade across the street who is staring at you. You tip your head ever so slightly in a greeting in her direction. You think about what her life must be like, you try to imagine how she sees the world when she looks out through those incredibly wise eyes of hers, and you wonder about what kinds of head trips she gets on. You consider how this old woman would react to your local supermarket experience at home- would she be fascinated or would it be old hat? Has she maintained throughout her life a wonder at the weirdness of it all? Will you?