An Ode to Public Shopping
Two weeks ago, in a rather subtle but nevertheless hurtful gesture, my mother decided she would discontinue our weekly grocery shop together and leave Jasmin and I to fend for ourselves. Although this is not a major issue in itself and we are pefectly capable of a self-sustaining existence, the repercussions are astounding (and spoken by a true toffee-nosed, rose-coloured student indeed). Of course, thousands of years ago, being ostracised from the hunting clan would have meant our imminent deaths - let’s face it, I’m not a good bargainer (or barterer) especially when it comes to disgruntled men with their monosyllabic tounges - and I can barely discern poision ivy from a tea tree branch. Disconcerted, Jasmin and I must now pledge to make a weekly 1.5 kilometre walk to the closest strip for overpriced ‘independent’ foodstuff rates and groceries from the Greek fruit shop who acknowledge my presence with a mere sniffle and a mild nudge to move out of their way, the potatoes need to be shelved where my knees stand.
We can’t help but feel the small community of Greek and Italian immigrants, whose traditions have influenced the very style in which the concrete is laid beneath our feet, must laugh themselves silly at our insatiable desire for the traditional bread at Luigi’s and mountainside oregano of the continental deli. I can just imagine it: each morning the faded awnings shelter excited feet and thin glass windows are the only barrier to sating our urging tastebuds from the fresh capsicum and garlic. We are far too stubborn to investigate the Aldi just a few blocks away. Instead, this evening we opted for a blight upon the joy of the weekly shop and braced ourselves for the merciless crowds of white-collared folk choking the isles of Coles. It is an experience that shall be remembered for ages to come.
I can’t explain the feeling of vulnerability that accompanies an open bag of groceries loafing (pun) listlessly (pun) by your side on the train ride home. I am unsure whether this feeling is held by the other impatient shoppers who complain that the working day was enough, why suffer the torment of a grocery cue? It is as though you hold dearly to your insecurities and expect to be judged on the contents of your shopping trolley, that eyes dart from trolley to trolley and sometimes a smirk appears at the fivefold bottle of orange juice by the young woman dressed for the gym or the young mother whose trolley is grossly overfilled with submission to the sugary whims of her children. Our shopping bag held a mere bag of oranges and apples with impulsively selected trinkets from the aisles we traversed desperately to escape and bravely we joined the ranks of yuppies with hang-dog expressions, flicking through tabloid magazines and passing acid glares to the ‘few-item’ members clogging the queue. We are amongst that group of few who sheepishly carry the necessities of our kitchen and cannot help but feel the keen eyes of commuters on the train, reflecting upon their daily duties.
This accompanying sentimentality (or is it better described as an obsessive compulsiveness for sacred personal space?) that leads us to guard our personas in public is greater than we think. We hide our PIN codes from wandering eyes at ATM’s, we keep our wallet as closed as possible when pulling out crinkled currency and shaking out dull nickel coins, lower our voices at the restaurant when the waitstaff have arrived and even refuse to air our utterances of love when another couple is behind us. Better yet, if we are trying to avoid a trickly situation with the law, we feign ignorance of the language of that country until such time we hear the word ‘inprisonment’ spoken far too many times.
It is a sad thought that the shopping experience has changed so dramatically over such a short period of time - mass production, cryogenics and express lanes have replaced the traditional groceries-off-the-truck method of delivery and it is becoming increasingly less about a personal endeavour and more about an obligation. Jasmin and I would spend part of our evening simply analysing the plethora of product on display, analysing and deconstructing the central and peripheral cognitive appeal of dodgy marketing tactics. So much in fact, we often forgot what it was exactly we began our shop to find.
I suppose in that way good old fashioned service - as it is commonly called - is made more sought after and valued by its scarcity. Suffice to say I dread the day when I will no longer be able to talk to the cashier and sympathise with those many hours on their feet. They are quite bewildered that a customer has the courtesy to speak to them and often reply with a faint smile while their arms continue swinging at an incredible rate to finish their task. Good service is hard to come by as I know well, and for the many years I worked as a waiter, I understand how much pressure there is on the job to deal with the direct rudeness and callousness of the public.
Sometimes good service is lacking simply because the public tend to place too high an expectation on the staff who are at their beck and call. Perhaps the public fail to give the respect to the waiters who serve in an honourable and chivalrous way despite numerous plate send-backs or perhaps, at the bitter core of it all, that minimum flat-rate wage of ten dollars and fifty cents an hour can be utterly painful when sacrifing your Sunday for the irascible corporate figureheads reaching the bottom of their third Corona Extra Dry with a slice of lemon.
Just a thought on the joys on the shopping experience. The Western culture has a lot to learn (or remember, I should say) about the power and thrill of their personal choice and just how demeaning it is to your ‘gatherer’ instincts to have too much convenience.
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