Voodoo Groceries

I was reading over at Emi's blog that she--a self-professed midget of sorts, in the way (I'm sure) that Swedish women tend to be midgets (i.e., somewhat under 6 feet)--had been asked by a stranger to help her reach something not-very-out-of-reach, and that this had filled her with an ecstatic vision of what life could be. Here's what has happened to me:

Paris, France: The very day that I finished my French course and was feeling like Edith Piaf except lumpy, tuneless and Canadian, I was buying groceries at my neighborhood Prix Unique. As I was passing over my francs, I distinctly heard the checkout lady say the word "Ver." A WORM? I thought, gingerly poking through the head of lettuce I'd just packed. "Non, non, madame La Lunatique, VER," she repeats. Yes, yes, a worm, there is a worm, I said out loud in English, shaking a package of cookies to see if I heard anyone in there. "VER," says the man in line behind me. "Vous etes Americaine?" "Non monsieur, je suis Canadienne." "Les Canadiens, pah!" spat the one man in France who hates Canadians. "VERS VERS VERS," chants the crowd, and I have visions of gleaming blades. The checkout lady then whips out two teeny tiny whiskey glasses and I'm wondering what act of horror she will celebrate and with whom and what my role will be in it all. "VERRES," she says slowly, as though dealing with an idiot (not too far off, really). Fur za dreenking. Dreenking. Gratis, weese 100 ff." It was days before I could go buy groceries again.

Paris, France (again): Prix Unique (again). An old woman in a fur coat who smells like the ghost of a 1950s refrigerator asks me if I know where the eyes are. The eyes? I say in French, aghast. The French, they'll eat anything. No, the EYES. The EYES??? No, the EYES. EYES. EYES. I point in the general direction of cow parts and scuttle off to the cookie section. On the stairs to our apartment I realize: Les ouefs, not les yeux. Eggs.

Santa Monica, California: "Voodoo Vons." The shadiest bazaar of low-end foodstuffs on the Westside. Anything can happen there. A 400-pound man with a shopping cart full of Double Stuff Oreos: "They're highly addictive," he confides. A Russian gentleman, bearded, in his 40s, attempts to pass off a West Virginia driver's license belonging to a sorority girl named "Melodie" as his own. "I have new life in America." Two slim Asian youths transform themselves in the checkout line--lipstick, eye makeup, wigs--while waiting for their lightbulbs and post-it notes to be rung through. Mesmerized, I forget to separate my milk and eggs from their drygoods and am berated by the mentally challenged bag boy for making the checkout girl cry: "First her cat dies, then she has to deal with people like you."

Culver City, California: I am met at the sliding doors of my local supermarket by an African American employee who is wearing one of those sitcom looks on her gorgeous face: "You can come in if you want, but there's a monkey got loose." And sure enough, there it is, stage right, hurling heads of garlic at everyone within five yards. It's wearing a cravat.

Okotoks, Alberta: An old man asks me to help him reach the Grape Nuts. I reach up. He tickles me and runs away.

Vancouver: BC: Overwaitea (seriously): Checkout man: "You look like Glenn Close." Me: "Oh." Him: "I hate Glenn Close."

Davis, California: I reach for the purple grapes. I look up. A silent group of men in plaid shirts is looking at me reproachfully. Being new to California and totally ignorant of their political/social setup, I have no idea that they're migrant workers protesting the use of pesticides that have debilitated their families. "Got a problem, ladies?" I scowl irritably and with uncharacteristic volume. My department head walks by and shoots me a look of scorn.

My mother sometimes wonders why I am quite content to stretch a package of soda crackers, some tunafish, and a bag of frozen carrots into three nutritious meals. I think it's kinda obvious. Beats shopping.