As is not uncommon, today I was reluctant to spend the entire day reading spy novels at home. And given that I have self-consciously paid visits to either the semi-deserted beaches of the Atlantic coast, the swimming pool, or a banya on every other day in the last month, not counting those when I have been indoors in Westchester, I decided for better or for worse to avoid the usual water activities today and venture into Manhattan. A change of policy. Somehow I had forgotten that by process of elimination that meant treading concrete on unsanitarily crowded streets, which as I now remember leaves plenty to be desired.
I arrived then at West 4th St. & 6th Ave. Where else does one go in Manhattan? Given my natural tendency in that area to be pulled gravitationally towards NYU-land, and my incontrovertable proclivity for finding my way to the gym and then the subway once there, I found myself self-consciously looking for a creative way out of this unusual set of predicaments. To cross to the west side of 6th avenue might avert my pull towards NYU, I calculated, and thus extend my sojourn in the big apple. But crossing the street would have eventually led to my eating two hot dogs and drink at Papaya Grey’s, feeling nasty, and going home… not an acceptable resolution of the problem, or so I rationalized. Thus I quickly countered my well-learned instincts, and ventured up to Union Square. Arriving there, I realized that it wasn’t a natural law of gravity which generally pulled me towards NYU, but rather my aversion for the overpopulation of Union Square at any but the most wintry of months.
At this point, so far as I could see, I faced two options: return to Brooklyn on the subway, or force myself, against my better perfectly understandable instincts, to continue to break my usual taboos… to continue the fight for justice. The thought of returning to Brooklyn made me all the more self-conscious of my general lack of initiative. I imagined what I would say to an imaginary companion, if I had not been alone, to justify my aborted trip to the big city. One should confront one’s fears and make them one’s own, I decided. I had better hurry away before the lure of the subway entrance beckons too heavily, I thought. So I began the short waddle to Trader Joe’s, my absolute worst nightmare.
Fortunately, Trader Joe’s is right next door to the NYU Palladium gym on 14th St, so it was with great self-conscious self-restraint and self-congratulation that I continued undeterred from my self-proclaimed mission past its doors. As I continued past Trader Joe’s Wine Shop, source of the only bottle of undrinkable wine I have ever tasted (recommended as one of the employees favorites), the muscles in my anus began to contract, and chili-covered papaya goose bumps broke out of my flesh. I was nearing the entrance to the main Trader Joe’s shop. Already my mind was preoccupied with images of “cinnamon flavored pumpernickel juice” and “cranberry avocado with horseradish zest”. The place is a mockery of a wholesome foods store, I comforted myself, as I clenched my teeth and entered the din. Mango chicken sausage… here we come!
To my relief, the store was inexplicably calm. Sure, there were the usual pseudo-European types in full hypnotic craze grabbing cranberry-pomegranate tapenade off the shelves with reckless abandon, but all things considered, I was able to turn corners around aisles with only a 52% probability of bumping into a pock-marked 30-something New England-type girl in Hawaiin shirt smiling manically while stacking organic blueberry pita chips on the already-overstuffed shelves. This was, all things being relative, a refuge full of peace and contentment.
Up and down the aisles, I traversed. Fruit? Why buy it there? The entire trip from my apartment to the subway is 2 blocks of fruit stands. Eggs? Can’t I get eggs in Brooklyn? Bread? It’s not even whole wheat. Frozen fish? I can buy fresh-caught fish and watch the Chinaman personally gut it near my apartment. Cereal? I don’t eat that crap. Jams? There’s hardly even any fruit in ‘em. Kefir? They don’t have it. Belgian beer? The one they carry is not from Belgium. Sliced meat? You must be kidding me. Mango chicken sausage? What am I doing here?
At a point of existential crisis, I decided that I had to buy something to justify my being there.
Then I remembered the chocolate covered ginger.
Trader Joe's Dark Chocolate Covered Ginger
And organic california-grown thompson seedless raisins, not mixed with any particle dusty low-quality nebraska forest-grown abortion roasted pine-nuts.
Trader Joe's Organic Thompson Seedless Raisins
The concept of the discarded yet repackaged ends of idiosyncratically cured reject fruit began to appeal to me.
Trader Joe's FiberFul Ends & Pieces
And who can resist dried fruit turkish smyrna figs? Smyrna! Not I!
Trader Joe's Dried Fruit Turkish Smyrna Figs
Many people become emotional at the mere mention of Trader Joe’s. A very short girl standing in an aisle, who at first I mistakenly took to be pre-pubescent, held up a large sign, “12 items or less”. Poor girl, I thought. As I nudged between her and an oncoming black woman with a cart full of a dozen organic creamy tomato soups (I eyed the contents of her cart with unaffected quizzical interest), to enter what I presumed to be the line, she spoke, “You entering the line?” in a very old woman’s voice. She was just short, so I answered, “Yeah”.
I refused to be a receptacle for their trademark Trader Joe’s doubled papered bags. The vain vision of myself lugging one of those through the rush-hour packed trains back home made my nipple shiver. Luckily I only had a few things to buy, so I requested environmentally preferable plastic. The cashier seemed very cooperative and calm. And within a few minutes I was rushing towards the subway back to Brooklyn, munching dark chocolate covered ginger the whole way.
I feel like a proud mama