Shawn Assignment # 9

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Grocery Shopping: A Step In the Direction of Adulthood

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I very rarely have the need to go grocery shopping in my everyday life. Before I went to UW my dad did all the shopping. Occasionally I went with him, but I was never in charge of planning what we needed to buy. I only have a vague idea of what different items should cost, and am generally appalled at the prices. Whenever I felt the urge to cook and/or bake, I found a recipe and gave my dad a list of the ingredients. He figured out what we had and what he needed to buy. Despite my clear lack of involvement in the process, I was always ridiculously proud of myself when I did manage to make dinner (which was an extremely uncommon occurrence, I assure you). Only now do I realize how little time and energy I saved my parents, especially since I washed the dishes even less than I went grocery shopping.

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Then I moved out of my house to a UW dormitory, where my cooking frequency promptly decreased to zero. At the dorms there were no convenient cooking accommodations, and I was forced, like every other dorm resident, to get a food plan. So it would have been economically inefficient for me to buy groceries since I had pre-made meals at my disposal, and if I didn't spend the food plan money on them it would be money down the drain. Now, two years later I am thoroughly sick of HFS food, and I cannot wait to move to my own apartment with a kitchen. And that means I must learn to shop. Although, my dad has already offered to do all my shopping for me and then make the hour drive up to Seattle. While tempted by his offer, I think I prefer to grow up a little, and plan my own meals.

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I preface my Italian shopping experiences with this description of my abilities to emphasize just exactly how little experience I have. If I can barely function in an American store where every item's price and place is clearly defined, what will I be like where I must bargain? Italy will be my testing ground. I will learn to plan, buy, and cook my own meals. Otherwise, I will go broke; it's just too expensive to go out for every meal. Necessity is the mother of invention.

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Cinque Terre:

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My first attempt did not go well.

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I wanted two peaches for breakfast. The night before I shared a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine with an environmental consultant from Texas I had met that same day, and he had done the buying. I was hungry, and had not had any fruit or vegetables in about five days. My hostel is located at the bottom of a giant hill, next to the entrance of a long winding tunnel that leads to the train. I step out and immediately see fresh produce piled in boxes, displayed in front of each small grocery store--grapes, bananas, peaches, oranges...nothing too exotic. I can see three within 100 feet of each other. No display tugs at me so much that I prefer one over the other, and I walk into the closest. I mill around the cramped space a bit before I go back outside and choose two peaches, not completely ripe. I walk back inside and take a closer look at what they are offering. I can't read a lot of the packaging, but I can see cereal, bread, milk, juice, jars of pesto, olives, and other mysterious sauces and condiments--all the usual suspects. At least a fourth of the store is devoted to wine. I am second in line and am under the impression I will eating my breakfast within five minutes. But the woman at the counter chats amicably with her customer, although I am clearly waiting.

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At first I don't mind, and I use the time to take a closer look at my surroundings. I can see an older woman in the back taking inventory out of the storeroom; she looks like the mother of the woman at the cash machine, who is about 25 or 30 years old. A family business. I haven't been in a small family-owned grocery store in years. My family shops at the PX. I look at the more unusual foods in the clear display case by the check out. I see hunks of meat, chopped red fruit, gooey black 1 inch balls... The cashier reaches in and grabs one of the chunks of meat and carries it to the slicer behind her. She starts to slice the meat and looks up questioningly as her customer, who nods in confirmation. The slices are weighed. The customer shakes her head. The cashier goes back. More is sliced. Yes, that is enough. Then it is leisurely wrapped up. It has been about 10 minutes. The woman asks another question I cannot understand. More talking. More food is brought out. I feel like this woman came into the store, went straight to the counter, and asked for each individual item be brought to her personally by the cashier.

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A sigh escapes my lips. A total of twenty minutes goes by before I get my turn. I put the peaches on the counter. They are weighed. She tells me the price; it is under a euro. I apologetically hand her a 10 euro bill, the smallest bill the cash machine has spit out at me. A stern look comes over her face, and she shakes her head.

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"Exact change only."

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I shrug and tell her this is all I have. She grabs the peaches from the counter and points me out the door. I stand stunned for a few seconds before I leave in a daze. I am shocked. After a few seconds standing helplessly outside of the store, I start walking up the cobble stone street, hopefully to a more friendly part of town. Eventually, I rally myself for another go, and I do find someone willing to accept my large bills.

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This is the first of many encounters with the Italian attitude of customer service. In the US, the customer is always right. In Italy, the customer must in no way offend or question the proprietor or they may be kicked out. As someone who has been both a waitress and a customer, I think I prefer a blending of the two.

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Campo di Fiori:

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Once I and my seven roommates were settled in our apartment, the next step was to stock ourselves with basic kitchen supplies. Located in the actual square of the Campo, the apartment overlooked the market that seemed to appear every morning. It stayed until late afternoon, when the stalls were taken down and packed up. Every morning I could here the clank of metal as the stalls were set up. We had everyone living in the apartment donate an equal amount of money to buy items that everyone would use like oil, pasta, salt, butter... These items were procured in a local grocery store called Punto. I mainly shopped in this grocery store because I was often not up in time to take advantage of the daily market in the campo, and I was also very intimidated by the intimate nature of shopping in the Campo. You had to talk directly with the stall owner and then decide on a price. Since I don't know what I bought should actually cost I felt a little overwhelmed. By the end of the trip I had more confidence. But in the beginning even the relatively large grocery store had its challenges.

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Living up five flights of stairs, I wondered exactly how much I should buy in one trip. I would have to carry the groceries up by myself, so quantity definitely factored into my shopping decisions. Correction: it did after the first time. This led me to ponder how different things were in Italy. In the US, people drive cars to the store. They go in and push around a cart which they use to move around large amounts of groceries. Then they go to check out, someone bags the groceries for them and then wheel them out to the car where they have the option of having someone else load the bags in to their car. This is not the Italian way.

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Here, groceries are bought on a need-to-get basis. In many cases you can't just drive up to the grocery store, if you even own a car at all. Instead, you walk to a local store, buy what you need, and cart it back home yourself. This changes your whole shopping outlook. Instead of asking "What do I need for the next two weeks?" you ask "What do I want for dinner tonight?" This attitude definitely encourages the use of fresher food, and cuts down on wasteful expenditures on gas, and increases physical activity. It's a generally healthier way to live, and I got very excited about it until the moment I realized how little my sedentary lifestyle had prepared me for all this carrying. But still, what a better place to start than Rome?

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My first trip to Punto was humbling. I didn't go with a list, and I was both starving and parched. I walked in with Michelle, picked up a green cart with wheels and a handle, and went off down the aisles. Our first hurdle was the shopping cart. It was small, and we couldn't figure out to wheel it around so we moved it by lifting. Then we say the small child in front of us using it properly and we copied her. However, by doing this we opened the door to buying more than we could comfortable carry. The first aisle was wine and other alcohol, but mostly wine. I stared at it for a while before giving up and getting nothing. Too many choices. After ambling around the store and picking up some vegetables, milk, juice, and other random items that caught our fancy, we spotted a downstairs. There was no elevator so we picked up our carts to go down the stairs and realized how heavy they were. I decided I was satisfied with what I had and we went to the check-out.

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The cashier was disinterested. He morosely scanned our items and slid them down the counter. I rushed to bag what I had bought, stuffing everything indiscriminately into the plastic. I lifted them and walked slowly back toward the apartment. By the time I reached the door my arms were already tired and the blood had been cut off from my fingers. I shouldn't have bought so many things of juice. And still I had five flights of stairs to go.

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