Shopping for Tomatoes

Market Parking

August 10, 2008
Lately, as I have been walking around Alessandria on my market shopping expeditions, I have begun to notice that I’m not paying attention to where I’m walking. In other words, I have been on automatic pilot. Kim and I were talking about this earlier today; how these winding streets that used to seem so complex and confusing no longer require intense concentration. We both have declared that pretty much, we could end up anywhere in the city and would find our way back home without much difficulty. We are now part of the crowd, moving in and out with destinations and short cuts in mind.
I enjoy being part of the crowd and intentionally inserted myself into one while shopping for vegetables today. I was at a rather large stand that has both inside and outside produce; selections are paid for inside where there are two cash registers. I’d stopped at this place because I wanted tomatoes and the selection had been poor at the place that I usually go—the Asian husband and wife team. They’ve always been very friendly and kind and I try to buy most produce from them. It’s pretty much out of my way but given my busy daily activity regime, I don’t mind. I really started being loyal to them one day after I’d been totally, rudely dismissed by shop personnel at a one of our neighborhood vegetable stands. I still don’t know what the problem was. Every time I shopped there, the checker wouldn’t have eye contact with me and would act like I had some type of visual communicable disease. The final straw was one day while making my purchase, instead of handing me my change (like she does with everyone else) she just put it down on the counter next to her requiring that I lean over the counter to retrieve it. WHEW! That was it! All the things I thought of saying in English I didn’t and the language barrier prevented me from confronting her or complaining to “management”. I just left angry and vowed to never return and give them anymore of our Euros. I’m sure that by now they’ve noticed that I haven’t returned and regret the loss of income as well as my friendly manner. Their loss.
So, given that I am always in need of tomatoes because I just can’t express how fabulously wonderful they are here, I stopped at this new market. One of the things they have here are these little plastic gloves that we are supposed to use to pick through the fruits and vegetables. Once, in another store I was chided for not using one; I don’t like them because I become about 15 degrees hotter twenty seconds after I have put one on. I’m always taking it off and on… Today, an older woman who was also by the tomatoes reached to the ground and picked up a normal plastic produce bag that was lying there. She began using it and suddenly began speaking to me in rapid Italian. I think she was apologizing for using it but had no desire to go pull one off of the rolls. I just smiled at this lean woman in her little house dress with almost no teeth; the ones remaining were but stubs. As she kept speaking, I inserted that “Non parlo Italiano; sono Americana”, and she smiled even wider grabbed my hands, leaned into me and began talking even more. She began telling me about her parents, that her father was some type of musician or conductor and that he’d travelled all over the world including something important about Buenos Aires; her mother, sadly, she seemed to say, had done nothing. It was apparent that she was still greatly missing her father and she reminded me of my mother and her deeper love for her father. This woman would not let my hand go and so, in my mind I remembered that I really was in no hurry so I just let her talk as I smiled and said, “Si, si” every now and again. After awhile, however, it was time for me to let her know “piacere” (pleasure to meet you) so that I could begin my moving away attempts. She gripped a little harder, said a few more lines, letting me go as I headed inside to pay for my tomatoes and see what other fruit or produce I just must have.
A long quarter sized piece of watermelon (quite popular and in great abundance here) caught my eye and with that it was time to head to the checkout counter. Already the line was long and I’d guess there were 25 people in front of me. Again I reminded myself, I do not need to be in a hurry—I thought this because of my sometimes American reflexive way of putting things back and just leaving to try again at a later date and time. I chose a place in line—there were three lines that would eventually, up ahead, somehow turn into two. Hmmm; an interesting challenge I thought; I’m not going anywhere. Before I knew it, another older woman got behind me and began talking quite rapidly. I realized that she was initially talking to me and telling me to move to another line; I held my ground. My reward was that she kept hitting my butt with her shopping basket and loudly complained to others that the lines were so slow. Some agreed with her and shook their heads conspiratorially and others just ignored her (as did I except for the constant jabbing). Then, the din in line got even louder and it became apparent that one of the checkout registers wasn’t working properly and that was part of the slow down. In Italy, it is a rule that they must always issue a receipt for any purchase and so this is a serious situation. “My side” of the line still was on the workable side and yet the woman behind me kept trying to push me out of the way to the other, “non-funzione” side. I just smiled, held my ground and decided to enjoy the moment and this experience—a luxury that I had but not others who clearly wanted to get home for the rest hours. The cashier of the broken register was beside herself in a panic, trying multiple rolls of cashier tapes; someone was saying, “Calme Senora, calme” and before I knew it, it was my turn to check out, an event that took about 30 seconds.
I left the market and headed home happy for my many human experiences and interactions; grateful for a time in life when I am not in a hurry and can stop and hold hands with someone I don’t even know.