Just a 12 minute walk from our apartment, 25 minutes if I take the bike path winding through the forest, past the wetlands and along the creek, is Megamart, the Latino "supermercado del pueblo" serving the most international community I've ever lived in. Some mornings I head up there shortly after they open at 7:00 am while the air is still somewhat fresh and the day is still full of possibilities. Sometimes I actually need something, maybe a few bell peppers or a bunch of cilantro for a recipe, but just as often I go simply to return to a world I left behind and still miss.
Today was delivery day and the crew was busy unloading pallets from the large truck parked alongside the market. There doesn't seem to be much of a warehouse at the back of the store, so all stock is brought into the market and non-perishables are stacked out of reach on high shelves lining each aisle. A young man, Guatemalan if I had to guess, balances near the top of a ladder up close to the ceiling. His coworker on the floor grabs a box from a stack and tosses it up where ladder guy snatches it, pivots, and stacks it in unspoken, perfect synchronization. I pause to watch and try not to disturb their rhythm. It helps that the market, as every supermercado I've ever shopped in, is playing Latin music at clear volume. Not that whispery instrumental version of decades-old hits heard in other grocery stores, this is a mix of cumbia, ranchera, bachata, merengue, and boleros pouring out their hearts for lost love. The music sets the mood and beat not only for the shoppers, but also for the stockers moving the boxes in a choreographed bucket line from parking lot to shelves. Employees call out in Spanish, getting their work done while laughing and teasing each other. I wish I could catch more of it, but they speak too fast for me and my ear has gotten rusty over the two years in Virginia. The store has more staff than customers at this hour and they're free to let loose a bit. It's infectious and I find myself smiling and moving to the music. I stroll through aisles of familiar brands of caldo de pollo or res, a wall of Badia brand spices, packets of horchata mix, and jewel-colored bottles of Fabuloso whose heavy perfumy scents bring me immediately back to living in Colombia, Mexico, and El Salvador.
At the pastry case, I stop to consider a flaky pineapple-filled turnover. Or maybe a pan dulce with brown or pink sugar frosting? These can be lovely when freshly baked but also disappointingly dry shortly thereafter. I resist temptation and move on. I'm balancing two mangos and a nectarine in the crook of one arm and a pack of six mini-flans in the other. A passing staff member hands me a basket with a smile, reading my mind.
I didn't need much today, just the fruit for breakfast. The flan was an impulse buy, as often happens. I head to the register and greet the young woman checker with a buenos dias. I'm pleased when she responds in Spanish, asking me if I need a bag.
"Necesita bolsa?"
"No gracias, ya tengo una" I respond and hand her my reusable bag.
It feels good to be back in this environment with the energy, laughter, music, and a smile from a stranger. It's in contrast with the homogenous chain stores where I do the bulk of my shopping, ringing up and bagging my own purchases without a word to anyone, using our loyalty points to reduce the prices. But I recognize that being in Megamart is just a happy oasis and doesn't tell the whole story. At the register I read a sign taped to a small cardboard box next to the machine where I tap my credit card. It's a request in Spanish for donations for a young man with no insurance who was just diagnosed with kidney disease. I look at the photocopied picture of him waving from his hospital bed and fold a dollar into the slot on the top of the box. There's always a box like this at the register. Each week, a different box it seems. Sometimes the plea is to help repatriate the body of someone back to their family in a village in Honduras or El Salvador. The handwritten stories spell out the realities behind the smiles of the lives of the other shoppers. They speak to - and of - an audience who understands these difficulties and has an engrained sense of helping their community. Beside me in the front corner of the store, a few customers wait their turn to send money home at the MoneyGram window. A young woman wipes out a glass case that later she'll fill with freshly made grab-and-go $5 lunches. Three types of pupusas to choose from with curtido and salsa, tamales wrapped in banana leaves, and sometimes, hot yuca fries. Perfect to take to a job site where lunch will be eaten balanced on a knee while sitting (hopefully) under a shade tree or in an air-conditioned work truck.
I thank the checker, wish her "que le vaya bien," and leave the store. The heat is already starting to radiate off the paved parking lot, making me squint and pull my sunglasses out of my bag for the walk home. Back in my apartment, out of habit I turn on a news broadcast. Trade and tariff wars, ceasefires made then broken, alliances realigned, numbers of migrants rounded up, deportations to countries nowhere near home. I sigh in resignation as it all comes back.
(Note: Normally, I use my own photographs in this blog. These images, however, I found online from a Columbia Pike documentary project. It didn't feel right or like even a slightly good idea to go into the Megamart as the only non-Hispanic person and photograph the store and its customers.)
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