I have started this several times now and have gotten stuck on how to do a Portland blog. I haven’t traveled to any exotic places lately, or eaten wormy cheese. I am, instead, finding intrigue in the daily life of living back in the United States after being away for 18 months. These are the things that I think about, not the next grand adventure, and so I have to start a fresh blog that is completely different, but that is a big challenge. I know that it is rather commonplace to say that living overseas gives you a new perspective on life in your own country, but certain things are repeated because they are true. At the risk of sounding snobby, it is a little like climbing the Eiffel Tower. You think, “I don’t need to do that. Everyone who comes to Paris thinks they need to go up the tower. I’d rather spend the afternoon looking for the out-of-the-way spots than succumb to another tourist trap.” But, then, you give in and go up, and it is fantastic, and you think, “There is actually a reason why everyone goes up in the tower.” There are two age-old truths here: that you don’t appreciate something until you experience it for yourself and that many people have already discovered what, for you, is a new discovery. To that end, I have always scoffed at people who said that living abroad enlightened them with regard to American culture, and thought it sounded rather erudite. But, now I am experiencing it for myself, and it is enlightening, but also a little uncomfortable.
I think that there are certain things worth exploring about this transitional period and thought that, perhaps, that is the best theme for my Portland blog. I am approaching it as a sort of regular column with my musings on life in America as a 30-something living in Portland, Maine and figuring out what I miss about Italy and what I missed about the U.S. So, I have called in “New American Musings,” though that might not stick. I am open to other suggestions . . .
As I said, I have tried to start a Portland blog several times and gotten stuck because I have so many things zinging through my head about what it has been like to move back. So, I think that is the best first topic: the zinging itself and where it originates. Being a food-centric person, as well as one who is interested in the basic elements of a culture and how people function within it, I will begin with what it was like to go to an American grocery store for the first time upon my return. For contrast, you can read my story entitled, “Making Thai Curry in Sardegna,” about learning the ropes of the Italian grocery shopping experience. Now, I’ve got to learn the reverse.
We moved back to Maine in March and arrived before all of our belongings, which were coming via ship, plane, and truck both from San Diego, where we had stored things that we had long forgotten the identities of, and from Sardinia. With a kind of survival kit lovingly packed by Chad’s mom, we moved into our rented house in Portland in the middle of the month and waited for our stuff. We dined on a picnic table salvaged from the garage, using place mats as seats on the old benches, which would otherwise have left prints of old paint on our pants, and used our sets of two: two plates, two forks, two knives, two glasses, marveling at the simplicity of cooking with one pot and a frying pan. I have gotten ahead of myself a little bit, as none of this was possible without a trip to the grocery store. Portland has its local Hannaford store on the Back Cove, which was redone just as we were leaving Maine nearly five years ago and it is often ogled over for its selection of wonderful breads, fresh produce, and a myriad of ethnic foods. So, we were excited to check it out and buy some basic supplies to make our first dinner in our new place.
Without getting too bogged down in the details, I will summarize by saying that I made it through the store in a sort of wide-eyed daze that seemed a bit like what I imagine it might be like to experience a strong hallucinogenic drug. The store was a carnival of sensory experience with mounds of fresh produce from all over the world, self-serve stations filled with a dozen types of olives, and a deli case filled with meats of all sorts – ground, sliced, bone in or boneless, skin on or off, free range pent-up? or whatever you call its opposite, not to mention those that were marinated in one of three different sauces, skewered on kebabs or stuffed with a variety of goodies. My head was spinning before I even made it to the dry goods section. There, the canned tomatoes took up nearly half an aisle – stewed, diced, whole, peeled, crushed, organic, imported. . . “Who cares! I just want some damned tomatoes,” I thought. At this point, Chad began to see the glazed look on my face of a Sooz-turned-automaton just trying to hang on through the pin-ball machine of the store and out through the nearest escape hatch, having collected as many goods along the way while being battered back and forth by the innumerable choices.
In Sardinia, I was dying for the selection I had once had in the U.S., where I could buy Mexican, Thai, and Greek foods all at the same store in any variety and quantity I desired. But, now I wasn’t sure I could handle the variety. The biggest store in Palau, where I shopped, would fit in half of the produce section of this store. No wonder Americans are so stressed – one can only handle making so many decisions each day and most of them are used up before you run to the store at the end of the day to pick something up for dinner. What power can you possibly have left to navigate such a carnival.
In addition to the having been overwhelmed by this variety, I emerged, outside, at the end of it all, having never interacted with a single other human being. Not even a friendly checker, as we had avoided the day’s-end long lines and headed through the self check-out. Had I tried to purchase a bottle of wine, which requires an ID, I might have actually talked to another human, but I did not. Chad might even argue that I didn’t interact with him, as it was all I could do just to focus on surviving the shopping experience. We were able to do the self check-out because, despite the enormity of items available, we had successfully stuck to a short list of basic supplies in an effort to get out of there as quickly as possible. Even so, to get these same items back in Palau, I would have had to talk to at least four people – the butcher, the produce vendor, the cheese lady, and the checker. These were the people that, though my Italian was never perfect, always said hello and helped me to find what I needed. Here, I thought, back in my own culture, where I am perfectly equipped to have conversations with anyone I please and can intelligently discuss complicated issues without having to come up with hand gestures to help me in my explanations, I had not a single interaction in my whole shopping experience! What is wrong here! Have we modernized ourselves right out of human interaction? I suppose everyone is too busy virtually interacting with each other on the blackberries and cell phones or on My Space or Face Book, but what about the irreplaceable face-to-face interactions of humans satisfying their innate, animal, social needs.
Thus was my introduction back into shopping in America. While it may seem silly to focus on a grocery store experience, it is something that nearly everyone has to do in every culture around the world and it has the power to shape your human experience. In this case, it brought to light more all-encompassing aspects of American culture than I had anticipated and made me think hard about the way that we American functions. I realize that I am comparing two things that are unequal on several levels in that I lived in a small town in Sardinia and now live in a medium-sized city in America. I do not intend to compare the US to Italy, as many of my observations about American life are likely to be similar in the urban areas of Italy as well. But, it doesn’t really matter. The observations are the same. The point is that I never quite realized the impact that these small daily events, such as grocery shopping, both illustrate the culture of a group and define it at the same time until I saw it as if I were an outsider.
So, I am faced with a dilemma: do I continue to gripe about things and try to find another way to shop – there are several small neighborhood grocery stores, but they are specialty shops and few carry basic things like meats and produce. Otherwise, I would seize this opportunity happily and forgo the big weekly grocery trip that I have now adopted into my routine. But, this would, in some ways keep me in a culture in which I no longer live and inhibit my attempts to assimilate into my "new” culture. Or, I can charge forward and embrace the variety and efficiency that an impersonal shopping experience affords, thus better experiencing what the masses do. Then, I can be a grouch with them about the same things in the same way and thereby feel a part of things, for better or for worse. At the moment, I have chosen mostly to do the latter and to buck up for the big weekly shop, though I have incorporated a run around the Back Cove prior to shopping to calm my nerves. I can look at my weekly shopping trip as a kind of sociological experiment and deal with it more easily as a study in common experience. Although, I recently heard that there is a new neighborhood market opening up that will have produce and meats – a one-stop dinner shopping spot which is sure to require human interaction and have a smaller selection of items to choose from. I will have to decide whether I’ve had enough of my cultural experiment and can now choose the alternate path. Or, perhaps, by then, I will have adapted and shopping at the big store will be a breeze.
I hope you have enjoyed the first edition of my “Musings”. You will notice that there is a comments section where you can post your thoughts, or just say hello and let me know what you are up to. I would love to hear from you all in either case.
