Yesterday, like millions of other people, I went to the grocery store to buy toilet paper.
The checkout line stretched and stretched. As I wound my way around looking for the end, a stranger popped up next to me. āItās over thereā he said, pointing to the end of the line, which snaked past the dairy aisle and over into frozen vegetable land at the very back. āItād be faster to cut across this aisle.ā He gave me a confiding look that said, This is insane and ridiculous, and a warm smile.
As I waited in the line, my arms full with the TP, Mrs. Meyerās soap (highly recommend the radish scent!) and some cans of tuna, I struggled not to drop things. And, of course, the soap slipped from my hands. āNo, no,ā a different stranger said to me as I bent to retrieve it, āI got it!ā
Bear with me if you find this cheesy, but I was immediately overwhelmed with a warm, fuzzy, I love this city feeling.
The feeling was unexpected. Because Iād been staring into the void of the internet, reading panic-inducing articles saying, āGrocery stores are mad houses! People are fighting over toilet paper!ā Iād been primed to think that times of crisis bring out some sort of inherent biological selfishness.
But my experience going to the grocery store has proven quite different. Iāve watched people direct their neighbors to the correct location for beans. When someone waiting in line realized that theyād forgotten something, fellow line-waiters were patiently reassuring, promising to hold the spot in line. Normally-silent people made polite conversation in the aisle. (I never talk to anyone at the grocery store, but I found myself joking around with a stranger who wanted to discuss the finer points of Icelandic versus Greek yogurt straining methods.) There was a distinct feeling of weāre all in this bizarre hell together.
City stores often feel rushed, full of hurried post-work crowds putting their heads down to get dinner on the table. If you come between someone and the chicken thighs, so help you god. But yesterday, the atmosphere felt slowed down somehow, and more communal. People knew theyād have to wait their turn; they knew everyone was frustrated and afraid, and somehow they came up with a bit of extra compassion for their fellow shoppers.
Listen, I know that every grocery store in this city and beyond it didnāt magically become some sort of utopia. I know people are taking more than their fair share and not always being as courteous of others as they could be. I also know Iām in a place of real privilege even to be able to casually pop out to neighborhood store for groceries, stocking up on a few extras like itās no big deal. But I do think that the way bad times can remind us that weāre all on the same team is worth talking about. These small human kindnesses at the grocery store while we try to keep six feet between us and the next person in line allow me to feel like Iām part of a community thatās all going through something together.
The grocery store has always been one of my favorite spacesāto wander alone on a Saturday night just for something to do, or to go to stock up excitedly for the dinner party I canāt wait to throw. Iām happy that even now it feels like a place of comfort.
