Friday, August 24, 2007

Americans at Loblaws

So I’m in the packaged meat section shopping for bacon. I push my cart off to the side and step closer to scan the selections. Bacon’s bacon as far as I’m concerned. Some has less salt, some is just non-accessorized bacon. So it really just comes down to price point for me. A good lean cut at a good price.

I start to move toward what looks like a promising pile of packages and hear in a mid-west bark, “Over there, dear.” I look over and there’s a casually dressed 60s-ish couple. The shorts-wearing James Cromwell guy is leaning on the cart with one arm and pointing to the bacon with the other. Mrs. Cromwell, lets call her Trixie, is quite something in her yellow top, pink capri pants, and rhinestone thongs. Her blonde hair is sprayed and poofed in a Beach Blanket Bingo 'do and the bangs are separated from the bulk by a black hairband. She must have been a real looker before 8-tracks. I swear I saw her in commercial during a first run episode of Bewitched hawking harvest gold appliances.

Trixie draws a bead on the bacon and barges in front of me. “’Scuse me, hon.,” she says as she bends in and starts rifling through the packages.

“No problem,” I say as she gives me a view of what I’m sure she thinks is her best side. I’m not up on the barging etiquette of suburban Indiana, so I wait it out.

Trixie says to the bacon, “I like the one with less salt,” as she pokes through the reduced salt packages.

James says, “Maybe the Canadians don’t measure that.”

I wait it out.

He speaks up and says, “I guess the Canadians don’t measure that.”

I’m not sure if that’s aimed at me or Trixie, but Trixie is distracted enough to look up at him and move out of the way. She’s dislodged a good looking package from the pile and I grab it while I have the opportunity and make a hasty retreat.

There’s a cart jam in isle 6. A guy is overwhelmed by the selection of salsa while a woman is waiting to get some and everyone else is reduced to one lane to squeeze by.

As I approach, the guy says, “I moved to Toronto from Phoenix, Arizona, (he actually says the city and state) and I gotta tell ya, you got better salsa here.”

The waiting woman starts to respond but the guy speaks up to talk over her, “The Mexicans make it in Arizona, but what ya got here is better.”

I take my turn to squeeze by and see that he’s choosing between Old El Paso and the store brand. The woman realizes it’s not a two way conversation, so she stops trying and leans on her cart until she can get to the shelf. The guy’s face turns sour and he says, “Guess they don’t have the hot,” while he continues to ponder his options.

What’s the deal with American visitors? I was on vacation in Michigan for a week last month and people were polite and friendly. I had a great time. Some of my best friends are American. But the one’s who come here (at least the ones who make themselves known) seem to think that they’re the show and we’re the audience. And I thought it was just their president.

Wednesday, August 1, 2007