I arose the next morning to the sounds of strange birds singing exotic songs in harmony with the grunting and grinding of trucks and buses on the streets far below. The sun was streaming into my apartment and from my vantage point on the bed all I could see out the window was a swath of clear cobalt sky. My head was thick and my mouth was foul, but the day was beautiful and I felt remarkably good. Alive.
Waiting for the water to boil, I contemplated the irony of drinking instant in the land of coffee as I wondered what to do with my day. The bleakness of the food situation led me to my answer. Half an hour later, showered and fresh, I set out in search of the grocery store. At the front gate of my building, the doorman was pacing, the ever present shotgun cradled in the crook of his arm. I think I managed to ask directions to the nearest grocery store. He spoke at great length and made a various gestures before opening the gate for me. I set off in what I took to be his indicated direction.
In Medellin, I suppose like many parts of the world, pedestrians are decidedly second-class citizens. My problem was that I hadn’t been to many parts of the world. I was used to the Canadian way, where you could be waiting to cross a street and the one car that was coming half a mile away would come to a stop as soon as they saw you. Here, being a pedestrian meant taking your life in your hands. Having repeatedly escaped death or at least a good maiming I arrived at a huge grocery store named “Pomona”. I didn’t know what to expect from a grocery store in Colombia, but it wasn’t this. It was more or less just like back home, except with attractive women in sexy/cutesy costumes every 10 feet offering samples of everything from crackers to ice-cream. The other difference was that I didn’t know what half the things were on the shelves.
I had been wandering about for five minutes or so when I saw her. I recognized her from the staff meeting. The one about the hats. She was blond and tall and had been doodling idly into a notebook, a sandal dangling from the end of one of her long brown legs as the debate had raged on around her. Right now she was in the produce section, squeezing a spiky, rubbery looking fruit with interest. She wore a denim skirt and white shirt. As I rolled by with my buggy she looked up and her face registered recognition. She was attractive in an outdoorsy sort of way that I didn’t recall noticing the first time I saw her.
“Hey.”
“Oh, Hi!”
“How’s it going?”
“Pretty good. I’m just trying to figure out what this thing is.”
“Looks like something unmentionable.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, all those bumps and ridges…”
Laughing, she dropped the fruit back into the bin.
“That’s disgusting.”
“But sort of true, don’t you think?”
“You’re a pig.”
“Not really. Actually I’m fairly repressed. It just sort of came out.”
“What’s your name? I remember you from the staff meeting, coming in late and then spilling food everywhere.”
“Gerald. Gerald Thurlington.”
“The Third?”
“Sorry?”
“Never mind. Amy Hamlin.”
“Nice to meet you. And I wasn’t spilling food everywhere. I had one little slip.”
“Where are you from, Thurston Howell the Third?”
“Oh, now I get it. Gilligan’s Island. Pretty good. I’m from Toronto.”
“Oh dear. I’m sorry.”
“Why, where are you from?”
“Vancouver.”
“Hm. I should have known by the holier than thou attitude coupled with the amount of fruit and vegetables in your cart. Not to mention the underlying prudery, no doubt cultivated by much time spent doing healthy and wholesome environmentally friendly outdoor activities.”
“You like to use big words Mr. Howell. Are you trying to make up for something?”
“Undoubtedly.”
“Hmm.” Amy started to wheel her cart away. She was heading for the frozen food section. I followed her.
“So do you live around here?”
“Pretty close. You?”
“About 3 blocks.”
“What’s your place like?”
“It’s great. The nicest place I’ve lived in my life. Seriously.”
“You’re lucky. Ours is a dump. The shower door fell yesterday and literally exploded. Look.” She raised the hem of a khaki Capri leg revealing a four-inch long bandage covering a tanned brown shin.
“Yikes.”
“That’s only the beginning. The kitchen stinks like mold, our furniture is disgusting…”
“Who’s your roommate?”
“Let’s not go there. I’ll just say that the place suits her. You’ve got your own place?”
“Yeah. I had to pay extra for it, but I didn’t know what I’d be walking into with roommates. Sounds like I made a good choice.”
“I went on the cheap and I guess I got what I paid for. Are you actually buying anything, or just wheeling that thing around?”
My cart was entirely empty.
“I’m waiting for something to strike me.”
“Nothing yet?”
“Not the groceries anyway.” I was surprising myself. What was happening? I never spoke to women this way. Maybe I was still drunk.
“You cheese-bag. I gotta go. See you later Thurston.”
She deftly wheeled her cart around a hot dog display manned by an attractive young woman in a mini-skirt hot dog suit and headed to the cash register. Deflated and red-faced, I set about surveying the strange array of goods that surrounded me, not having the first clue as to how to go about feeding myself.
