Culture Shock

Although I’ve been in Norwood approximately one-fifth of the time I lived in Southern California, it seems I have adjusted to rural living quite easily. Transitioning back into an urban life, even if only for a day or two, appears more painfully difficult. Take for instance my recent trip to Grand Junction (pop. 42,000).



My first weird moment occurred in the Montrose (pop. 16,000) Taco Bell. When I lived in Los Angeles (pop. 9,948,000), I used to eat at Taco Bell about three times a week. Now that I live one and a half hour’s drive from the nearest fast food restaurant, I consider it to be a Road Trippin’ Treat. [As a funny(?) side note, the previous time I stopped at Taco Bell they were out of tacos. Very disappointing.] Normally I go through the drive-thru because I’m always in a hurry and fast food joints are not known for their ambiance. This time, however, the lure of a public commode was too much to resist, so I went inside.


I felt like the Brother From Another Planet. I found myself unsure of how to navigate the human loading chute, trying to figure out what the cashiers wanted from me, and what the graphics on the menu board represented. I was impressed to learn they finally started carrying guacamole. It was such an odd feeling. I wondered if the uranium mining was getting to me after all.


My next weirdo moment happened in the supermarket in Grand Junction. I used to be an expert supermarket shopper. The markets in So Cal have club cards and they double the value of coupons, so I would wait until the item had a special “club” price, then use a coupon to purchase it. I almost always ended up saving at least fifty percent of my grocery tab, sometimes as much as seventy-five percent. I also ended up buying a lot of crap just because there was a coupon for it.


Now walking into a supermarket makes me dizzy. Our local markets are much smaller and in general offer a bare minimum. Need a bar of soap? There are five to choose from. How about a frozen CPK pizza? We’ve got a grand total of three. But in the SUPERmarket, all of my choices have been super-sized. There are fifty varieties of crackers, one hundred different yogurts, and an unending aisle of soda.



“What could be more liberating than Freedom of Choice?” I thought as I gazed wide-eyed at the shampoo display. (Citre Shine or Garnier? Suave or Vidal Sassoon? Dry hair or colored hair or straight hair? More body? More shine? Less frizz?) Five minutes later I was still trying to sort out my needs and my coupons. I didn’t even have the advantage of having my mind pre-determined by advertisers because a.) I TiVo, hence I fast-forward through commercials, b.) there are no billboards within one hundred miles of my house, and c.) our newspapers advertise real estate, not mass consumer goods.


When my “quick stop for five essential items” re-emerged into the sunlight one hour and ninety dollars later, the true cost of the excursion began to dawn on me. My so-called “Freedom of Choice” was a thief of Time. While I was debating the merits of Pepperidge Farm versus Keebler, I could have been enjoying a leisurely cup of coffee, or been absorbed in my John Irving novel, or not been rushing to get to my next stop.



Later that night an acquaintance from Los Angeles expressed shock at the statement, “There’s no supermarket where I live.” Imagine that—a town in America without a super store. How cutting edge! How unique! How wonderful.