Supermarket Saga

A little lower down on the list of reasons why I could never live in Israel was the incredibly inconvenient system set up for grocery shopping. It just seemed like the equivalent of running a marathon. Or more accurately, a schlep-a-thon.

Back then I didn’t have a car. Restocking my kitchen meant pushing a baby in a stroller (already heavy enough) up a large hill, or bumping them up five kajillion steps (has a study ever been done comparing the effects of bumped babies versus non- bumped babies? I’m curious…), stuffing the basket with whatever I could while an unsafe number of bags dangled precariously from the handlebar, and then back down the steep hill we go (dig in those heels!).

I remember thinking, Why can’t this process be a little more like in America? Back at home, you simply got into your car, drove to the supermarket, parked, shopped, put your stuff in the trunk, and drove home. Now doesn’t that sound like a dream?

Many years later, baruch Hashem, I’m lucky enough to call Eretz Yisrael my home. I have the best teudat zehut number known to mankind (and a good thing, too, because you can barely pick up your kid from playgroup without it), I’m decently funny in Hebrew (or are they laughing at me?), and yes, I still live in an apartment after 20+ years of marriage (and I work in home organization, so even if I did fit into those sheva brachos outfits they have long ago been donated to the nearest gemach).