It's been more than a year since we moved away from our old Arlington neighborhood. And for the first time, I went back to the spot where I arguably spent most of my free hours during our time there: the friendly bizarro grocery store -- friendly, at least, to visitors from the alternate universe from which it presumably fell, landing in a clatter of bad '50s architecture along Wilson Boulevard.
Imagine all the conflicting emotions I felt as I walked through the doors, seeing the familiar sights, hearing the familiar sounds, and yes, smelling the familiar smell of rotting produce.
Of course, time stands still for no man, and for no grocery store. As I scanned the aisles, tears streaming liberally down my cheeks, I noticed a few new things. Everything seems to have been pushed closer together at some point. The headless pharmacist cutout was conspicuously absent. The back wall looked like it had received a fresh coat of paint at some point during the Bush Deux administration. And they had new signs hanging at the front of every aisle, all the better to direct the store's virtually nonexistent clientele to the definitely nonexistent product on the shelves.
Disorienting, yes. Then I saw this sign hanging in front of one aisle, and I knew all was right in the world.
and
Bread
I've said it before, and I'll say it again: You can't go home, but you can shop there.