So there I was- starched and pressed uniform on- appearing very uncivilianlike among all the wives of Wall Street elite- all with very expensive Lululemon yoga apparel on, each looking a little more fabricated than the next. This was the place to see and be seen... or at least show off the size of your engagement ring. Each woman had exactly one child under the age of two, but looked like they hired someone else to give birth to them. I was easily the only working girl in the place. sometimes with two or more grocery carts full of what was only a week's provisions, and enough stares to start a small business charging to view me as a circus curiosity. But each aisle was filled with potential, and an idea for a new dish, so I didn't hold back. It's a culture shock after you spend most of your time reading obscure local staples the shelves in French, Spanish, Swedish.... It's a culture shock when the produce section is fresh and abundant- and not understocked and mostly expired. It's a culture shock when you can buy refrigerated milk. I got the feeling these women would not know what to do with themselves if Whole Foods did not exist. It was just different. There was no sunrise over the hill or chickens or roosters running through the puddles in the road from the most recent five minute downpour. No goats in the path and no lizards to avoid stepping on. I could tell this was still paradise to these people. After several weeks of this, I decided I preferred my roadside tables full of women selling small amounts of papayas and pineapples. Box milk notwithstanding.
