Come shopping with me.

The adventure of moving to a new city always involves finding your "home" grocery store. This does not mean your closest, but your favorite. The one that best suits your shopping style and you feel at home navigating. The process of finding the right spot is sometimes tedious and bound to test your patience. Walking into a grocery store, a discerning patron will quickly notice the warts and dandruff right off. After shopping for a family for 14 years or so, a job I really do not like to do, I can quickly surmise what a shopping experience is going to be like. The staff, displays, colours, music and other shoppers will tip me off to what the whole general experience is going to be.

Take my very first trip to the closest store. Hum drum beige, too much fluorescent lighting, a mumbler check out man and a bagging lady I came to refer to as "the faker". That first trip is always trying as you have to understand the lay out. Where they keep things like horseradish and Cheez-Whiz is very telling to how common sense the layout is. Horseradish should be in the butcher section with the beef, not in the dairy section. Cheez-Whiz on the other hand should be in the dairy section, not with the condiments. After exhausting yourself to find these items you pray for a smooth checkout. I seemed to always get the Mumbler and Faker duo, as they were the only aisle open, there were that few shoppers. Mumbler was a youngish man who would make efforts at small talk, which I always participate in. It became very embarrassing for me to have to continually ask him to repeat himself and I would have to stop the cart unloading to train my eyes on his mouth in an effort to understand what he was saying. He had to be in his early twenties and his speech was that of a teenager not wanting to bother with the complexities of annunciation. Faker, on the other hand had a different linguistic issue. She spoke in a halting and disjointed manner that vaguely touched on a British accent. My great-grandmother was British and would sometime recite Cockney poems to me. I could understand them to a point, she would help me understand some of the more difficult stuff. I have friends with thick Irish accents. I understand the accents. This lady spoke in a low voice, as almost a way of disguising her efforts to talk. I could never make out what the heck she was saying either, with the exception of her addressing all the ladies as "luv". I finally asked where she was from and she mentioned a town in England. "Oh, then you must miss Coronation Street" I replied. "Nuh" was her short answer. Now, if you lived apart from your home country I have to imagine that the mention of something familiar, even something you may have disliked, would compel you to have even a brief chat about it. Her chat train stopped and derailed right then. She stopped talking to me. So I deduced she was an accent faker. I may be totally wrong, but from that day on she became known as the Faker.

Weeks pass and I decide it's time to venture further out of my circle of grocery shopping convenience and try a new store that was a 15 minute drive away. It had a goofy name, so I had put off the trip expecting disappointment. Au contrair! It was a wonderful store, very welcoming, nice staff, logically laid out, fresh produce and what's this? The cashier empties your cart for you while you relax and ponder the tabloids on the rack? The only problem was having to relocate Will from the cart and hold him if there was not a second cart ready at the other end. No fears though, because Daniel came to my rescue. Daniel was the guy working the end of the check out. Yes, he was the bagger and yes he has DS. It's cliche, for a moment. Daniel brought around another cart and I placed Will in it's seat. If the above grocery store critiquing will allow me the recognition of being a grocery shopping expert, then let me allow you to understand exactly what Daniel was doing.

I have long given up on baggers. The real baggers of the world are gone, replaced by part-timers who don't really want to be there handling your meat and 4l jugs of juice. They stuff bags. They jam in what ever comes down the conveyor next. Pies going in sideways, cans getting placed on the bread, the banging of apples. Then, getting to the car without bags flopping over and spilling their top-heavy contents is an impossibility. Arriving home without further emptying of bags, also impossible. You are all nodding in agreement aren't you?

Then I met Daniel. Daniel is a master at his craft and I actually had to stop and watch him as his system was almost performance art. As items came toward him on the conveyor he would gently slide items to the right or left into logical bag-packing groups. He would sweep items across to their appropriate spot with his pinky up and in a way that would make you believe each of your items was a delicate treasure. This guy knew what he was doing. He packed bags with an engineering precision. I am not exaggerating. I have lugged way too many poorly packed bags to not notice when the job is getting done correctly. Daniel's exacting standards were just the beginning though.

At one point he stopped to look at Will, who was also mesmerized by Daniel. "Hey, he's a little Daniel!" Daniel exclaimed to me. "Yes, he is, but his name is Will". He then began to talk to Will, and his smile broadened. The cashier and Daniel had such a lovely rapport and I heard him refer to her as "cookie".

I only shop at this store now, and I only line up in Daniels aisle, no matter how long it is. The big shop before thanksgiving I stood in the line, waiting to chat with Daniel again. This time I noticed that I was not the only shopper who waited patiently for Daniel. He shook hands with an older gentleman, who acknowledged him by name. He hugged an older lady after that. He is famous here, I thought to myself. They all line up for Daniel. When it came to our turn he again noticed my "little Daniel". I mentioned the great job he did and told him to have a nice Thanksgiving. "You are a nice lady!" he told me, and reached up to give me a hug too. I have never enjoyed a trip to a grocery store so much. In that moment I was filled with what Thanksgiving means. I was filled with such happiness...(eye roll for the cliche) but I really was, because when people show they care, whether it be for your groceries or in wishes for a nice holiday or for your 3 year old child, it makes your feel appreciated.

And now that, is my "home" grocery store.

I used to think that the DS bagger assumption was a tired and lame presumption. I see now that Daniel is providing a public service, that his job may be the most important in that whole store, or at least the one that people appreciate the most.