I can't stand large stores. As soon as I enter one, the "flight, fight or freeze" mechanisms get activated in my body and my amygdala wails a siren as if this was the Yom Kippur War all over again.
Speaking with other shoppers, it appears that this is not a universal reaction. I have been told that when a normal person enters the supermarket, he or she locates a cart then enters calmly and walks comfortably through the aisles and occasionally looks right, left, and loads the cart with groceries.
When I enter the supermarket, I completely forget about the carts. I feel attacked by the colors, smells, and loud voices and they are all part of one big cacophony in my brain that emerges into a phosphorous stew. I zigzag through the aisles and try to avoid the interceptive lock of the various products luring me to buy them. I grab pasta and rice and then get reminded of the burnt pot of rice that has been waiting for a wash for two days in the sink.
Ok, I need dish detergent, so I turn toward the cleaning supplies as if I was a part of a herd of buffalo, but then I smell the pastries from the bakery section. I go there as fast as possible, but the PA system blasts with an announcement: "Sonya, come to the head cashier." This throws me off balance and somehow I find myself in the eggs and milk aisle, pondering and debating, and yearning for some salvation as if I was in limbo in Dante's inferno.
Finally, left with no choice, I take a pack of cleaning rags or a skillet that I will never use, and make a dash for the nearest checkout counter. I have – literally have to – be free again! In my case, having decided to forgo a cart turns out to be the right choice.
The pandemic has made things worse. Important institutions have shut down – the city hall, the Knesset, and of course, the Clal Center, with its scary elevators. The only institution that has proven resilient and shown popularity? The supermarket. You can get the creme de la creme there anytime you want.
The veteran and experienced shoppers have the upper hand: Alongside the canned goods and the signs saying "fresh meat" they can meet friends and acquaintances and share experiences from the lockdown, as you look at the mineral water and wine bottles. But this is not for me. That's how I discovered the small minimarkets and the tiny businesses that I have never really stepped into unless I forgot to buy something in the supermarket.
They have enormous pluses: When I enter one of them in southern Jerusalem, people immediately recognize me and ask me how I am.
When I tell them about my writing travails, they share their sympathy and tell me how sorry they are. When I say something funny, they laugh out loud. This will never happen at the supermarket, where there is a production line of items to be checked out.
After that, one of the owners of the minimarket shows his knowledge on my situation and immediately makes sure that one of his employees walks with me along the aisles, and separates the parsley from the leek (those two are eternal enemies), and carries the watermelon for me all the way to the car. The shop is small, the vegetables are having a great time bonding with each other, and nothing is farther from the reality of the torturous feeling of the large supermarket chains. I buy a little from everything. I don't buy over the top just to stockpile. I take only what I need.
The height of the coronavirus crisis reminded me of my childhood: the Georgian in the minimarket in Ashdod, who would slice the loaf of white bread, place some symbolic cheese and then cover it all with hot chilly paste and give it to me; the cobbler from Egypt who repaired the white shoes of the doll that I had received; and the office-supplies store that introduced me to the world of Parker and Pilot.
Corona is now receding to the inner pages. The newspapers are now inundated with new stories: a car accident, pollution, and traffic jams.
But I am going to stay in my own little world that the virus has returned to me. I continue to buy small, I look for the cobbler to buy a pair of shoelaces, or go to the office-supplies store, and dream about the days in which people in Israel would be able to buy stuff in a miniature version of the country's commerce scene.
