Who knew, that in a month’s time, I would go from writing about my experiences in another country, to writing about my trip to the grocery store? Certainly not me.

This past Friday marked the first time in two weeks that I had been to the grocery store. I was out of wine, bread, and eggs, so it was time to venture out and stock up for another two weeks. I put on jeans that remarkably still fit, and even put on some makeup; it’s not everyday that one gets to be out in civilization! I knew that this grocery store run would be different from past trips, but I didn’t know just how different.

I do my grocery shopping at Dia, the supermarket that is right next to my apartment–I walk downstairs, out of my apartment, and it’s there on my left. It’s a smaller grocery, but usually has everything that I need. Before this quarantine began, I went in there every other day, to grab one or two things, so the employees know me by now (probably as the girl who only ever seems to buy wine, pasta, and chocolate, on a Friday night). When I made my way to the entrance closest to my apartment, I realized that it had been blocked off, with a sign telling me to go around to the other entrance at the back. I began walking down the street; there were a few men nearby, talking, and I noticed that for some reason, my heart was pounding, my legs were shaking slightly, and anxiety was beginning to swell up in my chest. I had no idea why; I typically feel safe in my neighborhood.

I finally made it to the other entrance, and went inside. There was no line, but there was another sign saying something about not allowing more than fifteen people in the store at a time. I hovered around, noticing that the store looked a little different too, more cluttered, with certain areas blocked off. When no one said anything to me about staying put, I carefully walked further into the store and began looking for a cart. There were no carts. Instead, there were these medium sized baskets on wheels that you drag behind you. I knew that it wouldn’t be big enough to fit the entirety of my grocery list, but there was nothing else, so I took one and headed towards the eggs. I still felt shaky. I glanced around; there seemed to be at least ten people in the store already, and something about their wild eyed expressions made me feel claustrophobic. Several people were wearing masks, and I was suddenly acutely aware of myself and my surroundings. “Should I be wearing a mask too?” I thought. I shakily grabbed some fruit, realizing that I had just picked up a bunch of germs by doing so.

The store was fully stocked, and items were in their usual place, but I felt extremely disoriented. Everyone skirted around each other, avoiding eye contact, just trying to get in and get out as quickly as possible. It felt like there were too many people in the store already, as people tried to get their groceries and still maintain a safe distance away. A line had formed at the checkout, but there were markings on the floor to indicate where you could stand, so customers were awkwardly spaced out. I felt hesitiate, cautious, leaving my basket in one area so I could quickly get an onion that was near a person in line. I had this sick, anxious fear, that someone would yell at me in Spanish because I was doing something wrong–not keeping enough distance away, or something.

Finally, I had gotten almost everything on my list, and my basket was so full I feared things would begin falling out. And, I noticed to my great relief, that there was no line at the checkout. I began unloading my groceries, conscientious of the fact that I had five bottles of wine on the conveyor belt. There was a plastic screen separating the cashier and myself, that extended out a little. That was new. The cashier smiled at me; he’s been working here for a couple months now. I began bagging up my groceries and he asked me if I was here for studies or work. I told him that I was here for work, and that I’m a “profesora de Ingles” at a secondary school. He had a calm, relaxed manner about him, which seemed out of place given the situation. He wasn’t wearing mask, just gloves. Everyone else looked tense, stressed out, except him. The store probably could’ve caught fire, and he would’ve stayed there, calmly oblivious to the panic around him. We exchanged a few more words, I thanked him, and left, barely able to lift one of my bags that held the wine.

When I got back to my apartment, I sprayed my groceries down with a disinfect that my roommate and I had made with water and two types of hard alochol. I felt strange, and not just because my arms hurt from carrying the groceries back the long way (I need to lift weights, ok, I know). Normally, I enjoy grocery shopping. That wasn’t always the case–back in September, it was one of the more stressful activites, because I didn’t know where anything was in a given store. But this time was different. It’s not normal for people to skirt around each other, fearful that they’re coming into contact with a disease, or in this case, Coronavirus. It’s not normal to avoid eye contact and awkwardly move around, trying to keep a safe distance away. Having the interaction that I did with the cashier gave me a surge of emotional gratitude, that there are still people who can exchange pleasantries, have a normal conversation, and smile at you, even when it feels like the world is ending. It was also a helpful reminder to myself that I don’t need to get swept up into the anxiety and uncertainty, and that I can still do my best to make grocery shopping a pleasant experience. That is, in another two weeks.