A PILGRIM TO MECCA

Living on an island that has only two chain stores, Ace Hardware and Stop & Shop, the word 'mall' has the same physiological effect on me that the word 'sex' has on my husband, except I drool more when I hear it. I took a bus excursion to Providence Place yesterday with a group of women who were so happy you would have thought their daughters had just married investment bankers. For Islanders, shopping has become a sport and people buy stuff they don't even need just because they never see it here, or because it's cheaper. I've had my fix and I'm good to go for a while.

A PILGRIM TO MECCA

When I moved to the Vineyard my sister-in-law, who retired to Florida said, “How can you live in such an isolated place?” What she really meant was, “How can you live without malls?” Shopping is a way of life for some of us. Actually the only thing that can lure me off Island is the prospect of visiting a shopping center. Like a pilgrim to Mecca.

People don’t come to the Vineyard for the shopping. At best it’s eclectic, at worse outrageously expensive. It’s almost impossible to buy an article of clothing that doesn’t say “Martha’s Vineyard” on it, which means it’s meant for tourists or directionally challenged Islanders, and priced accordingly. This isn’t to say you can’t shop here. People who are determined to shop will find a way and go home with bags full of overpriced merchandise.

When I retired to the Vineyard, my friends who were still working, and not necessarily reluctantly I might add, asked me what I did to keep busy all day. In my mind, keeping busy was not a goal of retirement, but to admit this seemed sacrilegious to the American work ethic, so I would reply with the retiree’s mantra, “I’m busier than ever!” And in a sense this is true. As any retiree or lottery winner can tell you, a chore or activity shrinks or expands to fit the time available. So if you have a whole day to fill, as long as you have one thing to do you’re good to go. If you have two, you’re even busier. And if you don’t get to do them both you’re ahead of the game for tomorrow.

To guarantee that I always have something to do I live like a Parisian and shop on a daily basis. This can be either a quick trip to pick up a steak or a leisurely stroll through the aisles to see what’s new, fresh or different. It’s there that I see my friends and catch up on gossip. Most Edgartonians use the post office for this, but we have rural delivery so I must make do with the Stop and Shop.

My friend Jonathan is quite tall. Shopping at Cronig’s is like a charity event for him. As he strolls the aisles looking for items on his list he is stopped repeatedly by short women gazing longingly at things on the top shelves. He often wonders if they would starve to death without his intervention.

My friend Jules likes the pastries they sell at the local grocery store, in spite of my repeated warnings that they act as landing strips for the local fly population. Every time I look in the Plexiglas bins it reminds me of the butchers and fishmongers in Mexico before they built a Sam’s Club. The perishable food was not individually wrapped like the food we’re used to. In fact most of it wasn’t even on ice. You could hear the buzzing before you entered the building. Ick. No wonder it was the home of Montezuma’s revenge.

The other day I was shopping with Jules when he stopped in the pastry aisle. “See, look,” he said. “Nary a winged creature in sight.” With that he pulled open a pristine, see through door and, like a dog waiting for the cook to drop a tasty morsel, a big fat fly dive-bombed onto the nearest danish. Consumed with guilt at abetting this rat’s cousin, Jules stuck his arm through the door and started waving frantically over the doughnuts. This had no effect on the fly, but did make Jules look as though he was hailing a cab in a rainstorm. Seeing the creature make its way to the far end of the shelf, Jules slammed the door shut and ran down the aisle, pulled the last door open, shoved his arm in and waved some more.

Just to show how laid back Vineyarders become in the winter, not one shopper so much as glanced in his direction.

For some people shopping is a religious experience. I watched an old man pushing an old woman in a wheelchair past several stores. Suddenly her hand shot up, fingers splayed, looking like a school crossing guard with a stop sign. When he stopped she gripped the arms of the chair and slowly rose, like one of the faithful at Lourdes throwing away her crutches, and walked into a jewelry store. That was as close to a miracle as I’m ever likely to get.