Suburban Ramble

Perhaps it's just an urban myth, but it's an attractive one just the same: the neighborhood life characterized by the daily stroll down the street from your sunny walk-up apartment to the boulangerie, followed by the trip around the block to the charcuterie and the sidewalk farmers market, concluding with the kiosk where you pick up a copy of Le Monde, or the bookstore where the proprietor greets you with information about new releases she has a feeling you might like.

On some days my life is a little like that, American-style. That is to say, I do it in a car. My neighborhood auto mechanic on Stinson Boulevard tells me there's $3,000 worth of work to be done on our rusty 2006 Corolla—Bluebook value $1,200 at best. He makes mention of the clutch, exhaust, and oil pan. The last time we were in for an oil change I said, "Maybe you could just tighten up the heat shield by the gas tank so the vehicle will stop rattling so much."

But is still runs. I started it up one sunny morning recently while Hilary was at the pottery studio. I decided, with the empty and joyous vigor that often resurfaces on the first days of a new year, that it was time to get a few things done. Before leaving the house  I logged into the Great Clips at Turners Crossroads on my desktop and snagged a reservation. The next opening was 66 minutes away.

"Click here and we'll send you a text when you should head to the salon." No thanks. I have other plans.

My first stop during the interval was the credit union, where I deposited a few checks. There was no one in line, and a woman at the counter waved me over. Just then the woman doing the drive-through finished a transaction, turned around, and waved me over to her counter.

"She waved first," I said, pointing to the first woman.

"I'm hurt," the second woman said with a laugh.

My teller did the deposit, and at my request, she also laid ten tens out on the counter as a withdrawal. Severe, important-looking greenbacks. In the age of plastic,  that's enough cash to last 'til Fourth of July.

Continuing out of town on Highway 55, I took a left at 73 and negotiated the back roads through the Oak Knoll neighborhood, past the church where Hilary and I were married and out to a glorified strip mall north of I-394 called West Ridge Market. That's where my barber shop is located, along with a choice selection of other businesses. I still had a good 40 minutes to kill, and I knew just what to do with it. First stop, Michael's, where I purchased a pre-cut matte for a frame I'd measured that morning. (This is the kind of task I often think of doing, but rarely get around to doing.)

What am I going to put in it? I have no idea. But we've got so many old art books sitting around the house it won't be difficult to find something interesting.

Where am I going to hang it? Come on! One step at a time.

My next stop was Trader Joe's, a hundred yards east. I needed one thing—some split peas for a soup that would also include a generous heap of the ham chunks we bought in Two Harbors a few days ago.

I have a fondness for Trader Joe's, not only because of the reasonable prices and conveniently limited selection, but also the staff, who are cut from a different piece of cloth from your typical supermarket employee. They're older, they rotate tasks, and you get the feeling they've got other things going on in their lives besides merchandising carrots and bananas. Having worked for several decades in a warehouse with the same kind of people, I occasionally get a twinge of nostalgia as I see these women and men breaking down boxes or pushing carts of onions and avocados out from the back room through those big swinging doors. Quite a few are from other parts of the country, or the world. How do I know? Because at the resister they ask how your day is going, almost expecting a conversation to ensue, and it often does.

As I was standing in the aisle, scrutinizing the rice and the canned beans, a passing stocker, perhaps Japanese-American, stopped and said, "Can I help you find something?"

"Well, I'm looking for split peas." 

"I'm afraid all we stock here is lentils," she pointed to a bag on the bottom shelf.

"I'm not surprised," I replied. But that struck me as an insult, so I added, " I mean, you have lots of good stuff, but you can't stock everything."

Around the corner I picked up a chunk of suet at the Wildbird Store and arrived at the barber shop a few doors down to discover I was still number five on the list. The tall Brazilian woman who sometimes cuts my hair came over to the resister. "Are you signed in? What's your name? John T? There you are. Don't worry. It won't be long. Maybe ten minutes."

I didn't quite believe her, but I'd brought a book along: Zoroaster's Children & Other Travels by Marius Kociejowski. The selection of locales was ample; I could take my choice—Prague, Aleppo, Tunisia, Moscow. I picked an essay called "A Journey to the Sun's Grave" but hadn't figured out which country Kociejowski was visiting—Norway? Estonia?—by the time my name came up. A young woman from Medina (Minnesota, not Saudi Arabia) took me back to her chair. I didn't recognize her. She's been working there only a month. She told me a little about her two sons, I mentioned a concert we'd attended years ago at the Medina Ballroom—Los Lobos—and explained why I'd begun bringing a yoga mat on camping trips. And that was that. It doesn't take long these days for someone to cut my hair.

A sense of lightness invariably presents itself after a haircut, and when I left the salon the day seemed brighter than ever. In fact, everything was going so well that on the spur of the moment I stepped into the narrow Triple-A shop that I've passed by many times before. A middle-aged woman—red hair, thin face, friendly demeanor—was sitting at a desk just beyond the luggage display.

"Can I help you?" she said.

"I don't know," I replied. "I was just passing by and thought I'd drop in. I see you sell suitcases."

"Yes, that's the merchandise. Guidebooks too. We also provide maps, travel advice. Are you planning a vacation?"

"Not really. We just got back from England in September. Maybe there's a trip to Scotland somewhere on the horizon. Fly into Edinburgh, take a train to Inverness, do some hiking ..."

"I lived in Scotland for three years," she said enthusiastically. "But Susan, back there in the last desk, is an expert. She's been there many times, knows all the hotels. She could help you plan your trip."

"So they help you plan your trip, and then you pay them?"

"Are you a member? Well, then it's free. Here. Let me give you her card." We spent a few minutes discussing traffic circles,but eventually I discerned a worried look creep into her eyes that said, This guy has a load of stories, and he just wants to talk, so I thanked her for her trouble and returned to the car.

What a morning! What an outing! What a neighborhood! I admit, it doesn't seem much like Paris, the way I'm describing it, but that's not the point. It was fun. Besides, a flat in Paris the size of our modest, one-story house might easily cost two million Euros. And it wouldn't have a yard.