But the actual experience of shopping at the damn place? Drives me bonkers. Crowded with people moving very slowly and dragging enormous roller shopping trolleys, or dogs, or kids, or mountain bikes. Or all four. Fossicking through marginal stone fruit to put in one of those grotty baskets so you can carefully squash it into your earth-friendly calico bag. None of the scales they use to weigh it lets you see what the weight is, and every price is a suspiciously round figure. Do they round up or down? Who would know.
I'm only going because my husband's not driving yet and he LOVES it. He chats about tomato growing techniques with elderly nonnas who probably learned it on Umbrian slopes under the fascists. He remembers when the avocado people have driven down, if the nectarine man has started his picking, which grower has the best cherries. I cannot even begin to imagine how he finds this stuff out.
So this morning he's patting the dogs and chatting to the neighbours and sipping his freshly squeezed watermelon juice ... I drop the bags, stand on the plums, fall over the dog leads and say terrible things like "two dollars EACH?" and "why are these lemons covered in brown spots?". Over twenty years we have developed an excellent balance of who does what and who should avoid certain activities, and now I remember why.