Rasma Says

Musings, deliberations, flashes of unaccounted for brilliance…

La Quotidienne

Sunday morning line at the bakery, Taverny

Heat the milk, brew the coffee, totter on down to the pastry shop, the bakers, the butchers, and the supermarket, which is either a street side Carrefour: a miniature version of Coop Mega: high quality, well-equipped, clean and inviting; or a corner arab family run shop with red awning and a small row of vegetable crates lining the way into the store from the sidewalk.

It, too, is small, but it is Sunday afternoon this is the only grocer’s open, so here you find everything that is on your list except Woolite, which you are glad for because the small shop’s price’s are high and you can wait with that till tomorrow, and after-sun-lotion, which you do find but hesitate to pay 8 € for when Bia says that last summer when she and Eline got even worse sunburned than she did today Eline’s grandmother smeared tomatoes over them. We buy tomatoes instead. And wine for dinner. And non-refrigerated milk. And honey. And what I think is hot chocolate but turns out to be chocolate flavored baby cereal made with bananas and real chocolate chips. Oh well, I blame it on the distraction made by the store owner who at that point came up to me and Bia whose arms were full of small items (butter, coffee, Nutella, the wine, the milk, the tomatoes, the honey) and held a small red shopping cart open for us to deposit everything into. His smile revealed an understanding that in Norway the shopping cart has not been invented.

Tomorrow the big market is open, and by big I mean super – hyper – market. The Achan supermarket, in the mall, is what Coop hypermarket at City Nord dreams of being, but it is a pretender. Achan, just like Monoprix on rue de Vaugirard next to our hotel in Paris, is a supermarket that knows the meaning of super. It is literally the size of a small village where you can buy everything from fresh sardines to absinthe to diapers to cocktail part clothes and house painting frocks to Lays potato chips and BUGLES, which I bought for the memory of happily crunching them as a child.

Back in Taverny we spend the evening playing cards and falling into giggle fits over various inanities. Take a long walk through the darkening streets, marvel at the unfamiliar combination of senses: warmth, darkness, and honeysuckle perfuming the starless sky.


This entry was posted on 01/08/2011 by in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , , , , , .


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