Orientation, part 13

As usual, I was nervous about using my Spanish, so I listened to the ordering routine as the customers before me were served. I would have to remember to order in kilograms, not pounds, I realized, and there was a little ritual for finishing up a purchase that I memorized.

Then it was my turn. “¿En qué puedo ayudarle, señora?” the cheese man asked me—How can I help you? “Quisiera un cuarto de kilo de cheddar, por favor,” I answered—I’d like a quarter of a kilo of cheddar, please. He turned to cut the piece for me, then wrapped it in paper and taped up the package. “¿Algo mas?” he asked, starting the ritual—Something else? “Nada mas,” I answered—Nothing more. “Gracias, hasta luego,” he said, sending me off—Thank you, see you later. “Hasta luego, adiós,” I answered, copying the customers before me—See you later, goodbye. Success! I had a hunk of cheddar and hadn’t embarrassed myself.

I rolled on past the light bulbs and found myself in a department I truly hadn’t expected to see—major appliances. There were dishwashers, clothes washers, and smaller appliances like vacuum cleaners and fans right in the grocery store. I studied disapprovingly the small size of the laundry machines and headed on toward the checkout counters.

It took me a minute to remember the routine at the cashier, which Mike had told me about—the cashier will eyeball your purchases before ringing them up and pull out enough bags for you to pack up your own groceries. The uniformed girl did just that, tossing a wad of plastic Hipercor sacks my way. I packed my things, happily paid with my credit card—something not yet common in Connecticut in 1994—and guided my cart toward the downward automatic ramp. I loaded the bags into the car, returned my cart to its corral, inserted its key into the next cart’s box, and—presto!—got my 100-peseta coin back. Feeling pleased with myself, I drove home.

I saw Ana later that afternoon and told her about my adventure. “You know, I’ve never been to an Hipercor,” she told me, “but I think those signs around town mean that we’re getting one here.”

“What signs?” I asked.

“Down past Pozuelo Estación, if you go toward Pozuelo Pueblo, there are some new roads,” she said. “If you look at the signs that just went up the other day over there, I think they direct you to a new Hipercor.”

“Are you kidding?” I said, incredulous. “That would be great! This store is incredible!”

“And I think it stays open through the lunch hour,” Ana added. “At least, that’s what I would expect.” So we started to watch the signs and look for the opening date.

We didn’t have to wait long. About a week later there was a ribbon-cutting ceremony on a system of roads and roundabouts that led up through neighborhoods of townhouses and homes for the elderly, then through empty fields, to a brand-new, gigantic Hipercor right in Pozuelo. Ana drove us up there the first time, because the route was complicated, though those new roads only really went to one place. And we saw that this Hipercor was even bigger and more wonderful than the one I’d gone to before. It had a post office and a row of cash machines; it had an optician and a cafeteria; it had a travel agency and a dry cleaner; it had a garden shop and a photo finishing place; it had a car repair shop and a car wash. We crammed dozens of bags into Ana’s Toyota Previa, happy shoppers, knowing we could now live a life of convenient American-style shopping. And that night I noticed that I could even see the blue light of the Hipercor sign from my bedroom balcony, shining down on me from a distant hill. It gave me a great feeling of security.