It was a very bad time to buy groceries— Saturday afternoon. I wove my way through throngs of exuberant young campers stocking up on Mountain Dew, wondering why the store was so busy. Then it hit.
Summer has finally arrived, I realized. Memorial Day officially starts off the summer season and here in Cook County, that means an influx of people.
Tourism is what keeps the economy going. It’s the oil that greases all our wheels, but I am the first to admit that an increased population means a change in lifestyle.
We locals become spoiled over the winter because we are the only people here. We dally at the grocery store checkout, slowly writing checks or counting out change.
We drive our vehicles lackadaisically because traffic isn’t a problem. I know I’m supposed to signal every time I make a turn, but really, if another car isn’t in sight, must I?
But summer changes everything. We are forced to move faster. Normal tasks such as buying a bunch of bananas or running to the hardware store become challenges. Shopping, driving and parking take on new meaning.
As I carried milk, eggs and coffee beans to my car, I resolved to readjust my habits. I will fill my car’s gas tank on Tuesday mornings— Monday is not a good idea—everyone is leaving town. I will do heavy duty grocery shopping on Wednesdays—but not later in the week because people start to trickle in on Thursdays. And I will acclimate to the faster pace augmented by the influx of people accustomed to life in the fast lane.
It’s perfectly okay. I understand. The tables are turned the minute I take a vacation. I become a tourist too.
Memories of this year’s vacation in the Ozarks and some of my blunders came to mind— the time I miscalculated the pizza restaurant driveway entrance and forced my vehicle into a quick left-hand turn probably brought some choice words to local lips. Equally unappealing were my endless retracing of steps through a grocery store looking for salted peanuts and the bewildered look on my face as I tried to translate the cashier’s southern drawl.
My meandering back and forth down the aisles of the local gigantic Wal-Mart in a confusing search for bargains must have driven locals crazy. As I bumped my cart against a garden container display and cut a corner too short in the shoe department, I smiled and tried to blend in but when I opened my mouth to utter “excuse me,” my Minnesota accent was a dead giveaway.
My final bungle at the checkout counter didn’t help either. As I misplaced the shopping basket and dropped a set of plastic storage containers on the floor, I fervently wished I could wear a sign on my forehead that said—“I’m not really a tourist.”
But I was.
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