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Dental floss seems an odd sort of thing to ask the American to bring for you, but hey, if he wants floss, he can have floss. Before departing the US this winter, I stopped by the Safeway and bought a package of floss. Done and done. Small, not subject to the scrutiny of customs inspectors, lightweight, floss it is. It turns out I did not understand.
Fast forward to early February. Imagine the noise the plastic carton makes as the last bit of waxed mint floss rolls out. "That's it, oh well, I'll just go get more." Off I go, shopping list in hand, to purchase a new roll of floss. I stand in the supermarket in front of the floss section, dumbstruck. There are three kinds, none of them the kind I want. I go across the parking lot to the drug store. Same three kinds of floss.
I know, I know, "just buy some floss", you're thinking. What's the big deal? Well, it's this. The un-waxed kind, no good, it gets all shredded. The waxed variety available, also no good, too slippery, it doesn't do anything. The last choice, a mint flavored version of the unacceptable slippery type. No good. A crate of floss I will send him upon my return. A crate.
Yesterday I went to the Bartell's. Back in the corner by the pharmacy counter, you'll find the toothpaste and toothbrushes and the floss. I stood in front of the wall mounted packages giggling. Forty kinds? Fifty? How many sorts of floss were there? Floss made of Gore-Tex and endorsed by the American Dental Association. Floss in plain, mint, and cinnamon. Floss in jumbo sized packages and floss in pocket sized packages. The official floss of the 2002 Winter Olympics. And the store branded budget version of all of the above. Nearby shoppers looked at me as though I was crazy while I laughed out loud.
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Many years back I had a similar experience, though less amusing. I had been traveling through Egypt, India, and Pakistan. Shortly after returning to the US, I went to the supermarket to buy shampoo. I broke in to tears. I'd been out of the country for so long and in such poor places that the sight of all that choice was too much to bear. I left the store empty handed. It took me many painful months to readjust to the obscene selection of products that were essentially all the same. We made a family shopping trip Costco during that time and I was so traumatized that it took me years, seriously, years, to go there again. I'm still a little sensitive about Costco, but I can manage if I keep my head down and stick to the shopping list.
A few years later when the Soviet Union opened up, I saw a Russia lady interviewed on television. "We couldn't believe our eyes", she said. "We'd walk by giant bins of clothes for sale in department stores and we thought we were dreaming. We were paralyzed; we didn't know what to do. It was impossible to decide amid so many choices." I had the tiniest bit of insight in to how she must have felt.
I'm of a much less delicate disposition than I was when I returned from India. Plus, Austria is not exactly a land of deprivation. No more so than, say, rural eastern Washington, where there's a fantastic selection of produce but maybe not so much really good bread—exactly the opposite of Austria, really. What I'm trying to say is that the odds of my having an emotional breakdown in the cereal aisle are very low. But I am enjoying the perspective I get from having been away for three months. You fellow Yankees should check it out. There is an amazing variety of floss. How many kinds of ice cream are there in the freezer case at your supermarket? (This reminds me, there are new Ben and Jerry's flavors since I went away. I know Unilever bought them, but their ice cream still kicks butt.)
Look at the shampoo; go on, I dare you. You won't believe what you're taking for granted.
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