On Having Acquired a Hopelessly Bourgeoise Aesthetic

I live in Palo Alto, California, home of the hyper-educated, hyper-successful Stanford graduate BMW lover. When I first moved to Palo Alto, I was convinced that I died and been transported to Paradise. Three years later, I still think it's a distinct possibility after moving into a mansion in an older, sophisticated part of town and starting to eat organic produce from Whole Foods. Surely heaven on a glorified, populated Earth will involve sidewalk cafes and Italian hot chocolate.

Today, however, I found myself in a very NON heavenly setting near Palo Alto: Walmart. Walmart is so opposite of everything that Palo Alto holds near and dear that the Palo Alto city line is drawn just north of the Walmart parking lot. Palo Alto may miss out on the Walmart sales tax revenue, but it's a small price to pay for keeping their white-gloved fingers clean from Walmart's coinage of exploitation.

Speaking of white gloves: I was at the Walmart for the purpose of purchasing white knee socks and white underwear. The knee socks are for my Little Orphan Annie costume and the underwear... well. Turns out everyone needs socks and underwear. That's the thing about Walmart, it has things that everyone needs regardless of race or class or origin. It's a great equalizer, although I know for a fact that Stanford sorority girls don't wear Walmart underwear. They wear lacy nothings that they find at Neiman Marcus, and when they are much older they swap the brightly colored underthings for Jennifer Lopez-hued velour suits from Juicy Couture.

I poked around as briefly as possible and finally grabbed a five pack of white Hanes trouser socks. I wanted my sock things to be a little more substantial, but socks are always sold in "fits sizes 4-10" and having size 4 feet this always results in having bulgy heels poking up over the top of my shoes. Trouser socks, without a built-in heel, are a suitable compromise. I snatched a packet of briefs and a yellow box of Milk Duds and then read the tabloid headlines about Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie while I waited in another never-ending Walmart line. When I got to the counter, the checker had to stop and change the roll of paper in her receipt machine. She apologized for the wait, but having long ago accepted the burden of patience necessary as a Walmart shopper I shifted my feet and smiled at her to tell her she could take her time. I couldn't wait to leave but I'd broken out in hives in Walmart before and knew they would heal, in time.

On my way home from Walmart I stopped at The Milk Pail located in the opposite corner of the contiguous parking lot. Nothing could be more Palo Alto than The Milk Pail, except that in x-ing out Walmart, The Milk Pail ended up in Mountain View. Stocked full of firm organic fruits and vegetables, cheeses, and fresh baked crusty European style breads, The Milk Pail is a virtual celebration of the value the elite find in the rustic. Although packed and with equally unwieldy lines as its behemoth neighbor, the tiny Milk Pail exudes a charm that brings shoppers flocking back not for low prices but for tangy crumbs of apricot cheese and the crisp snap of gigantic sugar peas. I bought two small loves of herb rosemary bread, dried Turkish apricots, Wisconsin gouda, French Port Salut, and a bundle of asparagus although I've never purchased asparagus before and took them home in a recyclable plastic bag.

Arriving back at the Melville mansh in the Professorville neighborhood of Palo Alto, I was greeted by my roommates bearing cup containers of fresh organic frozen yogurt with strawberries and kiwis. We all bundled together on my queen size bed in The Nook (that's code for my bedroom) and savored the subtle cream sliding down our throats. I pulled my white comforter up over my toes.

It occurs to me that perhaps Walmart might be a staple of someone else's heaven-- a place where warm and adequate clothing and packaged foods may be bought at affordable prices. But even in this relatively open-minded state of consciousness I find myself hoping that heaven then might be tailorable and that I can stay in my little Nook in my Palo Alto paradise. As KT would say, will I someday be able to let go of Jerusalem for the Promised Land? What if I think the Promised Land contains nothing but Walmarts? I think I'm beginning to trade in my soul for a slice of that French Port Salut.