Adventures in … Carrefour

 

 

Everybody was so, so happy when Carrefour, the French retail chain came to Israel… We thought maybe we’ll have variety, lower prices, better services, high quality goods... Well, that’s not what happened. There weren’t many brand products and all the other stuff they sold in their super-markets was the same as everywhere else, only more expensive.

We have a mini-market in our neighborhood, among Russian delis and shops. For 27 years, since I’ve moved here, I’ve been shopping there. They are close, while the big supermarkets are usually in the outskirts and I don’t drive. The place had a lot of owners, before becoming a Carrefour branch.

I go there mainly because I have no other choices around, I know the place and everybody who works there and they have a bomb shelter – very important these days.

Like every Israeli neighborhood shop it has its daily struggles. I mean, there is always some “drama”. Not enough cashiers, not enough smaller trolleys, no milk, the watermelon is too expensive.

But today, oh, today it was absolutely crazy. First of all, the shop was messy as usual, with huge crates full of merchandise smack in between the aisles so it wasn’t possible to pass through. They always do this, they unpack the merchandise at noon, when it is already full with shoppers.

I was waiting in line to get my stuff scanned.

Woman: “Excuse me, do you have a Carrefour card?”

Me: “Yes, I have”.

Woman: “Could you buy these two jars of spaghetti sauce for me, on your card? They are on sale if you have a card. I’ll pay you back cash”.

Me: “OK, no problem”.

But, we soon discovered there was another lady who was after me in line and in front of the lady with the jars. So, I had to wait for the cashier to scan her stuff. But…before she even started, an old man with a cane and two packs of cheese moved in front of her.

Man: “Can I scan these? I am in a hurry, I have to go to the hospital”.

Everybody agrees.

Man (to the cashier): “And while you’re at it, bring me a pack of Pall Mall cigarettes.”

SAY WHAT???

Everybody protests.

The line is getting longer and longer. The cashier has to leave her seat in order to bring the man the cigarettes (they are somewhere else entirely in the shop).

The man pays and says: “Where is the customer service here?”

Cashier:” Why? What’s the problem?”

Man: “I want to complain about the high prices you have at Carrefour”.

Everybody begins speaking at once.

“Why didn’t you someplace else if it is expensive here?”, somebody asks.

“You aren’t in a hurry any more”, adds somebody else.

The cashier, on the PA system, asks for help. Nobody comes.

A nice young woman convinces him to go somewhere else to buy stuff if he is not pleased with the prices.

The man leaves. The cashier resumes her work. The woman after me has three carrots, one zucchini, one kohlrabi, one fennel, two pots of yoghurt, a bag of pasta and some other small items. She pays and leaves. The woman with the sauce jars finishes too, and gives me the money she owes me. 12 effing shekels. I would’ve gone home instead of waiting for one bloody half an hour.

Finally, I exist the shop. The nice young woman in line after us had to wait to pay for a quarter of a watermelon.

 

 

While We're Waiting in Line

 

Since my husband is not mobile at the moment, besides my usual chores I am the one responsible for getting his medication for him. That means periodic trips to the pharmacy.

I hate going to the pharmacy, any pharmacy. In Israel they are an entire world by themselves.

The one I usually go to is small and almost always full of people. Sometimes, if weather permits, after I take a number, I go and wait outside. If not, then I have to go inside. At least in summer there is air conditioning.

Today, an old lady, I think from Georgia, has a prescription for Voltaren, unfortunately uncovered by the health insurance.

Old lady: “Why is it so expensive?”

Pharmacist: “That’s the full price. Do you want it or not?”

Old lady: “Yes”.

Pharmacist: “Big or small?”

Old lady: “What?”

Pharmacist: “The tube of ointment. Voltaren. Big or small?”

Old lady: “Show me both of them”.

She takes both tubes and examines them for, it feels like, long minutes.

Old lady: “I want the small one. Why is so expensive?”

Pharmacist: “I ‘ve told you. It is not covered by the health insurance”.

Old lady: “Why?”

Pharmacist: “I don’t know. It simply isn’t”.

Old lady: “I don’t want it anymore. It is too expensive. I think I have one at home, anyway”.

Gives the tube back to the pharmacist and exits the room. Comes back after a few minutes and inserts herself between the counter and another person that’s already there.

Old lady: “I’ve changed my mind. I want the ointment.”

Pharmacist: “You have to wait until I’ve finished with him”, points at the person that looks baffled at the old lady.

Finally, after much debate that lasted at least ten minutes, concerning the dimensions of the tube, the quantity of the ointment and the number of times it should be applied, the old lady leaves with a small tube of Voltaren.

Oh my, that pharmacist, she had the patience of a saint.

At another counter, another old lady. Small and frail, with a Superman cap on her head.

Pharmacist: “You have to take the medicine with a meal”.

Superman cap lady: “Why?”

Pharmacist: “You shouldn’t take it on an empty stomach; it could hurt it”.

Superman cap lady: “But I always take it on an empty stomach!”

After another long debate about the rights and wrongs of taking medicine with or without food, Superman cap lady is not convinced. But leaves with the medicine anyway.

At another counter, a very old man, crooked like a question mark over his walker, shouts in Russian. I guess he is almost deaf, because the pharmacist shouts back, too. The shouting goes on for several minutes.

Another number is called. A young man, smelling strongly of perspiration, shoves me aside in order to reach the counter.

“Let me pass, lady”, he says angrily. I make myself small to let him pass.

While waiting for my turn (already 50 minutes have passed) I scan the shelves. They have lots of shelves in this tiny room. On one wall and three shelving stands in the middle. As if the room isn’t cramped enough. But it is clearly a marketing strategy, because when I leave the pharmacy, one hour later, beside the medicine for my husband I acquired one shampoo, one tub of toothpaste, some face cream, a hand cream and some vitamins.

I thought I would get used to people being assholes by now. But I'm not. I cannot, for the love of God, understand my fellow humas. Does anybody fucking care in this entire world? And, no, no, don't get tricked by the illusion of "caring" that hides behind it all kind of interests. It is hard to believe, but people will "care" for everything if they are paid enough, if it is fashionable and trendy. 

Real care? Not so much.

And it extends from the general to the personal.

The world is filled with people suffering - disease, famine, war, hate, crimes. You name it, it is here. And yet, most of the time, we choose to look away. And something more. People that really do something, they don't shout about it, they do it quietly, without fanfare, without waiting to be praised. and because of that, nobody knows about them, acknowledge their deeds, because it is silent, because it doesn't want praise.

On a more personal level, I see it all the time, in the small reality where I live. Nobody really cares, either. I know I sound like a broken record, I know I said it so many times. But I care and it destroys me. 

My husband always says that I have to higher expectations from people. Maybe. But I judge them according to my moral compass, and because I have high expectations from myself, I guess I expect it in others. Formula for disappointment, my wise husband would say. Strangely enough, I repeat the same words to my daughter, when she comes to me with the the same complaint - that people don't care, don't do their job or do it badly. Don't expect people to be like yourself, don't expect anything from them.

Our building, for example. It was such a nice place to be. But, as years have passed, new tenants appeared, noisy, dirty, rude, in a word- assholes. They double park, throw their garbage everywhere apart from the bins and by doing so, smear everything with their leaky trash bags. They smoke in the stairwell and they put out their cigarettes on the window sills or better, they throw them on the grass while still burning. They get too many in the elevator so they get stuck and then the elevator doesn't work for three days. And you have to take the stairs to the 6th floor with the shopping. And their dog poops on your doormat and they just leave it there for you to step in it. Careless, indifferent douchebags. But, whenever there is something to be done in the building, repairs and such, they all disappear. But when there are problems, they are all very busy. 

And I have many more examples. But only thinking about them makes me sick. I don't want to write them down, do make them visible, permanent. 

So, yes, people are assholes. Nothing has changed and unfortunately, nothing will.