The Stop & Shop Summer Experience: Not For The Faint Of Heart

To the editor: When people think of Nantucket in the summer, they think of beaches, sailboats, cobblestone streets, gray-shingled cottages, and climbing roses.

But if you want a truly authentic Nantucket experience, skip all of that and head straight to the mid-island Stop & Shop.

Not as an observer.

As a participant.

You enter with a shopping list.

You emerge 90 minutes later, wondering what the hell just happened.

In July and August, it becomes the island's unofficial town hall, international arrivals terminal, social club, obstacle course, and emotional endurance test.

The aisles are narrow enough to create diplomatic incidents. Two carts approach near the pasta. Neither can pass. One person backs up. Another suddenly develops an intense fascination with tomato sauce. Someone slips through frozen foods like they're trying to beat rush-hour traffic.

Entire family reunions take place in produce.

Meanwhile, those of us trying to get in and out unnoticed develop shopping strategies that would impress a military planner.

Head down.

List memorized.

Get the eggs.

Abort if necessary.

And then there are the employees.

God bless them.

They arrive from all over the world to spend a season on this isle of summer.

"Excuse me," you ask. "Could you tell me where the maple syrup is?"

One young employee smiles warmly.

"Of course! Yez! Nice meet you!"

Then disappears in search of the maple syrup with you.

Forty-five minutes later, neither of you has found it, but you've learned where they're from and promised that someday you'll visit Bulgaria, Turkmenistan, Uzbekistan, Mongolia, Lithuania, or one of the many countries represented in the store.

The mid-island Stop & Shop is also Nantucket's town square.

You'll encounter old friends, former coworkers, neighbors, people you've been meaning to call, people you hoped never to see again, and at least three people who insist they know exactly who you are while you desperately search your memory.

And then there is one special person.

She's not an employee. She's a professional concierge and grocery shopper.

While the rest of us wander the aisles in varying states of confusion, she glides through the store like a prima ballerina. She knows exactly where everything is and which aisles to avoid.

Everybody knows her.

And she knows everybody.

What should be a 30-minute shopping trip somehow stretches into three hours because every few feet another conversation begins, and before long she's directing lost shoppers to whatever they're looking for.

No one elected her.

No one appointed her.

Yet somehow, she became the undisputed queen of mid-island Stop & Shop.

As for me, I confess that every visit I seem to commit some minor offense that annoys somebody.

Once my cart gets full, I'll tuck it neatly into a corner while I dash off for one forgotten item.

Apparently, that's a serious violation of the social contract.

Because my eyesight isn't what it once was, I navigate Stop & Shop a little differently these days.

I walk slowly and carefully through the aisles, looking for openings and making every effort not to bump into anyone or knock something off an end cap.

I have to say, the employees have been incredibly kind to me.

Sometimes I'll ask where something is—or some other ridiculous question, like whether the eggs came from happy chickens—just to enjoy a friendly conversation with another human being.

Eventually, through instinct, luck, and the occasional intervention of a kind stranger, I arrive exactly where I intended to go.

I've even had the multitalented, award-winning John Shea personally walk me through the aisles to help me find what I was looking for.

Not point me in the right direction.

Walk me through the store.

What a guy.

I've also seen shoppers become hopelessly disoriented, circling the same aisles with the thousand-yard stare of someone beginning to question reality.

Just two days ago, an elderly woman announced, on the verge of tears,

"I've already been through this aisle three times."

Within minutes, complete strangers had joined the search.

"Didn't we already pass the crackers?"

"No... that was cereal."

For some people, it's less a grocery store than a wilderness expedition with fluorescent lighting.

And I've noticed one more thing, and this part is absolutely true.

At the end of a long day, when I finally make my shopping run and the store is packed, with everyone just one frayed nerve away from losing their patience, I find myself thinking:

If ever there were a time for a stiff drink, this would be it.

The manager ought to get on the PA system and say:

"Attention Stop & Shop customers. If your shopping experience becomes emotionally overwhelming, please remember there is a liquor store conveniently located through the rear doorway, where the staff is standing by to assist you through this difficult time. Thank you for shopping at Stop & Shop, and good luck."

But beneath all the chaos, comedy, and occasional frustration, there is something else happening at Stop & Shop.

There are people who come here because they have nowhere else to go.

People who linger because this is where they find companionship, conversation, and a sense of belonging.

You'll recognize them.

They stand in front of a jar of mustard, reading every word on the label as though they're conducting a literary analysis of War and Peace.

Please be kind to them.

They're counting on you.

You may forget the one item you came to buy.

But you'll leave with groceries you didn't intend to purchase, a few stories to tell, and a renewed appreciation for the Nantucket summer experience.

Sooner or later, you'll find the milk.

Or at least somebody who knows where they moved it this week.

Charles Dundee