Hypermarketing

"Mom, what is a hypermarket?" asks Silas from the backseat of the car after our latest adventure at the Lulu. He has been gazing out the window at the garrishly lit front of the Lulu and probably noticed for the first time that it is not just "Lulu" up there in neon, but "Lulu Hypermarket".

What is a hypermarket? Do I tell him that it is a highly flammable, Indian-owned chain of stores found in the Middle East? No, the flammable thing would spawn a whole new set of questions. Do I tell him that it is just what it sounds like--a "hyper" market, like Tehva is a "hyper" child? No, no, best to go with honesty here.

"Silas, you have been in that store a million times since we moved here. You tell me what a hypermarket is. You've been there. You were just there." In response, Silas crumples into a whining heap since neither he nor I can very easily define hypermarket.

A hypermarket is, at all times, like a Super Wal-Mart on food stamp Friday, just before a massive hurricane is set to hit. Got that picture in your mind? Okay, now stack another Wal-Mart on top and put a stairless escalator in the middle of the store--that way you can get your cart (but at Lulu it's called a "trolley") up to the second floor. Done? Okay, now take away half of the registers and shrink all of the aisles so that only one and a half carts can fit. Finally, make it an absolute requirement that a gigantic motorized floor cleaner troll the aisles like a snow plow, rearranging the surge of humanity, especially during peak shopping hours.

That is a hypermarket, in a nutshell.

So yesterday, for some unknown reason, we decided we needed to go to Lulu Hypermarket on a weekend in the evening. This adds an extra element to the tranquil picture I have painted above--Omanis. Going to Lulu on a Friday means risking stepping on hems--both women's and men's, running down small Omani children who are playing catch between the shopping carts, and waiting at a register for a minimum of 20-30 minutes. It is like my above Wal-Mart scenario on crack cocaine. But we simply HAD to go, so off we went.

Tony and I decided to split up and attack the floors seperately. This means that the children naturally have to come with me since I am only half as mean as Tony, and all of them want to hold onto the sides of the cart, which defies the laws of physics since two items cannot occupy the same space at the same time. But they all jockey for the honor of holding onto the sides of the cart. We enter the spice aisle, Tehva and Silas kicking each other, which means that I have to search for spice satchets while all of the Indian subcontinent stares at the two of them.

Finally I seperate them, placing Tehva on one side of the cart and Silas on the other. However, I can no longer see Tehva for all of the people who have suddenly crowded in on my right (apparently everyone needs turmeric this week) and so I have to trust that she will behave properly during the five minutes I cannot see her. When the fray clears (thank goodness for the massive floor cleaner--whisked everybody out of my way) I see that Tehva has knocked over every box of dumpling mix and is working on slowly and methodically punching each box of Jello off the shelf as well.

Silas is, at this point, laying down in the middle of the aisle. I tell him to get up before he gets trampled. He responds that he is looking at the lights on the ceiling. The masses trip miraculously around him without harming him and, seemingly, without noticing him either. I kick Silas and he finally gets up, complaining that he is tired and hungry, and asking how much longer he will have to put up with this.

Tony appears and puts everyone in order. Tian asks why we are so crabby and harrumphs at the injustice of being grouped together with her siblings when it comes to misperceptions of behavior. Tehva is placed into the cart, and we head upstairs on the stairless escalator. This floor is the one that has the banks of televisions, electronics, appliances, clothing, toys, sports, and school supplies. A batallion of men stand in front of the TVs and oggle a commercial where a woman is showing her midriff and moving her hips like she has spiders in her panties. We find what we need and get in line, set for the long wait to be checked out.

Our cashier looks like a pastel-wrapped iceberg. If she were an American she would be cracking her gum. She is a mountain of a woman with gaudily painted nails, cakey make up, and a perennial sneer, who sits wrapped in yards of black abaya and an ungodly amount of colorful head scarf. She scowls at every single item that she has to scan as if it has been put in front of her namely to threaten her manicure. Her eyes scream her distaste for the latest Omanization Policy whereby all cashiering jobs must go to Omanis. I am completely entertained watching her work.

When we come to the front of the line and she begins to scan our purchases and we discover that somehow extra items have crept into our lot of groceries. Tony stops her and says, "That is not mine. I don't want that gum. It's not mine." She scowls at him and throws the gum toward the bagger. Whether or not we like it the gum is ours, as is the scarf we accidentally put in the cart. The risk of breaking a nail while pushing the "Void Item" button is too great for her to risk removing things from our order.

I think back on all of this after Silas asks again, "But what is a hypermarket?" It is an experience, especially on a Friday.