Wal-Martial Law

On Monday night, I fulfilled a lifelong dream to encounter paramecia. Dan and Ian and I looked at old Christmas tree water with Ian's microscope, and it was teeming with quick-moving microorganisms I couldn't identify. While I gazed at the bustling slide, a lone paramecium smoothly waltzed right into my sightline, flaunting its curves, and then passed out of view. Then another did the same. And another. Ecstatic, I waited while the magnification was raised, then refocused and bided my time. I had to wait a while. I tapped the slide, trying to get an ideal paramecium-gazing pool in view. Finally, my patience was rewarded with several close-up, unobstructed paramecia minding their own business and just gliding on by! I could see their organelles clearly. Finally I decided to give my godson a turn with his own microscope and retired to my room in a giddy swoon.

Now then.

If in the course of existence you find that Wal-Mart has become the focal point of your daily living, it may be time to mindfully rethink certain aspects of your life. In my case, the centrality of Wal-Mart to my existence actually stemmed from mindfully rethinking certain aspects of my life. I was happy enough to live Wal-Mart-free in Los Angeles; making the heady (and headstrong?) decision to uproot and transplant has led me to a semi-civilized frontier land where the local Wal-Mart serves as a first line of defense, a last resort, an arbitrary destination, a faintly echoing call from the Lower 49, and a necessary oasis on the windswept arctic tundra.

It all started with my need to walk. On a practical level, I need to walk because Dan and Melissa work during the day and I don't have access to a car. On a deeper and more desperate level, I need to walk because I feel housebound and stir crazy if I don't walk, especially in this frigid place where the sheer ferocity of the natural world-- its deadly cold and its bloodthirsty fauna and the vastness of its largely unpeopled wilderness-- threatens to encroach on the house and terrorize me into staying locked in my room with all of the blankets forever. Cabin fever is not for me. Walking is for me. Exploring is for me. Unfortunately for me, the only viable destination within 3 miles, the only hub, the only place of human exchange, is Wal-Mart.

Granted, it is, as previously noted, the most ruggedly beautiful Wal-Mart ever crafted by the hand of man.

Yet Wal-Mart it remains. And being a Wal-Mart in Alaska, it has its... peculiarities.

This sign rests over one of the entrances:

So, there's that.

Wal-Mart has a program whereby bush pilots will fly supplies anywhere in Alaska. This is crucial, because bush planes are the ONLY way to reach most of this made-up state. (I'm becoming less and less certain that Alaska is a real, geographical place; it shows many signs of being a catch-all fantasy land of the Tolkien/Lewis/Le Guin/Martin variety.)

Perhaps the necessity of bush pilotage explains another feature of Alaskan Wal-Mart: The dismal lack of fresh green vegetables. To be fair, this may actually be a feature of Alaska in general, and maybe I should instead be impressed by the presence of ANY vegetable in a land where it's always winter and never Christmas.

Like Narnia.

But I hail from the land of Los Angeles, where tangerines and avocados straight up drop onto the ground from heavy-laden trees, and farmers' markets run year-round with bountiful produce grown under the radiance of the eternal California sun. The relatively limited supply of vegetables to be found in Eagle River, AK is one culture shock that will take time and struggle to adjust to. In the meantime, I find myself in scenarios like the one that played yesterday, as I desperately search the gravely limited produce shelf for signs of (recently ended, vegetal) life, spotting a stack of Napa cabbage and almost weeping tears of relief at the sight of the frilly green fronds and the word "Napa," picking up one of the giant bunches and cradling it against my snow coat as I walk around the store.

Now, the real question: What does the cashier make of my purchase of 1 eighteen-piece bunch of plastic hangers, 1 giant head of Napa cabbage, and 1 Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles sweatshirt from the Juniors' department?

The whole point of walking to Wal-Mart is walking. When I walk, I get exercise and bracing lungfuls of fresh mountain air. Unfortunately, Alaska is fairly hideous.

#underwhelmed

It offers so little in the way of visual stimuli.

Unless you're actually into this sort of thing.

Sometimes, of course, while walking to Wal-Mart, the sun shines dazzlingly upon every frost-covered surface, which is in fact every surface, creating an indescribable iridescent effect, and the little ice crystals suspended in the air that drift slowly down from the pure-blue sky are so illuminated that it looks like silver glitter is dancing on the breeze. In that moment, you remember incredulously that you were once content to live a life where glittering ice crystals didn't dance in the winter sun that peeked out from behind the Lonely Mountain in its wild and ancient majesty, and you thank your lucky stars in their Aurora Borealis-bedecked sky that you live in such a mysterious land.

But then, later that night, you're just trying to walk down the hall from your bedroom to the bathroom and you get inconvenienced by THIS totally lame sunset going on.

Oh please.

How rude.