Burlington is my Other Boyfriend

I love my neighborhood. While baking a carrot cake tonight, I realized I was woefully out of confectioner's sugar which is integral to the cream cheese frosting making process. Luckily, a block from my house is the Willard Street Market. You all know these corner markets. They're gas station convenience stores without the gas. They all have approximately three isles of miscellaneous goods and a wall of refrigerated beer and overpriced milk and OJ. This is just such a market. And I love it.

Why, you ask, would a dumpy corner market have my undying affection? It's a true statement that it's ugly. It has the full retinue of 70's faux wood paneling, fake IDs stuffed under the glass counter, 40 year old linoleum tiled floors, yellow tinged overhead lighting, and at least a $1.50 added to every item's price. In fact I was horrified the first time I walked through the aging glass doors. But I've grown to adore this bodega. Not only is it extremely convenient when I haven't had anything beyond filtered water in my apartment for days and I passed hungry a week ago, but it has gems hidden its run down isles. Search hard enough and you find Annie's organic mac and cheese. And what's that in the cooler? Oh yes, it's Tropicana. No concentrate here.

But the true wonder of the Willard Street market is its chief night cashier. I have no idea what her name is, but she saw 60 years old a long time ago and judging from my knowledge of the refugee population and her accent, she's Bosnian. She knows precisely three things that I've experienced: "hello", "goodbye" and how to count American money. She watches exclusively foreign soap operas on the discreetly placed tv behind the counter. She doesn't greet you when you walk in, but she sure as heck knows exactly where you are in her store. She doesn't call me "hon", she doesn't ask me how my day was, she doesn't smile. She does her job with the bare minimum contact required and I find that very refreshing in this overly pleasant town. Sometimes you just want to buy a pound of sugar without discussing your life story. Sometimes you just want that silent acknowledgment that this is just a business transaction and I'm coming back no matter what the customer service is like. And she obliges. And I love it, even if I had to pay an extra $1.50 to get it.