by Kirsten Ilajas

We wake up to a different world these days. We are locked in the same place we’ve stayed for years or are trapped somewhere in a strange land. We spend the days away from the sun—away from family, friends, and our communities. We have been inside our houses for months, such that the simple weekly grocery run has become an escape from the four walls of our anxieties, our worries, the things that we hide deep within, and the thoughts that haunt us before we sleep and during the wee hours of the morning. 

I woke up today as the Arabic prayer from the nearby mosque was echoing in the streets of Sheikh Zayed. I can hear conversations from other rooms in their native language. The aroma of curry or a heavily spiced dish drifted in my room. It is very far from waking up at home. I stretched my limbs out and then returned to the warmth of the sheets—the only warmth I have felt since months ago. However, today is grocery day—an escape from the mini-world of self-isolation that I have created since the quarantine. I started preparing: mask on, hand sanitizer in my bag, gloves on, took a caplet of Vitamin C, grabbed my metro card, and, like an astronaut, I slowly jettisoned to one of my favorite places nowadays—The Grocery Store.

As I went out, I can’t help but notice again how unusual the commute to the grocery has become. The train stations are now more organized, with little to no people at all. The usual lines of hustling and rushing people were replaced by quiet, careful, and distant commuters. The train cabins that usually smelled of sweat and panic as people hurriedly disembarked at their destination now smelled like hospital wards.

At the store’s entrance, the security welcomed me with a thermometer gun. The security announced my body temperature as if informing everyone that I was clean before we both finally said good morning to each other.

From the store’s entrance, even from the outside, you can see the promos that the store is offering. I was surprised by how the price of everything seemed to drop. Maybe this is their strategy to clear out the shelves. However, despite the low prices, the shelves remained full—untouched, like everyone else.

With a small trolley, I explored each of the aisles where I needed something. I passed through the detergent section, the milk section, the poultry, and as I roamed every aisle, some were not so familiar to me. There were aisles with jugs of masala, curry, powdered pepper, pickles, blocks of different cheese, and all sorts of flavors and scents that are foreign to me.

As I strolled from one aisle to another, I got lost in the sea of people half-covering their faces—not a single grin, not a word, not a simple smile. Everyone was just trying to push their carts, trying to check their lists, and trying to avoid any form of touch and any form of connection.

In the middle of the pool of all the unfamiliarity, I detoured to one aisle—the only aisle where I knew something would be familiar. Then, I saw someone. Then, someone came with a bigger trolley, and then another one—until the aisle was filled with Filipinos choosing their Filipino goods at the store’s Philippine section. There was a slight interruption in the monotonous flow of the blood in my veins. My heart leaped as if I have first stepped out of a spaceship and landed home after years of exploring an unfamiliar planet.

Whenever I hear someone ask, “Kabayan po?” my heart would excitedly recognize the language, and in response, I’d say, “Opo. Kumusta po?” Even if I cannot see their lips behind the mask, I can see their eyes light up and know that their hearts feel the same.

This spot in the grocery store, where we pick 555 sardines and Odong or Century Tuna or Sky Flakes or Pansit Canton or Sibling’s Kaong if there’s an occasion, is the escape to the lonely months we spend in our apartments, thinking about home.

Amidst the fully stocked shelves, the unfamiliar smell of flavor, and the sea of faces that are half or fully covered in the grocery store, this is one of the things that I look forward to. 

When you are almost 5,000 miles away from home in the middle of a pandemic, the thought that there are people who, like me, share the same bloodline and share the same values and love for the people back home gives me comfort and hope.

I can’t help but feel the thumping in my chest, nostalgia creeping in, and a surge of familiarity and belongingness after a very long time.

Despite the loneliness that we feel, the struggle of being part of the OFW circle, the fears, and the sad thoughts at night, this very spot in the grocery reminds me that soon enough, I will be home, that soon enough, everything will turn out just fine, that one day, the stocks in the shelves will be touched again, and that just as I went to this aisle in the grocery when everything was unfamiliar and chaotic, I know I shall find my way home.

I went out of the grocery store with the things I need for the week plus a bonus item that I would be needing for a longer time—hope.