even suburbs have moments of greatness

If you know me at all, you know the flutter of comfort that washes over me everytime the train pulls into 30th St. Station in Philadelphia (or when the Chinatown bus pulls into 10th and Arch, or greyhound at Filbert- you get the idea). Today, my dad came to pick me up and asked if I minded if we swung by Wegmans to pick up a few groceries (weird but true: my parents' shopping list nowadays consist solely of yogurt, turkey slices, apple sauce, and pita chips). Wegmans really excites me. Not only for the veritable cornucopia of samples (brie with walnuts, crab dip, and organic marinara all in one supermarket fantasy land? yes please), but also because of the fresh produce, passionate employees, and excessive candy isle. It's a wonderland. It doesn't evoke the same feelings as my old Philadelphia apartment on Pine Street- rather- Wegmans produces feelings of a not-so-tragic suburbia. With Gala apples as perfectly pink-red as this, who needs xanex. For all of those soccer moms stuck in various forms of drug-induced happiness, I imagine that Wegmans provides a substance-free wonderland of perfection. Me? I'm just in it for the samples and the delectable cheese and olive bar.