We live downtown, which often behaves like a small village. We occasionally shop in the suburbs, which feels like an intense, overwhelming urban onslaught.
We were proud card-carrying CostCo members. After a few years, the fervor faded. We swore off big-box services and concentrated on supporting the new Stop & Shop in our neighborhood.
Then a coupon came in the mail and at a vulnerable moment, and next thing we know, we are beholden to BJ’s.
Like it so far. It seems about a third smaller than the Post Road CostCo, especially in the height of the ceiling, which makes it feel less Orwellian as a shopping experience. At CostCo, I used to clutch my cart as if I was steering a space module. It was an intense, disorienting experience. As a store, it felt like Tron.
We would recover from a CostCo shlep by eating at a Chinese restaurant down the road, or buying crafts at another shop, but nothing comforting was immediately nearby. The North Haven BJ’s, by contrast, has several comfort zones, including Barnes & Noble and the Rave cinemas, within walking distance.
Stop & Shop is still our neighborhood market, where we wave to friends and drop change in jars to support school sports teams. BJ’s (or CostCo, when we could handle it) is the fantasyland where a large bottle of vanilla costs just $7, where we can afford the charitable impulse of birdseed for the feeders in our garden, where we can buy a bag of frozen broccoli large enough to serve an icepack for an elk.
Downtown’s got scale. We use a bag or cart to shop. Further out, it’s madness.