LUNDS AND THE TALE OF TWO VISITS!

Lund’s and The Tale of Two Visits
Over 40 years ago, as a young immigrant, embarking on a journey from Egypt, an ancient land, to America, a new and unfamiliar place. It was a trip to the unknown, a place I had only imagined through scenes in American movies or the taste of a Coke bottle on the streets of Cairo. The trepidation, excitement, and curiosity fascinated me about America—a land where everything seemed big and everyone was perpetually busy. I found myself intrigued by the everyday optimism of Americans, conveyed through casual phrases like “Have a nice day” or the informal “What’s up.” But nothing was as culturally transformative as my first visit to Lunds’ supermarket at Hennepin & Lake Street in south Minneapolis.

It stood across from my first apartment near Lake Calhoun, where I experienced what it meant to have “a room of one’s own.” Entering Lund’s felt like stepping into a paradise as described in Islamic traditions—filled with fruits, vegetables, milk, and honey—though the only virgin I found was in the olive oil bottle where you can pay more for extra Virgins.
I was overwhelmed, not just by the sheer abundance and variety of food, but by the realization that everything was accessible. Unlike the stores in Egypt, where shopkeepers often mediated purchases and questioned my choices, here I could freely select what I wanted; now I was a consumer with the freedom to choose from whatever was laid out on the shelf. For the first time, I could indulge in as much ice cream or candy as I pleased; it was liberating. I have the freedom to express myself through shopping.
Lunds’ supermarket was welcoming, even for someone with limited English skills, especially in the produce section, where the vibrant colors of fruits and vegetables spoke a universal language. Oranges, grapes, peaches, pomegranates, and strawberries seemed to beckon with their freshness and allure. I spent countless moments marveling at the colorful American cheese, wrapped neatly in its glossy packaging, flirting with me but maintaining a polite distance. The soda aisle, dressed in the patriotic red and white of Coke and Pepsi cans. My cart filled quickly with all my favorite foods, and on a whim, I added a fresh bouquet for the young cashier at the checkout counter. Who seemed confused by my unexpanded attention, but managed a shy smile.
At home, I unpacked my bags with reverence, carefully putting away each item. But this act of celebration was interrupted by my first cultural disappointment in America—a small yet profound wake-up call that made me question my place in this new land. The absence of Arabic among the thank-you messages on the shopping bags, despite the inclusion of other languages, left me feeling unseen and excluded. It was a stark reminder that even in a country of plenty, representation and acknowledgment matter deeply. This exclusion left me wondering why. It was more than 30 years before 9/11, and Islamophobia was less pronounced. I returned to the store, asking for the manager, I went upstairs to the office and jokingly asked the general manager, “Why don’t you thank me in my language?” He explained they didn’t know how to write in Arabic. So, I wrote “شكرا” (“shokran”) on a piece of white paper and handed it to him, saying, “hear it is.” and left. Later, to my surprise, I noticed Arabic had been added to the thank-you message on all of Lund’s bags. Fast forward 40 years, on a visit to downtown, I spotted a new Lund’s store on Hennepin and 12th Street, housed in a historic building. Unlike the spacious and inviting Lund’s I had first encountered, this store felt cramped and unwelcoming. The dim lighting and narrow, short aisles created a stark contrast to the vibrant and open atmosphere of the original store. Here, the tense environment left me with a sense of discomfort and unease, resembling an adult bookstore or a shady nightclub. Shoppers, mostly white businesspeople in suits and uniforms, navigated the chaos with hurried steps. A large African American man is sitting by the door, like a bouncer guarding a place where there is more black security than black shoppers. I picked up a few groceries and quickly headed to the checkout, ready to leave. As I pushed my cart toward the exit, the cart suddenly locked and became immobile. Confused, I tried everything—lifting the wheels and forcing the push, but nothing worked. Frozen in place, where people around me wondering if there are stolen items. Security arrived and explained that I couldn’t exit through that door; I needed to use the other door leading to the parking lot “This door leads to Hennepin,” he said as if I should know where he meant. He tried to turn the cart around, but my grocery cart was electronically locked and under arrest. Eventually, he disappeared later, came back with a free cart, and transferred my groceries so I could leave. Under the watchful gaze of other shoppers, I quickly exited to the parking lot. As I was approaching my car, a security man stormed from the store, shouting Sir, Sir… My heart raced, wondering what I had done wrong. He simply handed me the receipt that I left behind. Relieved, I asked him, “Am I free to leave now?” He smiled but said nothing. As I put my grocery bag in the car, realizing that my Arabic handwritten “Thanks” is still there.

(A Lunds Bag with thank you in Arabic)