Written By: Tara Tandlich
My jumbo, folding shopping cart is a vital mode of urban transport. Four wheels, one handle, endless trips. From my home on the Upper West Side, we’ve traveled uptown for rice milk, rice pasta and rice cakes (I sense a pattern), mid-town to buy fabric (for another type of pattern), and Brooklyn to procure beans, bread and broccoli. (Leaving my borough for alliterative foods is a worthy journey.)
No matter where we roll, I’ve learned to deftly navigate an obstacle course of potholes, broken glass and uneven sidewalks. All this while veering around strollers, scooters, hand trucks, and other wheeled devices.
It was all good.
Until it wasn’t.
One day, on my way back from food shopping, my cart popped a wheel. I tried to put it back on. No use. The axle was broken. Even though I was only a few blocks from home, I couldn’t return home. Instead, I was stuck on the street with a cart packed full of canned and boxed goods, produce, perishables and paper products. If there had been a store nearby, instead of brownstones, I’d have asked to leave my cart, run home, and borrow a neighbor’s big (okay, super-size) cart. Instead, I called a friend to meet me.
Unfortunately, my phone wouldn’t work. My food was melting. My patience was melting. I was running out of water. Eventually, I got through to my friend and briefed her on my situation. “I’d love to help, but I don’t have a big cart.”
“Just bring what you can.”
Like an urban Sherpa, she soon appeared with her small cart, a knapsack on wheels and a rickety, wheeled suitcase. We gracefully removed and transferred the many (many) groceries.
That’s a lie.
“Keep shoving it in,” I urged.
“There’s no more room,” she insisted.
During that time, my out of commission cart, surrounded by bags of groceries, was strewn on the sidewalk. From one bag: stalks of celery, heads of lettuce and assorted squash peeked out — like an impromptu farmer’s market. A few people passed by. No one paid much attention (except one guy who seemed interested in the corn).
Finally, after shoehorning in as much as we could, slinging various bags over our shoulders and tying other bags onto the handle of my friend’s cart, we set forth. My friend pushed/coaxed her (now creaking) cart. I pulled the knapsack and suitcase and dragged my three-wheeled compatriot. At the end of the block, near a recycling barrel, I laid my broken cart to rest, like a fallen hero. Moments later, I arrived home. I figured the worst was over. I figured wrong.
I planned to buy a replacement cart. However, my cart was discontinued. Some people would say, “Buy something else.” If only it were that easy. My former cart, in addition to being large and sturdy (until it wasn’t) had a built-in metal basket in the back. A basket that lovingly and safely cradled my tote bag and mini-knapsack. A cart without a basket is like a car without a passenger seat.
I sighed.
I Googled.
I purchased another cart.
Without a basket.
After that, I hunted for a basket I could somehow Frankenstein onto my cart. First, I tried a large, wicker basket — meant to strap onto a bike. Not unlike that which held Dorothy’s dog, Toto, in The Wizard of Oz.
The basket arrived. It was massive.
And, when strapped to the back of the cart, hit me in the stomach. Return.
Next.
After other, failed attempts, my friend (who, oddly/thankfully, was still taking my calls) suggested I try plastic baby carriage hooks. They Velcro onto carriage handle bars so bags may hang from them.
I bought. I tried. I scored.
Once again, I roll.
