I go twice a week,
like a monk returning to the shrine,
not for incense or enlightenment,
but for tub cheese with horseradish and the frozen samosas that whisper of distant lands and microwave ease.

Inside, it’s a utopia: the cashiers are philosophers in Hawaiian shirts,
smiling like they know the secret to happiness is a $5 bottle of wine that tastes like a $7 bottle of wine.

But first, the gauntlet.
The parking lot,
a Darwinian ballet of SUVs and sedans,
each pirouetting toward the same spot like it’s the last lifeboat on the Titanic.
A place where blinkers lie,
and reverse lights are threats,
not warnings.

I’ve seen things there — a Prius duel a pickup,
a woman abandon her cart midaisle to chase a parking space like a gazelle fleeing a lion with reusable bags flapping behind her.

And yet, I return.
Because survival is its own reward,
and nothing tastes better than crackers bought after narrowly escaping death by bumper.

Maybe it’s a test,
a rite of passage,
a reminder that joy is earned, not given — that the path to the frozen tikka masala must pass through chaos.

So I park three blocks away,
walk in like a pilgrim,
and leave with groceries,
a dent-free car,
and the quiet thrill of having lived another day in the wild kingdom of Trader Joe’s.