A Wanderer’s Chronicle: Of Ecological Shops and Cultural Dissonance

This morning, I found myself in a quaint ecological shop, where I occasionally indulge in “genuine” eggs and “authentic” wine—as if food requires existential validation. As a conscientious shopper, I’m quite particular about what I put in my Harrods bag (wink, wink)—only whole foods will do. However, I must admit that frequenting this charming establishment is a luxury I can’t afford daily.

As I stood at the counter with my chosen items—each a small trophy of ethical consumption, not. I engaged in a meaningful conversation with the owner. It wasn’t just small talk; we delved into “profound” topics like telluric lines and biodynamic experiences.

How delightfully esoteric of us!

I shared with her some of my past encounters with these concepts, carefully omitting how they’ve become another currency in the marketplace of intellectual posturing.

My eldest daughter once had a memorable encounter with a zealous member of the Anthroposophic community where we were staying—those high priests of alternative agriculture who mistake dogma for enlightenment.

It was over biodynamic eggs, which she had misused. For her, “biodynamic” meant dynamic regarding diverse dynamical uses—a perfectly reasonable assumption in a world (of a nine year old) where words are increasingly divorced from their meanings, much like the community members were divorced from self-awareness.

Though we were visitors in their sacred space, they treated us with the scepticism reserved for wanderers throughout history—those who bring new ideas are rarely welcomed by those wearing the blinders of tradition.

As the owner rang up my purchases and engaged in a philosophical symposium on wine, an elderly couple began unloading their items onto the tiny counter, disregarding personal space with the entitlement that only decades of existence (and yet with a display of popular uses) can bestow.

Meanwhile, another customer interrupted the owner, demanding an explanation about an item with the urgency of someone inquiring about the last lifeboat on a sinking ship.

Fortunately, the owner politely told her she would attend to her after finishing with the other clients—a masterclass in the dying art of queue management. I received a lovely bag as a gesture of apology, not just because my facial expressions (to my mother’s eternal dismay) often speak louder than my carefully cultivated vocabulary but also because the owner understood that the principles of powerful tellurian lines, biodynamics, and veganism don’t always align with elegance or education.

But my mind wandered to a broader issue: the intersection of tourism and colonialism. One can’t simply buy groceries without contemplating global power dynamics, right?

Today, the influence of ex-pats often acts as a form of veiled colonialism, where the economic imbalance between visitors and locals can exacerbate resentments reminiscent of colonial times. I know this tension intimately, having wandered into many small villages with my revolutionary thinking and innovative business approaches. I’ve been both catalyst and outsider, valued for the changes I bring yet subtly dismissed for lacking the traditional markers of credibility.

It’s like watching a tragic play unfold in the “Podunk Tragedy Theater”—named for those small, obscure towns that were once boggy places before becoming shorthand for backwater insignificance. I am the antihero in this drama, bringing necessary disruption while being eyed with suspicion. The audience applauds the results of innovation but remains wary of the innovator.

The tragedy lies not just in the economic disparities but also in the erosion of local cultures and the perpetuation of colonial legacies through tourism. We travel to “discover” places as if they didn’t exist before our arrival, in a Columbus-esque delusion of self-importance. Yet I’ve watched as my creative contributions were copied once their value was proven—originality diluted into imitation, the revolutionary becoming mundane.

In this context, the lack of manners and respect for personal space in the shop becomes a microcosm of larger societal issues—issues that are both tragic and profound. It’s a bit like trying to find the meaning of life in a crowded café, where everyone is too busy sipping their lattes to notice the world around them.

But perhaps, in the chaos of it all, we can find a glimmer of hope: the hope that one day, we’ll learn to respect each other’s space, both physically and culturally.

Though I wouldn’t bet my biodynamic eggs on it.

As I left the shop, I wondered about my own place in this ecosystem of consumption and meaning. Like the academics with their horse blinders, the regular patrons of this establishment see only what their narrow focus allows.

Meanwhile, I move on, creating changes to outlast my presence, feeling that familiar mixture of pride and isolation.

Looking back at what I’ve influenced, I sometimes think: wow, is that really me? The wanderer leaves footprints that become paths for others, even as they question the legitimacy of the one who first walked there.

“Cause I’m a wanderer

I travel every place

Cause I’m a wanderer

From here to outer space

Cause I’m a wanderer

Got no time

Cause I’m a wanderer

Just a wanderer”

“Now you may see me

Any time and any place

And you may know me

From the same look on your face

And I don’t know if I could change your frame of mind

Cause I’m a wanderer

Just a wanderer”

Diva Donna Summer.

May Harmony find you,

Irena Phaedra