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A. Mart: The Supermarket That Raised Me Without Me Knowing
A journey through fluorescent lights, childhood trauma, and the unexpected comfort of Taiwanese grocery aisles.
The Infrastructure of Family: Defining A. Mart
Then there’s A. Mart. I’m returning after all these years, not as a scared kid, but as a woman—an IT girl, Fashion Ecstasy, a woman with childhood issues wearing high heels. And right away, the aroma hits me: This place is alive.
Costco? A large-scale warehouse. You go for eggs and leave with a kayak.
Carrefour? International, efficient, and frigidly cool.
PX Mart? Minimalist, practical, yet melancholic.
But A. Mart? It’s like that grumpy old aunt who never answers your calls but shows up exactly when everything is falling apart.
From the Mountains of Mucha to the Sea of Tamsui
I grew up in Mucha, Wenshan District. A place I rebranded as “The Mountains.” Officially? Taipei City. Emotionally? Exile. No nightlife. No scandal. Just trees. Disgraceful for someone made for chaos.
Then I moved: From The Mountains to The Sea—Tamsui. The salt air, the sunsets, the era of the Sea. I thought changing the scenery would change my destiny. But leaving the Mountain for the Sea doesn’t mean leaving yourself behind. Your personality arrives before the moving truck.
And yet, after finally escaping, my mother and I still come back. Back to The Mountains. Back to A. Mart. Some places don’t offer excitement; they offer reliability. And as you grow older, you realize that being reliable can be sexy.
The Strategic Brilliance of McDonald’s and Stockholm Syndrome
Right beside A. Mart—McDonald’s. Strategic brilliance. You put a McDonald’s next to a grocery store, and children develop “Stockholm Syndrome” for grocery shopping. It’s not “buying vegetables”; it’s “If you behave, you get fries.” Capitalism wins again.
Aisles of Identity: Canned Foods and Character Development
I head towards the alcohol section—the “Ex-Personality Department.” Previously, this aisle understood me more than any shrink. Kaoliang, Sake, and Wine. A. Mart doesn’t scream classiness; it softly whispers: “I have standards.”
Then the canned food aisle. Rows of metal prophecy. Unlike the accusing glances from dead fish in wet markets, canned foods know what it’s like to be me. They know how to keep it all locked up. With A. Mart, I could live my life alone: One woman. One cart. One emotional-support vinegar jar.
The Maturity of the Single Life
I matured offensively early. While others played with dolls, I got character development. I’ve been chased by “flies”—buzzing, persistent males—at every stage of life. I thought I needed the “Value Meal” family: a husband and two kids. But life, anorexia, and Grey’s Anatomy taught me otherwise. Children are not emotional bandages.
Now, I stand in the canned food aisle. My mom, a generation ahead, tells me: “Independence is invaluable.” Each tin declares, “No babysitter required.” Open. Heat. Consume. Recover. I call it preserved wisdom.
Belonging in the Vinegar Aisle
I don’t just “like” sour. I am sour. I see the industrial-sized vinegar bottles and I see identity. We load the cart: chicken feet, sweet potato leaves, Greek yogurt. A. Mart isn’t trying to dazzle you; it’s trying to nurture you.
I fled at 13, chasing lunacy, thinking peace was nothingness. But peace is the warmth of family, the routine of life, and the love that lives in silence. A. Mart was never boring. I just wasn’t ready.
