When New York State instituted its single use plastic carryout bag ban in 2020 I was all for it, for both fashion and environmental reasons. A perennial New York City eyesore were plastic bags snagged on tree branches fluttering in the breeze. Rarely did anybody attempt to remove them. They’d remain there until they decomposed on their own timetable. That could take years.
But I was still apprehensive about how the ban would work. What would happen if I drove into my local supermarket’s parking lot and discovered myself bagless? I was offered sage advice from a California cousin whose state instituted its plastic bag ban in 2014. She told me to flood the zone. If your car was filled with bags, even if many of them went missing for whatever reason, enough would remain to keep you covered.
Nonetheless, these days I occasionally lift the tailgate of my car to find myself bereft and forced to purchase one of the supermarket’s reusable bags, a flimsy paper bag, or to go naked, so to speak. By that I mean to juggle my purchases between hands and pockets on the way back to my car.
This is a particular concern in the city. Upstate I perform dedicated supermarket runs and typically have one or more reusable bags in the car. But in the city, where I walk or take the subway, I may visit the supermarket on the way home, having forgotten to stuff a bag into my pocket hours earlier.
I have nothing against the branded reusable shopping bags sold at supermarkets. They tend to be cheerful with colorful images of abundant fruits and vegetables. They just don’t make a statement. Life is short and my attitude is that you should seize any opportunity to project your personality, beliefs, etc. onto the universe even when it comes to something as negligible as a shopping bag. Hence, I take care with the sacks I’m willing to be seen in public.
I doubt my fellow downstate or upstate shoppers are judging me by my bag. I don’t think the checkout clerk or bagger is taking note of my satchel and thinking, “That’s a pretty sharp bag!” Or alternately, “What’s Zabar’s?” In fact, my impression is that the typical shopper, and the typical supermarket employee, is oblivious to anything except the chore at hand.
Makes no difference to me. I’m putting on a show for an audience of one. Myself. My favorite shopping bags come from abroad. I can’t swear that foreign bags are sturdier or more aesthetically pleasing than domestic models but they remind me of the fun times I’ve had in Swiss and Italian supermarkets. Actually, I take that back. I suspect Swiss bags are better made and they come decorated with pretty pictures of cows and fondue pots. They also arrive with two sets of handles — one that allows you to sling your purchases over your shoulder, the other to carry them at your side.
They’re also very large, almost as large as those Ikea shopping bags that let you to lug a disassembled set of bookshelves home. A source of friction between my spouse and me is her inclination to use my favorite bags for storage because of their commodious size. Filled with things like toys or children’s clothes that may vanish into the gloom of our basement for decades to come, if I don’t rescue them.
I also try to shop local. For reusable bags, that is. A pleasing recent purchase was a spacious, shiny red number that bore the imprimatur of the Hong Hong Supermarket on Hester Street in Lower Manhattan. The emporium is filled with exotic Asian fruits and vegetables and products whose labels I can’t read and hence don’t buy. Nonetheless, it’s invigorating to join the Chinatown crowds and purchase a heroic tub of low sodium soy sauce that will probably last well into the 2030’s.
I’m not so egomaniacal that I’ve ever considered copywriting my own reusable. But close. On visits to Los Angeles I fruitlessly drop by Ralphs Supermarkets hoping they’ll have wised up since my last trip. You’d think that if any supermarket chain sold its own reusable bag it would be a company called Ralphs with its bold, unequivocal, lowest common denominator, red and white Ralphs logo. But no. On my most recent visit, in desperation, I retained the Ralphs plastic bag I used to secure my purchases and packed it in my carryon.
Hey, wait. I thought plastic bags were outlawed in the Golden State. Apparently, not at Ralphs.
When I got home I went online and — voila! — found handsome fabric Ralphs bags for sale. Obviously, some fashion designer saw riches in Ralphs. It’s the most I’ve ever paid for a shopping bag. But it was worth every cent. My fellow shoppers don’t know that I have a special affinity for the name, even if it was named after a different Ralph. Actually, a George A. Ralphs in the 19th century, I discover. But so what. Ralph or Ralphs. Just as long as the bottom doesn’t fall out in the supermarket parking lot as I’m toting a gallon of milk or a six-pack of beer.
Ralph Gardner Junior is a journalist who divides his time between New York City and Columbia County. More of his work can be found in the Berkshire Eagle and on Substack.
The views expressed by commentators are solely those of the authors. They do not necessarily reflect the views of this station or its management.
