Two Sides of the Story

Nico B

Two Sides of the Story

If you were to stand in the front balcony of my second floor apartment and look out onto the long row of two story houses with the freshly mowed lawns and Cadillac Escalade filled driveways, you would think that I live in some high-end apartment building that you see the athletes or wealthy businessmen living in on television. On the contrary, if you were to stand in the back balcony of my second floor apartment and observe the surroundings you would notice such things as: a run down playground, some friends smoking cigarettes on the bench, or a little kid no older than five playing by themselves without supervision of, well, anyone. These are all things I have observed. Some events that I’ve seen from my front porch include: a giant blowup waterslide for warm weather in a front yard, a father teaching his son how hit a baseball, and a couple sitting under the shade of a tree, but never a shady character which on occasion can be found right outside of the back balcony. Yes the two balconies are part of the same apartment, but they reveal two different worlds; one world of suburban middle to high class families and another world of the complete opposite. The front balcony shows the best of worlds, the back balcony shows the worst of worlds.

Along with the balconies showing differences of money or social class, there are huge differences in what the scenery looks like; beyond the people or their objects. When looking out of my front balcony you can see the nice shrubbery and plant life growing next to the sidewalks; when looking out the back you see partly overgrown grass and a mysterious plant in a neighbor’s window. While everyday two or three men make sure everything is perfect out front, it seems that someone has to be making everything look as imperfect out back. Not only are the sights seen out of both balconies different, but the sounds are diverse as well. In the front you hear a fake waterfall that sounds real and is soothing and relaxing; in the back you hear either fighting or loud music being blasted for the entire complex’s enjoyment (no one enjoys it). Everything outside the front of my apartment is the opposite- sights or sounds- of everything out back. It seems to be that the sun shines brighter in the front, whereas out back the moon is dimmer with less glow. Out in the back the mood is dark, depressing and cynical; in the front the atmosphere is bright, enlightening, and joyful.

When I stand on my front balcony and look at everything below, I see a lifestyle that I have really never known. Money, cars, and homes- this is what I see from my front balcony. I see everything that I aspire to be; everything that I want to achieve and everything I want to get to. Outside of that balcony you can see families that look so functional to the spectator. Sometimes I am forced to wonder if maybe that’s just what I observe or if it’s always perfect when you live like those families do. Are their houses much nicer than mine? Is everything more fun on their side of the street? Are those families’ leagues happier than any that live in my complex? Unfortunately that is the disadvantage of the observer. Everything seems better- houses nicer, stars brighter, people happier- outside the front balcony.

Unfortunately, like always, there are two sides to a story; my other side is right out the back door of my room. The back balcony is the evil twin. Both the back and front balconies are identical in material, structure, and color, yet they couldn’t be more opposite. The front balcony displays all of the things I would like to get to while the back reminds me of all the things I would like to get away from: dysfunctional families, a parent that could care less, teenagers throwing their lives away so early. Although all these descriptions are terrible, when I see kids my age smoking on the bench or young children playing without a parent, it reminds me of where I came from. Most people would say to be proud of where you came from, but this is an exception to that adage. When I just watch what goes on behind my apartment I realize that maybe it is better to be proud of what you are trying to accomplish rather than what you are running from.

Where everything is the same where you stand, everything is different where you look. Whether it’s the reminders or the people or the cars or the houses or the scenery or even the sounds, everything is different. Everything is the opposite. Out in the back of my apartment I would like to think of as my past; the front I would like to think of as my future. Maybe inside the apartment is just a temporary resting place for me; maybe it is a portal from past to present to future. The worst of my life can be seen through my back balcony, but where there is dark a light can be found, and my front balcony is that light.

Unwind

Green grass, green ground, green poles, green sky, green, was all it bellowed. Its ever stretching carpet of green grass, reflecting its vivacity onto the ground, or its ever soaring green pine trees, gazing down onto it, the children site of the San Lorenzo Park possessed a risky and adventurous forest open to be stomped, trampled, crushed, or scampered upon, by all the little feet and all the big feet. Even if it held only a dry tree at its center, it is easy to imagine those pointy branches blooming with pink or white flowers in spring, to be a colorful clutter in fall with leaves of red, yellow, and green. The park stretches as wide as a small lake stretches, and sinks as deep as a small lake sinks. The entire space, including the toddler’s segment, carries sunken anchors of metal, twisted and mangled to be shaped as posts: these sturdy metal poles of every earth’s tones are then planted, everywhere. Some of these brown metal poles are used to connect the brown metal chains to what seems to be the brown wheel of a truck- a tire swing. Further on, the same pattern of a tangled metal pole, either being green or brown, attaches to the plastic made seat of the swings’, or joins the plastic stacked mountain of the slides’.

Unable to veil the aging and fainting rims of the wood, “Open till sunrise to sunset” is formally written in white, upon a wooden post that is attached to a wooden leg. As I walked across, mesmerized by the green algae already sprouting faster than the lengthy grass, that same aging and fainting wood met me. Except for its much expanded size and four new feet and faded grey scratches and some metal screws at its joints, it looked the same as its one legged brother. The ground underneath it corresponded with the colors of the playground: it was greenly decorated by the algae, and auburnly adorned by the dry mud. Considering the divisions of the play stations, which held the tire swing, ordinary swings, and compelling slides, these twisty road crosses were still able to broaden their algae development, and mud compaction. At least, they would have been able to if the coastal regions of the beloved play stations had allowed them. Perhaps resembling the ever stretching white clear sands of Santa Cruz beaches, I was astonished to acknowledge the sand filled segments allowed me to walk three steps before reaching dry land. It was also a surprise to stroll on a sandy coast that surrounds a green and black sea of foam: foam made of thick fabric, stuffed with sponges and springs.

The air smelt of dust. A dust constantly rising from the scuttling feet of children, a dust that proudly is marking the area as a sand-filled park, a dust successfully allowing the fresh air to still be smelt. Even with that tint of sandy air, the park held a gratifying clean air. This fresh environment, mixed with the on and off blinks of the sun’s shadow, added to the distant cries of seagulls, resembled the lazy fluttering wings of the flies- it provided an escape from the outside. Although the whoosh noise of speeding cars could not be erased completely, it could be ignored. I was quite serene. In the distance I spot approaching figures of two adults, and two children, a boy and a girl. From the traces of scooter tracks, varieties of patterns from rears of shoes’ all over the sand sparkled ground, it would be no surprise for this quietness to end. The little boy had a little sister, both of them having neatly tied shoes, and warm happy faces. The father- lengthy dark hair and blue jeans, comfy grey sneakers and loose black T-shirt, darkly tone and medium height- seems relaxed, much as a free spirit. His wife wears dark yoga pants, dark zipper jacket, all tightly held as her dark pulled back hair: she reminded me of my grade school principal. The little boy dashes forward as soon as he spots the empty slides. The father, with that same expression, pounces on the tire swing, roaring “dale mijo”. I watch astounded as father and son try to balance on the tire swing, laughing wildly, as the pig tailed little girl hides from her mother, also laughing wildly. I was pleased, I was lulled, I was composed.

The twisted mangled metals had nature’s tones splattered onto them, but the energetic care free children had adventure’s appeal carved into them. They create a tranquil place ignoring chaotic ones. The colorful wall with a spherical engrave resembles the wooden table with poised four feet. They create balanced completeness empting distorted partialness. The plastic made swings or slides are replica to the wooden makeup of forests or jungles. They create a test of survival and a risk for danger. The surrounding trees define originality like the foot imprint holders speak creativity. They create a care free world to themselves and extend a care free world to others.

Feben M.

Club of Memories

Coming down Maria drive I look to my left and catch sight of the old elementary school. It is closed now, but it was open when I was a kid, and I even “shadowed” there for a day when I was in 5th grade. Back then, I was going to a French school and this American elementary school was a sharp contrast to what I was used to. A lot of the kids from that American elementary school walked directly across the street after school to hang-out until they got picked up. I turn away and head up the driveway on the opposite side of the street to my destination. From the outside it looks as unremarkable now as it did when I was last here. The building is the same old dull color consisting of a grey rose blue blend. I remember it so well. There is the trademark sign of a blue hand in a hand. This place was built to help kids and keep them out of trouble; it came about in 1949 from an informal meeting of a group of Petaluma businessmen who decided to implement a constructive program to prevent future occurrences after a youth was involved in an unlawful incident that caused the youth to be injured.
For kids from four to fourteen years old there is something for all. It was usually packed with every shape, size and color of kids. Play basketball, compete in foosball, shoot pool – the building was a center of noisy and bustling activity.
The club is right across the street from a now closed elementary school. It combines after school care, summer camps, sport leagues, and birthday parties. Movement, action, noise – The place is meant to be a hub of action, like an airport at Thanksgiving, the mall at Christmas, or the hallways on the first day of school. This is the Boys and Girls Club of Petaluma – Lucchesi Park Clubhouse.
The first sensation that hits me when I push through the glass entry door is a cloud of scent that combines sweaty clothes, candy bars, dust, rubber balls, and kids. I stand at the entry way and pause for a brief moment to look around. When I was young and spent time here, there was always a loud racket of kids screaming, and basketballs bouncing, and sneakers squeaking, and the shrill sound of whistles blowing. While this place looks older and more rundown than I remember, I have a pleasant sensation of being taken back in time. I am back to when I would run as fast as possible to grab a spot at the foosball table or to be on time for a basketball game. No matter what the weather outside, the view from inside is always bright and sunny. This is because of the large windows and bright lighting throughout. A food cart is placed at the entry, next to the kitchen where people can leave off donations. No one is here right now, but I see a stack of Dixie cups and that gives me a jolt of memory. I can taste the apple cider I used to drink from those cups.
There is blue padding on every wall in the gigantic basketball court. Even the bathroom door is padded. Kids can run at full speed into those walls and not feel much pain. Taking up one entire wall are miniature blue bleachers. There are a total of six basketball hoops. The standard two that face each other at the lengths of the court, and 2 adjacent pairs of hoops on each half facing sideline to sideline. When the little kids are having a game, this set up allows the club staff to drag humongous curtain across the half court and create two full and separate basketball courts.
I am past the age to come here and play or hang-out. What I once enjoyed as a kid is no longer fun to me. Yet being here reminds me of the endless possibilities for fun and victory I used to have. As I look around the deserted court I begin to feel a faint sense of disappointment. . I remember the pool that I fantasized about diving into after a basketball game, but it was always empty of water. A vision never fulfilled. I know that I will never again feel the way I felt here as a kid.
I walk back into the rec room and take a last look. I notice the dust motes swirling in the fading sunlight that is coming in through the giant plate glass window. I look up at the old cabinets that are kept clean and repaired by volunteers, notice again the abundance of light and the cozy carpet. These are all the small things that make a difference. I find my perspective wandering from the actual place to the entire town and how this place fits in. I find myself thinking that the City should care very much about fixing it up and make it even more desirable to keep kids off the street. This is the place that will give kids their childhood memories, the place that we all need.
--Sebastien D.

Through Eagle's Eyes

From a distance, it does not seem
like much. From a distance, the bare limbed trees that sprout up randomly
throughout the grass field like splatter paint do not catch the eye. From a
distance, one would not guess that the faded blue play set resting in the sea
of sand the color of fake gold held thousands of childhood memories, each one
stored perfectly in the tiny individual specs that blanketed the ground. The
whole place seemed uninviting, like an old fortress, with small wooden pillars
lining the outside and grass, both dead and alive, growing carelessly
throughout. The trees stood like guards, defending a playground that needed no
defense, for no child within their right mind would set foot onto the long
narrow path that led up to a sure afternoon of dullness and boredom. This is my
childhood sanctuary. This is, Eagle
Park.

I made my way through Eagle Park,
as I had done hundreds of times in my life, since the early ages of five or
six. The grass swayed gently in the wind, while my shoes softly kick up broken
bits of brown leaves; the last survivors of winter. The grass was a mix of
different colors, the pale white grass consuming the middle of the park while
the outside layers hung onto the last drops of green they had in their stems.
Upturned earth lay in numerous mounds around the park, the dark rocks and dirt
showing no effort to blend in with their surroundings. I walked toward the
picnic bench, the bench that had sat there since the park had been made, the
bench that was chained to the cement island it controlled, the bench used by
mothers countless times to assemble parties or place their screaming children
that were a little too ambitious in their adventures. The wooden bench was a
mutated copy of the trees, chipped wood and dry yellow moss decorated its
exterior, the wood itself looked aged and exhausted. I cautiously eased myself
onto the table, resting my feet on the bench. I noticed one tree different from
the others. This tree did not belong, it had strong limbs and bright leaves and
a strong trunk and tough bark and did not shake in the wind and did not look
ready to fall over and die. This tree made noise when the wind blew through,
its leaves rustling together to create a roaring sound in that silence like
waves crashing onto rocks at the oceans bank. Evergreens stood-tall and strong,
fresh and bright, free and luscious-at the far end of the park while their
crippled cousins cried out with whispers in the wind, their branches no longer
able to speak having been bare for months. I turned my body to face the play
set, and as I did, the memories swept over me.


The sand crunched beneath my
shoes, the soft sounds of thousands of beads bringing a relaxing sense to my
mind. The sand was not smooth, instead craters made up the whole surface, the
work of heels filled with laughter and joy. I made these now myself, walking
toward the playground, leaning myself against the “L” shaped ladder, dark blue
paint peeling to reveal the crude metal that lay beneath. I remember the afternoons
I had spent here, sprinting from school to home to the park, embarking on
journeys that would take me miles away, to different worlds, all in the very
real planet known as Eagle Park. The play structure as a whole would be seen
simply as something that needed replacing: the safety hazards associated with
it would reach a dozen easy. I saw only what my childhood was reliving, the
slide I had descended every way thinkable, the monkey bars that had introduced
new fears and helped me conquer others. All aspects of this playground
contained memories of another part of my early years, enclosed somewhere in the
blue paint that covered the entire set.


The slide was a small one that
corkscrewed to the right before looping around to the left and dropping you into
the pit of sand at the bottom, only for you to scramble to your feet and race
back up the ladder for another ride. It was a paler blue than the other pieces
with a cover at the top of it, daring the boldest of children to ascend, only
to hurry back down while withholding their shouts of fear. The slide twisted at
the worst of angles, the sun shined directly onto it when there was no cloud
cover, stopping those without long pants from descending, or risking the
one-hundred percent guarantee of burns covering the legs, resulting in a trip
to the grandfather bench. The slide resembled an entrance, the sole passage for
children to go down before engaging in whatever adventure lay ahead that day.


I casted my gaze to the monkey
bars, curving in the shape of an “S” ending with a ladder on each side. Old
fears flooded into my mind, and conquered fears exited my mind. I thought of
the things I had achieved on those monkey bars, and the pain that I had felt on
those same bars. My childhood days I spent on top of that rusty blue horizontal
ladder, and the other days I had wasted staying far from it. Those bars held
mixed emotions, mixed memories, and as I looked at them now, I had mixed
thoughts about them.


Eagle Park
rests today, a weary old park, long overdue to be refurnished and cleaned up,
but reluctant to change and become unfamiliar to so many kids like me who spent
half their childhoods there. As I left the park through the wooden pillars, I
looked back at the park and, in the back of my mind, I was glad it was not
significant to me anymore. My childhood was behind me, and the park went with
it. I played. I grew. I stopped playing. I had finished with the park, and I do
not say this as if I am glad to be rid of it. Eagle Park
rests in me like its old faded blue play set rests in the sand. Joy, laughter,
friendship-all I experienced helped shape the person I have grown to be. It now
remains at the corner of Almanor
Street, awaiting the next generation to come. The
grass waits to stain the knees of wrestling kids, the slide, with the help of
the sun, ready to burn the legs of those brave enough to endure its ride. The
trees continue to fight through winters, their bare limbs soon to become
decorated with lush green leaves. The sand will attempt in vain to smooth
itself over, while tiny feet ensure its crater surface to continue for years to
come. From a distance, not much. From up close, a whole life.

~Caleb L

The Field

The architectural design is by all means irrelevant to its exclusiveness: any toddler with a straight edge, a writing utensil, and a slight familiarity with shapes could effortlessly duplicate its original construction plans. From the very first blueprints ever developed by the city council, to the costly renovation in the summer of 2009, the four cornered rectangular design has forever maintained its simplicity. The variety of buildings that neighbor the field on all four sides, confirm its location subsequently ideal; there is a hospital to the north, a local youth center to the south, a vast shopping plaza to the west, and a religious community center to the east. A midst all the diverse activities constantly in action—ambulances shrieking, kids yelling, and cars bustling—Luchessi Field lies silently, and motionless in the center of it all. To the flocks of geese that regularly soar above, the field is nothing but a splotch of color, to the hasty people who unconsciously drive by, the field is neglected and barely even noticed, but to the many people that regularly utilize its surface, the field has become a place of escape.

The main field itself is 120 yards in length and 80 yards in width, like any official soccer field, and although it might have the same texture of grass, and the same color of grass, and the same feeling of grass, it isn’t grass, but instead an expansive sheet of synthetic turf which originally was meant to resemble grass. When examining closely the all-weather artificial surface, one will discover the millions of small black specks of turf, which judging by their diminutive size rationally seem harmless, but when they astonishingly manage to crawl into one’s eyelid, their potential is deadly. Initially, the color coordinated lines that slice through the field in all directions were specifically meant to segregate the boundaries between the two individual sports played on the turf, but with the excessive overlapping of white, blue, and yellow lines it makes it difficult to distinguish where the soccer boundaries end and the lacrosse margins begin. There is a three foot high fence which borders the spacious green carpet, separating it from its individual parking lot which is only but a small fraction of the field. Naked in the winter, blooming in the spring and breathtaking in the fall, an army of trees encase the small fence, and bestow additional protection. Incandescent, towering, slender—the eight light poles, each pertaining a set of four vivid bulbs, encircle the field, and automatically turn on after every sunset, illuminating every sector of the field throughout the night. Underneath the intense beam of light, after every exhale, one can clearly see their own breath drifting out of their mouth and evaporating into the cold and bitter atmosphere, and leaving not a single trace behind.

Surrounded by a great community of athletes, Luchessi Field is never desolate; at every moment, of everyday it is being occupied by a soccer club, a lacrosse team, or a T-ball squad. Some days are much more hectic than others; there are nights where up to five different teams are practicing all at once. Lacrosse balls are hit by baseball bats, soccer balls are picked up by lacrosse sticks, baseballs are plunged into soccer nets. To resolve the problem of space, each team is granted a certain portion of the field, but most of the time the sections are divided unequally, and although individual coaches might not agree with the divisions they attempt to keep the arguments to a minimum. Because of the vast number of people, and the scarce amount of space, Luchessi quickly becomes an extremely vociferous field; all the individual tones eventually join together to form a single thunderous disembodied voice, which everyone can hear, but not a single person can understand. Despite the extremity of the noise, one never fails to recognize the earsplitting shrieks and quacks of the ferocious mob of ducks loitering in the nearby pond. They yell at us, while we yell at them.

Besides the fluorescent lights, the constant crowding, the harsh-sounding ducks, and every other aspect that embraces Luchessi Field, there is one certain individual that obtains a significant importance to the field itself, and his name is Danny. He persists of Vietnamese background, speaks flawless English, and has the complexion and body of a 30 year old, but the mind and attributes of a teenager. It was after the tenth time I saw him, when I actually began paying awareness to what he did, to what he said, to who he was. Every time I had practice at Luchessi, he was present, and always doing the same thing; he was running around the field, juggling his same soccer ball, or shooting aimlessly at an empty goal. Even when the entire field was occupied, and every goal was in use, Danny was still there, and so was his soccer ball at his feet. I did not consider it odd that he had memorized all my teammate’s names, it was obvious he would after attending more practices than I had attended, and although it was strange how he would constantly converse with himself, I did not judge, because I had a feeling that Danny was just like the rest of us; he was in love with the sport of soccer, and came to Luchessi to allow the light’s strong beams evaporate his troubles.

Luchessi’s architectural design is simple, just like the people who go there, they are simple. It consists of a variety of people, with different personalities, who perform a variety of sports, with different reasons. The value of one person’s lacrosse stick holds the same value of another person’s soccer ball. Day or night, the field is used, with lights or without, people still come out. A sports complex might certainly be much better than this simple field, but this simple field is what makes its significance so much more complex.

--Paco V.

My Own Creation

I started in my backyard. It was a beautiful day, and although it’s supposed to be winter, the sun was out and the only noise to be heard was of birds rustling through the limited leaves left on the trees and the neighbors talking through the fence. It was peaceful. I had my binder out on the black wire table, ready to write, but the sun was pounding on my back, and for some reason I couldn’t think; this environment was not good enough. Changing destination, I moved to the computer thinking that the noise could be tuned out with YouTube and I could type to my heart’s content – but it still was not good enough. Once of again the stack of unorganized and scribbled-upon papers and the messy binder were on the move. I moved down the dim hallway to the white door.

This door had chipped paint from the pealing of stickers, and the fascination with taping things. There is a slight creak in this door as it opens to the blindingly bright green and blue walls; the light was streaming in from the half open blinds. The room is different from any other in the house; it is the room that has captured so many of my memories. It is the room that portrays who I am and how I have grown, and it is the room that is finally good enough.

When one first steps in from the dark, all you see is white: there are prim white blinds, white book cases, white closet doors and shelves, and a white bed frame off of which the light reflects. The initial silence and glow of the room give it an aura of serenity; the soft touch of the newly vacuumed carpet on bare feet is a familiar comfort, and sinking into the well-known cloud that is my bed is like sitting on the lap of God. When you first step in, you see the jumble of messed up sheets and a collection of mismatched pillows, waiting for a tired body to crawl inside its warmth. There is an old, worn, Lion King pillow case reminding one of the childhood slipping away from everywhere except your dreams and there are old, stuffed animals that have been pushed away into the corners. Soft, warm, relaxing – my bed is the perfect refuge.

Across the room there are white cubby-like bookcases filled with the organized mess of books I bought at book fairs, but never read, stacks of papers and text books that are frequently used and strewn across my bed, and a pair of bright blue and green running shoes tucked into a corner waiting for the next cross country season. On the top of it all is a chubby cat having a constant staring contest with the never changing views outside my window; she’s perched like the room is her kingdom and the outside world is the enemy. Dangling off one side of the shelf is a purple and black friendship bracket that remains unfinished, and on top lies the clock set six minutes fast, and old pictures of some friends reminding me of the good times we have had. Most importantly, next to other random objects stands my iPod – old and cracked, scratched and smudged, scuffed and loved – which was rarely away from its dock. This iPod, playing the smooth sound of Alternative or the upbeat tang of a country song, gives the atmosphere a more inviting touch in the room that has become more and more personalized for my desires.

On the off-white shelves, hanging above the bed, sits the mementos that have made me who I am: Pictures from the numerous teams I have had the pleasure of being a part of, and trophies that are meaningless other than for acknowledging participation. There is the not so girly Star Wars ship, but there are also the stuffed animals and teddy bears that I have received throughout the years. Both of which have helped me to connect better with many different types of people because I have gathered info on the general items that most children would have received.

One of my favorite parts of my room is the closet door. It’s signed. It’s colorful. It’s meaningful. My closet door is covered with the endearing comments of friends that have been in and out of my room. It has pictures that reflect memories, and memories that create pictures.

The closet is a small but crowded place; it is smaller than some of the others closets in the house, but bigger than others. It was built not for a teenage girl, but more for the liking of a child; there was not enough space for hangers, but more empty room as if to be filled with toys and boxes, as it once had. Now the closet still has boxes, but boxes filed with the old art supplies that are no longer wanted and numerous hangers shoved together to fit the collected sweatshirts and old dresses waiting for summer. The closet has now become a storage place for the shells that I was once “collecting” and knick-knacks of all different sorts. It has become a storage place for the different pieces of different activities I have collected throughout the different years, like a baseball mitt and soccer bag and softball helmet and a violin and a trumpet and most recently, rhythmic equipment. Each piece reminding me of a different phase I went through and a different part of my life that I can now look back on.

The outside world was separated from my room by nothing more than a sliding glass window covered with a shield of white blinds; this outside was much less preferable than the inside, and it was this outside that the warm blankets and memorable pillows were shielding me from. My bedroom held a plethora of potential and memories and personal touches. The carpet felt soft and the dirt felt hard; the bedside lamp looked warm and the streetlamps looked cold; the room was set up for personal comfort and the outside was set up for natural displeasure. But I had an understanding that not all places can be a personal sanctuary, and for there to be a warm, inviting inside, there must be a cold, desolate outside.

- Beth

observational essay- Ricky

A Consumer’s Haven

Costco initiated its legacy on September 15, 1983, when it opened its first warehouse in Seattle, Washington. A grey kingdom surrounded by rows and rows of parked cars, filled by satisfied shoppers and soon to be replaced by ecstatic citizens of all ages. This infinitely long building is filled with a variety of household necessities from fresh produce to socks. From afar, this grey rectangle does not catch the eye, but once one enters, a quick trip to buy some cereal can transform into an unexpected voyage into the vast ocean of wholesale.

In order for anyone to purchase anything from Costco, he or she must first become a member; this creates a feeling of higher importance within the shopper, so not only are you shopping, but you are also entering a clubhouse of sorts, in which only a lucky few million are a part of. The few first steps you take into the colossal behemoth of a store are like the first steps one takes as an infant: exhilarating, frightening, overwhelming- an inscrutable rush of feelings pours into your mind. What appears on the outside to simply be an unimportant warehouse, is in fact a haven for high-end consumers and simplistic-livers alike.

Rivera 2

As one walks through the store, the vast amount of space taken up by, what seems like miles of rows, one directly after another, separated by towering shelves teeming with boxes of items just waiting to be placed down below is overwhelming at first, but it soon becomes a standard to

which all other supermarkets do not live up to. It’s high-ceilinged, windowless complexion and only one main entrance and exit, makes the building seem more secluded and exclusive from the rest of the world, as well as keeping the shoppers focus on solely what they came for.

Their famous product samples- yogurt and granola, meatballs and barbeque sauce, clam chowder and crackers- is an experience all in its own. People come strictly to try the samples featured that day, and possibly to purchase one of the products being sampled. When someone says “samples”, Costco immediately comes to mind. The thing about samples is that one can experiment with food products that one normally wouldn’t buy unless one knew they liked it, so samples offer the choice to try out new things, which is exciting for consumers and successful for the business; it tempts the consumers impulse to buy by giving them a reason to.

Costco, although similar to other wholesale markets, is much more different than similar. Costco is very well known while competitors are small; Costco benefits the customer in many more ways than just selling product while competitors stick to the average store curriculum; Costco is a club while competitors are nothing more than stores. The satisfaction you get from shopping in Costco and the sense of wishing you would have gone to Costco from shopping at other places is what truly separates them.

Rivera 3

No matter where one is, there is sure to be a Costco around: as of September 3, 2010, Costco has 572 warehouses, and it most likely has built many more over the course of two years. Costco is big, revolutionary, successful. Its grand size and shear amount of product available and large amount of members joining every day and its continuous growth around the world has made Costco the famous wholesale retailer it is today. Costco is big.