I never thought I would find myself saddened by the closing of a grocery store.

Especially one I had never been to.

But as the speakers continued, I realized I was was witnessing the effects of something almost like globalization.
Sure, it wasn’t a massive McDonald’s protest in rural France à la José Bové, but instead, a group of Noe Valley residents preparing for their beloved Bell Market of over 40 years to be transformed into Whole Foods.

Noe Valley, frequently labeled as a “yuppie” neighborhood, with its fashion boutiques, coffee shops and yoga studios, is beginning to show me a side of it that is deeper than its outer “fou-fou” image.

On this particular Saturday, in the tiny horseshoe arena next to the weekly farmers market, Bell Market’s employees were being honored by the community for decades of service.
The employees first names’ were called out, as the crowd’s response to each individual reflected years of appreciation.

“I’ve been a resident since 1978,” one woman announced, saying the people at Bell Market had been apart of her life for more than 30 years.
She suddenly paused. As she looked down, I caught a quick glimpse of her eyes pressed shut behind her dainty blue shades, as she quickly tried to regain composer. Her voice trembled as she continued steadily, the crowd shouting words of encouragement.

I was suddenly aware of how I was the only person my age there, at least from what I observed. I almost felt out of place, watching a generation's traditions fade away to make way for something new.

“Whole Foods represents the up-and-coming Noe Valley,” I remember Sara Curtis, a photographer I’d met on 24 Street, saying.

The celebration ended with the thundering clapping and rhythmic chanting of Cesar Chavez’s “Si, se puede!” clap. Afterward, the group unveiled a giant square cake with red and white icing, as locals and workers mingled.

With Bell Market’s closure one week away, I went across the street to take a look at what was left. Among the upscale hustle and bustle of 24th Street, Bell Market’s beige building remains a snapshot from the 1960s.

The only word I can use to describe the atmosphere in there is depressing. It’s that simple.
Entire frozen food aisle shelves were bare, the metal crates unceremoniously stacked up inside.
Single yogurts sat idly on the shelves and assorted bottles of wine and liquor were reduced to clearance.

“I’m outta work now, but when one door closes another opens,” I heard an employee in the meat section tells a coworker.

As I left through the sliding glass doors, I could hear the continuing festivities of the farmers market across the street. None of that lightness reached Bell Market.