It was the most anticipated shopping experience of the year. Yes, last week, Andy and I went to Target: our new Brooklyn Target.

How much do we love Target? When we make our annual trip to my aunt’s Jersey Shore house, our wistful “what are we gonna do?” list is: walks on the boardwalk, reading on the porch, getting ice cream at the Beach Plum, and hitting Tar-jay.

As Andy likes to point out, the Target down there is no mere Target, it is a Target Great land. Neither of us knows what exactly this distinction means, but we both wholeheartedly endorse the term’s mythic spirit, the surefooted assertion of a shopping Promised Land.

Why do we love Target? The reasons that pop to mind are quotidian: They have everything you need there – from yoga pants to iPods to Ziploc bags – and most of it is cheap. And with, its array of low-priced stock from hip designers and bright bull’s-eye logo and cute dog symbol, Target has made itself a chain store that hipsters can embrace almost un-ironically.

But, while they are true, these explanations miss the point. For me, the Target experience is about means as much as ends. It’s fun to be in a Target, with its clean tiled floors and unabashed optimism. The store conveys the wholesome, can-do spirit of 1950s advertisements. “Look!,” its wide aisles seem to call out, “all of this stuff is totally attainable! How bad can life be?” I don’t even need to buy anything: Just walking through Target fills me with more hope than any of the speeches at the Democratic Convention.

There is something so comforting about wandering the aisles of enormous chain stores. I remember the first time I went into a Costco. I wandered its deliberately low-frills aisles, amazed by the sheer scale of the place and the products displayed in it. Around me were enormous Tony the Tigers on gargantuan boxes of Frosted Flakes and huge orange bull’s-eyes on Tide boxes the size of my torso. There was something downright giddy in this skewing of size; I was Alice through the Looking-Glass.

For the New Yorker, delight is reinforced by the sheer decadence of space: both the size of the store and the space you’d need to store this stuff if you actually bought it.

Andy, of course, has a bit of a different take on Target. For him, it’s all about the cart. It’s big, it’s red, and he wants to fill it. Target’s quasi-practical merchandise allows him to come up with a new must-purchase item every time.

“You know, we really could use a detachable storage rack for the

roof of the car,” he’ll say, almost sighing, as if the admission of this truth pains him. “This one comes in its own carrying case, so we can keep it in the trunk.” Noting the cute multicolored bungee cords that come with the set, I’ll shrug and say, “Go for it.” Mesmerized by Target’s bounty, my powers of discernment and general cheapness are all but gone.

He’ll add the storage rack or the vacuum sealer or the family size Foreman grill to the aluminum foil or gym socks in the cart and let out an exhale of relief. I used to think this sound was a response to the made-up problem the item had solved. But eventually, I realized it was about the cart.Now there was something substantial it in; life could go on.We could move on to dish towels.

So the opening of our own Target on Atlantic Avenue was a red-letter day.Andy put it best, “It’s just further proof of Brooklyn being the best of both worlds.”

I was in agreement, knowing that, by “both worlds,” he meant the suburban and urban ones.

Though the new Target is within walking distance of our apartment, we decided to drive over for the auspicious occasion, in part because the Atlantic Center mall has a very cheap, convenient underground parking lot ($2 for an hour,if you can believe it),the use of which Andy equates to “the good life” in a similar vein to “the best of both worlds.” And, of course, we’d need the car to haul home the stuff Andy would inevitably fill the Target cart with.

We arrived in the lot and hit the parking jackpot with a spot next to the elevator bank. “This is already a promising sign,” I said, giddy with the non-New-York-yet-in-New-Yorkness of underground self-parking.

We rode the elevator up to the second floor and crossed into the new building through a glass bridgeway that put us right into the heart of things: the Liz Lange for Target maternity section and an aisle of refrigerated yogurt smoothie drinks.

“You don’t really enter so much as get engulfed,” I said.

“I’ll get the cart,” said Andy.

But in order to do so, he had to battle it out in a thick pack of waiting people. I tried to get my Zen of aisle wandering on, but was stopped short by shrieking children who ran out in front of me shouting, “Mommy I want this” and “He took mine!”

The place was a total zoo. Though as clean and bright as any Target, it was crowded with people. There was no time for leisurely strolling about, for the quiet contemplation of a Michael Graves toilet brush. It was get what you came for and get out, but not before waiting in line to pay for it.

This wasn’t the best of both worlds: This was a madhouse. And we’d come on a weekday!

Though it looked the same as our beloved Jersey Greatland, there was something almost depraved about this store, all these people, all this stuff; it wasn’t an orgy of space, it was a consumer pig-out.

What had we wanted to buy here anyway?

“This is almost as bad as the Brooklyn Costco,” Andy said, shaking his head.

“Yeah,” I agreed, noting they even had the same separate-section-for-your-cart escalators.

We looked at each other and, without exchanging another word, turned on our heels and left.