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I live in a lovely apartment on a charming side street off Avenida Diagonal called Gandesa.
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This afternoon is pristine, calming, sunny, and a lukewarm temperature with breezes to remind your cheeks that it is in fact autumn. I have nothing of urgency to do today, so I walked down my street, followed a couple of intriguing corners, and followed my curiosity. There is a tiny bookstore only a block from home that carries popular books by American authors, translated into Spanish of course. I find relaxing enjoyment browsing through any book store, almost as I would a museum. Books lend themselves to eyes flitting from cover to cover, first processing the art and the font, and then the title – perhaps recognizing a name or even being interested enough to read the back of the book. I resisted buying anything because I already have a stack of books I would love to get through, and a mental stack even higher of recommendations from friends.
Only a few lamp posts further, I smelled a local bakery. It was lunch time, my inner dialogue said, but I walked inside just to satisfy my nose a bit more and peek at the various croissants, baby croissants, pastries, biscuits, and other various round and jellied or powdered treats I don’t even have labels for. As I escaped the cozy shop, I saw across the street a row of white tents. I made a mental note to return on the opposite side of the street so I could see what people were selling over there. I wanted to explore further, so I continued to the next corner of the street and noticed a fruit and vegetable shop one block to my left. Excited by the idea of inexpensive and most likely deliciously fresh produce, I walked over there. On my way down the block to the left I thought about how serenely peaceful it is to be able to turn a corner on a whim and walk without direction, destination, or anticipation. I’m so pleased with where I live and how amazing life is in the moment that I smiled to myself.
The fruit and veggie place was like a large room, opened to the street. There was a little island of crates in the middle to display peppers, eggplant, green tomatoes, regular tomatoes, and artichoke. The crates in the middle, with the fruit along the surrounding walls made one small and circular aisle. I chose a green, sour apple and three mandarin oranges, paid 68 cents and returned to the street I came from a block away. Further down the unexplored end of the street appeared to be mostly apartments and stores with uninteresting labels on the front. I remembered the white tents and I crossed the street to walk up where I came from and see what was going on. This all reminded me of Michigan. I’m sure it would remind people of all kinds of places, but that is the most present in my mind of course. It was like being in Birmingham, or Milford, or Northville where the streets are calm, quite pedestrian, and there are stores of interest along the whole way. The white tents and tables set up along the sidewalk made me think of art fairs in Ann Arbor or elsewhere that I had been. Once I approached however, only two of the stations were selling crafts and paintings. To my greater interest, the majority of the tents housed a specific type of culturally relevant grocery. There was a stand for honey and wax, with an actual beehive in a glass cage. Another long table displayed all sorts of cheeses and meats – chorizo, jamón, lomo, and more. It was attended by a sweet looking old man and the combination of the products being sold and the people selling gave a comforting impression of “local” or small-town interaction. Another tent had lines of glass jars filled with pastas and some spices unknown to me. The man had created his own pasta dishes to sell, but also to his side he displayed crates of unusual mushrooms and dried ingredients for cooking whoknowswhat. There was a chocolate tent, and a bread and pastry tent as well. Everything looked specially prepared and presented and proudly unique. I considered buying some things here instead of at the market/grocery store across from my apartment, but I decided against it.
The grocery store by my apartment is really small but it has a full butcher’s section and an amazing variety of cheeses. I asked for some slices of gouda, and a few hundred grams of salchichón and some more lomo (país). I grabbed another letre of orange juice, a new drink of choice, and another brick of dark chocolate. The grocery store is often loud with the butchers yelling in conversation across the counters to each other and the unreserved voices of old ladies asking their husbands on the other end of the room if they had found something they were looking for. This casual and open interaction between everybody is what makes me want to call it a “market,” because that is a part of what I associate with markets, the openness. Well, after getting my delicious Spanish meats and some cheese and chocolate I spent only 8€ and came back to the apartment to make lunch.
The apple was excellent and sour, just as I love them.
I wrote this entry.
