El Mercado: Fun Grocery Shopping?

I never thought grocery shopping could be described as "fun."

...However, with the Saturday morning chorus of cheery "hola buenas," whirring meat cutters and the tinkling of exchanging coins ringing through the Central Market of Valencia, how could it not be?

Wandering down the countless rows of every fresh foodstuff imaginable, flaky chocolate croissant in hand, I was enthralled by how much there was to see; to hear; to smell; to taste.

Passing by each stand is like passing through completely separate bubbles; for a split second, the sweet smell of strawberries intermingled with the raw smell of fish until bam! I was enveloped in the more odorous fish-y realm, starting straight into the bulging eyes of the grey, scaly monstrosity with a gaping mouth. Finally, I entered the more pleasing realm of the dried fruit stand--a mouth-watering aroma of dried kiwi, pineapple and oranges infusing my nostrils.

But then, when stepping back to look at the bigger picture, each stand somehow seemed to fit in the overall grand scheme of the market; each stand, with its distinct sights, sounds, smells and tastes, just made up one cog of the great Valencian Mercado; each stand represented one piece of the harmony in the melodious choir.

And that, my friend, is how grocery shopping can be fun.

No Pasa Nada: My New Favorite Phrase

No pasa nada. Literal translation: nothing happened.

If I had a euro for every time that I hear this saying during a typical day, I would have enough euros to buy a gooping-hot, chocolate-y Napolatina every morning for the rest of my life. Enough euros to ride the tram to and from La Universidad two times a day. Enough euros to take advantage of all the rebajas (sales) that take place at the end of January.

To give a little context, let me spell out for you all that this wonderful phrase encompasses:

If you accidentally spill your drink at dinner, no pasa nada. If you come home at six in the morning and accidentally hit the doorbell instead of the hallway light, no pasa nada. If you get lost on a morning run and miss your class, no pasa nada.

(Yes, these are all things that I have done. Like I've said before, I'm still learning.)

But really, I think the Spanish are on to something here with this oh-so-casual expression. Reflecting the calmer and more relaxed Spanish culture, this colloquial phrase is like a breath of fresh air, in lieu of  the harried, frantic air that most Americans seem to breath. Everything is just a little bit slower. And if something doesn't go according to plan, that is OK. It's not the end of the world (despite what many Americans might think).

For instance, instead of grabbing a venti iced-coffee and going (for that imperative morning caffeine boost), with palm pilot and blue tooth earpiece in tow, Spaniards sit down and chat over coffee, enjoying their drink and one another's company.

 They don't do things for the "likes" they can get; they do things because they like to. They don't fill up every single minute of their schedules because it "looks good"; they sprinkle their schedules with things that will make them feel good.

If you will, the Spaniards take a few minutes to actually smell the roses, instead of just quickly snapping a photo of said roses to later post on Instagram.

In other words, this culture embodies another favorite phrase of mine: Carpe Diem--Seize the Day.

Una Mezcla: A Mix

Everything is jumbled together. The cultures, the traditions, my sense of direction (not that I was ever that good with directions anyway). But the most jumbled by far is the language.

Words--of two very different languages--pop into every crevice of my brain, day and night. Let me tell you, sometimes it's just a mess.

English words accidentally spill from my mouth before I can stop them, leaving my host family to stare at me blankly. Other times, my fingers rapidly spell out Spanish palabras on the smooth keyboard of my phone, and by the time I realize that the recipient doesn't speak Spanish, the blue line indicating a sent message has already zoomed across the screen.

My thoughts seem to forever lie in limbo between the two lenguas; two words in English, the next three in Spanish. A silent soliloquy in Spanish, quickly chopped up by abrupt English exclamations when I stub my toe or am caught off guard by the ice-cold morning shower water.

It's a bit frenzied; it's a bit chaotic; it's a bit messy; it's very loco. And I kind of love it.

Sometimes, I guess, you just have to step back and let the mess be; just accept the jumbled mess for what it is: bellísima.

They are artists...

Photo Credit: Alison Morrow

Try to remember the most violent tantrum of a two year old you have ever seen: brows furrowed in indignant concentration, hands thrusting through the air, feet stamping forcefully into the ground. Now multiply it by a hundred and you might have a fraction of the energy exhibited by the flamenco dancers.

But no, the dancers aren't two year-olds throwing fits. They are artists.

Their feet moving so fast that you can barely distinguish between taps; the crimson skirts, sporting layers upon layers of fabric, swishing and whipping every which way; their feet slamming into the ground with such unbelievable force--I'll tell you what: those are some high heels in which I would never want to be on the wrong end. My goodness.

I'm still mesmerized by the seemingly contradictory movements of their bodies. While their lower halves were in a frenzy, feet and legs moving so rapidly that if you blink, you will miss a stomp, their upper halves took on smoother movements, hips swinging and swaying to the singer's raspy chants, hands revolving in the most suave of moments. All interrupted by rapid finger snaps and quick clicks of the castanets.

And the sound; I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body. Almost everything staccato. Clicks. Clacks. Rattles. Taps. Quick. Snaps. Short. Raps.

The drums: heavy thuds. The castanets: sharp clicks. The claps: quick raps. The snaps: rapid clacks. The symbol: a coppery tin-tin. All staccato.

All staccato except for the elongated chants, the singers oscillating up and down the musical scale with their throaty voices. Wrapping around every ear in the flamenco restaurant, the voices provided the ear a relief from the short raps, taps, rattles and clacks.

Needless to say, I was enthralled. But above all, I still can't forget the sound. ...

....Days later and I can still feel el ritmo reverberating throughout my body.