Market Shouter and Paella

Published: 10.10.2026

It's Sunday morning, it's flea market time.

Unfortunately, the Spanish rastros, where mainly professional vendors gather, cannot compete with French vide greniers. But this morning there is a large Mercadillo in a suburb of A Coruña.

We still manage it; in Spain, time runs slower, and markets don't start in the early morning hours.

Yesterday, on Saturday, we stocked up our supplies in a mega shopping experience at Carrefour, always on the lookout for the legendary Pimenton de la Vera. And we need the spicy one. The hot spice made from sun-ripened roasted peppers, produced only in the province of Cáceres in Extremadura, tastes unmatched, and we have a huge consumption at home.

It has already been rumored that the usual supermarkets recently only have the Pimenton de la Vera dulce, the sweet variety. It's also very flavorful, but we need the hot powder for the kick in our food.

Every traveler to Spain is tasked with importing this spice but always returns with disappointingly empty hands.

Only my little brother, after weeks of intense searching through all available shopping options in an extra expensive tourist shop in Granada, is successful and buys a small bag of the precious stuff for a million pesetas.

But we know that we bought the stuff at Lidl years ago and wonder why there is really ONLY Dulce everywhere. So we scour the Giga-Carrefour in Ferrol hour by hour and even find hot smoked paprika powder. But no Pimenton de la Vera. We buy a can as a test and for consolation, but no, it's not the same flavor experience.

I want to go to Extremadura. Screw the seven hundred kilometers.

Until the hero discovers a huge but actually unremarkable Gadis sign upon exiting Ferrol, slams on the brakes, and shouts that according to his hours-long intensive internet research, there might be the sought-after powder here. I'm surprised and skeptical, as all this information has been wrong so far.

Especially in Northern Spain, the supermarket chain is represented, and I have to search here for the Especias as well.

And I hit the jackpot! Pimenton de la Vera in Picante! ¡Es para flipar, cojonudo! I buy five cans right away; that should at least last us until the next trips to Spain of our entire circle of friends and acquaintances.

Now we have arrived at the gates of the town of A Laracha. There is quite a traffic chaos, and we take advantage of the free edge of the road to park our travel wagon. A wise decision, as is immediately apparent, for the place is completely parked out. Every conceivable gap is filled, whether garage door, property entrance, or playground; everything is wildly and crossfilled with vehicles of all colors.

The road is completely blocked; we can't even go at a snail's pace. Four gentlemen from the municipal police stand at critical points, directing the embotellamiento, the truly Spanish bouchon, with loud whistles and sweeping gestures. It seems nothing is moving, but that impression is misleading. Somehow, everyone reaches their destination.

The Mercado is a colorful mix of old second-hand junk and all sorts of new goods.

Zappa finds a mini pickaxe at a flea market stand that almost fits into the pocket and that he has dreamed of since the beginning of time. I negotiate ruthlessly with the Hombre and: '¡Vale, vale, vale!', he reluctantly gives up the good piece for a mere two euros.

You can really buy everything here! Colorful ladies' blouses, thick slippers with fake fur trim, colorful underwear in all imaginable sizes, football shirts from Atlético Madrid, work clothes for men, watches, knives, chainsaws, and much more.

But the real crowd is at the food stands. People stand around chatting, happy to see cousin Rosa again, inspecting the neighbor's offspring, and exchanging news from the last two weeks. This event only takes place on the first and third Sundays of the month.

We weave through the fruit and vegetable stands, where mainly older ladies offer the harvest from their gardens. Countless Abuelas sit on rusty folding chairs selling tomatoes, figs, pimentos de padron, and Couve galega, the legendary Galician cabbage, while their nimble, wrinkled fingers shell thick white beans from the pods.

At one stand, the hero discovers a few jars of saffron, and we buy about five grams of the precious red crocus threads from Señora at an incredibly cheap price. After all, Zappa has been the undefeated Maître of Paella de marisco since yesterday. How long did she have to pluck saffron from the estimated two thousand flowers to be able to offer her harvest here today?

We continue to fight through the crowd, and strangely enough, I don't mind at all. Normally, I start sweating immediately with so much close contact. However, there is an extremely relaxed atmosphere here; nobody pushes or complains.

At the cheese stand, the line is at least fifty meters long. The hero counts sixty-three people, a stroller, and two dogs and finds out that the best Queso in the region is available directly from the trailer.

The huge white wheels of Arzúa-Ulloa are wrapped in coated wrapping paper to protect the thin rind and to keep the typical Galician cow cheese in shape.

For both of us, however, this portion is too much of a good thing.

So, we opt for the over birch wood smoked Simón da Costa, whose well-rounded shape particularly appeals to the hero.

It seems the Spanish oranges are indeed ripe; we buy a Chorízo for the tapas plate and are too late for the deliciously fragrant, enormous fig breads, which are all sold out.

Completely exhausted, we fight through the still-present traffic jam after two hours, past the four whistling policemen, heading towards Costa do Morte.

Here we look from a lonely rock at the raging Atlantic, watch the seagulls, and wait for dolphins. Andalusia? Overrated...