People say there are two types of tourists, and at the local markets this is correct. Those who are welcome to enjoy the stalls and those who should stay by the pool.
Markets, Mayhem & Melting Tourists: Summer at Lemon Tree Sunday Market.
It’s market day — a sacred ritual here in Spain. A twice-weekly pilgrimage where residents head out with a purpose: in, out, olives, sorted. Often it’s a midweek market shop then a Sunday market.
Unless, of course, it’s high season. Then, well… grab your sun hat and a week’s supply of patience, because the markets have become the slow-motion arena of summer absurdity.
Welcome to the Market. Population: Too Many.
It’s a Sunday, 9:42 a.m. and already 32 degrees. The sun’s doing its best impression of a welding torch, and the chiringuito-adjacent car park is heaving. You make the brave decision to face Lemon Tree Market — the kingdom of deals, dodgy linen trousers, and produce that actually tastes like something.
But you forgot one crucial detail: the tourists have arrived.
They descend on the market like hungover lobsters, glowing radioactive red from the shoulders up, sweating like they’ve just completed a triathlon in cling film. Dressed in barely-there swimwear and flip-flops that haven’t seen soap since Gatwick, they meander through the aisles with the urgency of a stunned sloth.
This the 90% of those two types of tourists we mentioned earlier. The remaining 10% have done this before and know the score, thankfully.
Their mission? Unclear. Possibly olives. Possibly magnets. Possibly just shade.
The Pace of Suffering
You know where to go. You’ve got your market plan. Fruit from José (his melons are divine, don’t giggle), veg from the brothers near the back, manchego from the stall with the grumpy señora, and olives from that tiny table with the mystery tubs and no labels.
On a normal day, you’re in and out in 15 minutes flat, tote bag full, wallet lighter, smug levels high.
But now?
Every aisle is clogged. It’s like trying to overtake a caravan of indecision. Every 2 metres, someone has stopped dead to gawk at leather sandals or debate whether three aubergines is “too many”. Meanwhile, you’re behind them, slowly dehydrating and trying not to accidentally breathe in someone’s eau de factor 30 and last night’s paella.
One man’s been standing in front of the peaches for so long, he’s gone through all five stages of grief. Another has just asked if the tomatoes are grown in “real Spanish soil”.
The Great Haggling Misunderstanding
Here’s where things get truly entertaining. British tourists, armed with half-remembered episodes of “Bargain Hunt,” have convinced themselves that Spanish markets operate like some sort of Mediterranean bazaar where every transaction requires extensive negotiation. Every stall becomes a potential haggling opportunity, regardless of whether it makes any logical sense.
The crown jewel of this misunderstanding has to be the drink stall at Lemon Tree Market. One euro for an ice-cold beer. One euro. Less than the price of a cup of coffee back home. A price so reasonable it practically qualifies as charity work. And yet, without fail, every summer brings a parade of tourists trying to negotiate bulk discounts.
“What’s your best price if I buy two beers?” asked Kevin from Kent last week, while the stallholder looked at him with the expression of someone whose faith in humanity was slowly crumbling.
“Two euros,” came the patient reply.
“But what if I buy three?”
“Three euros.”
Kevin stood there for a moment, clearly wrestling with advanced mathematics, before eventually agreeing to pay the full asking price of one euro per beer as if he’d just negotiated the deal of the century.
The Art of the Haggle (Sort Of)
Now, I’m all for a bit of haggling. In the right setting — a rug bazaar in Marrakesh, maybe — it’s practically a sport. But at Lemon Tree Market, at the beer stall, where a cold beer is literally 1€, it’s less charming.
And yet, every week, some bold sunburnt economist strolls up and says, in broken battlefield GCSE Spanish:
“If I buy two beers… can you do them for… one euro?”
Cue the stallholder’s slow blink. He’s seen some things in life, but this might be the moment that finally breaks him. Because mate — it’s already one euro. It’s cheaper than water. It’s basically a public service. You’re lucky they’re not charging you to breathe the cold air coming off the cans.
The Trolley Problem
Then there are the trolley-draggers. Ah yes, the wheeled menace. You can always hear them before you see them — squeeeeeak-squeak-thump — as they carve an erratic path between stalls, blocking every possible route like a game of human Tetris.
Their contents? One orange, a pair of espadrilles, and what appears to be 14 laminated place mats.
The Olive Oil Olympics
Antonio’s olive stall has become an unlikely theater of cultural education. He sells proper Spanish olives – Gordal, Manzanilla, Arbequina – each with distinct flavors that would make olive enthusiasts cross continents. The locals know exactly what they want and can complete their purchase in under two minutes.
Tourists, however, treat his stall like a university course in Mediterranean agriculture. They want to taste everything, understand the entire production process, and receive a comprehensive lecture on the differences between varieties they’re never going to remember.
“Are these Spanish olives?” asked Darren from Devon, while standing at a Spanish olive stall, in Spain, run by a Spanish gentleman whose family has been growing olives since before America was discovered.
“Yes,” replied Antonio, with the patience of a saint.
“Do you have any English olives?”
Antonio’s pause suggested he was reconsidering his career choices.
The Cheese Counter Crisis
Carmen’s cheese stall has become ground zero for cultural confusion. She stocks beautiful Manchego, Cabrales, and Murcia al Vino – proper Spanish cheeses that would make a food critic weep with joy. But summer tourists approach her display case like they’re decoding the Rosetta Stone.
“Do you have any normal cheese?” asked Margaret from Manchester, while staring at a selection that would make Harrods jealous.
“Like what?” Carmen replied, in perfect English.
“You know, proper cheese. Like Cheddar.”
Carmen’s expression suggested she was questioning her life choices. Here she was, offering artisanal Spanish cheeses made by masters of their craft, and someone was asking for mass-produced Cheddar like it was some sort of upgrade.
The tragic part is that Carmen actually stocks excellent cheese. The locals know to ask for her aged Manchego – it’s magnificent. But tourists spend twenty minutes photographing it, asking seventeen questions about ingredients, and then walking away without buying anything because it “doesn’t look like normal cheese.”
Local Knowledge Meets Leisure Chaos
Meanwhile, the locals — those clever, sun-hardened market warriors — are trying to survive. You can spot them: hats with purpose, bags over shoulders, eyes scanning for the nearest path through the chaos.
They know who’s selling decent chorizo, where the best goat cheese is hiding (hint: it’s not up front), and how to get a kilo of cherry tomatoes without getting roped into a conversation about how “the tomatoes back home just aren’t the same.”
Yes, Barbara, because these ones taste of something. That’s the difference.
But even the sharpest local loses 90 minutes of their life every August just waiting for Derek from Doncaster to stop asking whether the stall takes “English money” or if he needs “to do a swap at the Post Office”.
Just a Bit of Respect (and Maybe a Shirt)
Look, we love that people come to Spain. The economy needs it. The vendors love the custom. But maybe — just maybe — if you’re going to a market, pop on a shirt. Learn the price of a beer. And if you find yourself slowly rotating in front of the cucumber stall like a damp solar panel, move aside and let someone who knows what they’re doing through.
Or better yet — watch the locals. You might even learn where to get the good olives. (Hint: they’re not the bright green ones floating like alien eyeballs in a bucket near the tourist end.)
Until Then…
We’ll be over here. Sweating. Sighing. And plotting our grand return to the market in October, when the stalls are quiet, the cheese is strong, and the only queue at the beer stand is from someone buying five and not asking for a discount.
But seriously, although the official opening time at the market is 9am, get there at 8, before it’s too busy and much too hot.
