7 nov

Who would not think a supermarket is like a museum? They are my favourite museums, talking about it. The museums of everyday contemporary life.

France was blissful, as we expected it to be. I look at the variety of fish that is being offered and I realize the world is blessed. But I also always have a look at the variety of cheeses being offered; too many to count. Or about all the different deserts. France likes to know itself as a milk-based country. The royal kingdom of the Charrolais or Limousin cows. And of all the delightful products that are associated with it.

Whatever, the supermarket tells you everything you want to know about everyday life. England is definitely about breakfast, going through almost endless aisles of cereal after cereal. And then to think of the fact that a real english breakfast consists of fried eggs (ok), baked beans (yukk) fried mushrooms and fried tomatoes (not breakfast items!). Fleeing Britain is really about fleeing breakfast, although I have to say that in five years Britain I didn’t have to suffer the real English breakfast for at most five times.

France is about deserts. Think about all the yoghurts and vast amount of delicious cheeses. But then they have thought about varieties that you would not want to eat in your wildest dreams. Dark chocolate pudding with mint. It is for sale, so probably people buy it, but pretty soon it will be as old fashioned as the guillotine, of which France also seems to own the patent.

Spain seems like it doesn’t want to commit to anything really. One thing is clear though, after staying here for one week. Muesli is a word they have never heard of. Just to get the most simple variety of Muesli is a struggle that involves, it seems, the home roasting of oats. Which is not an easy task to accomplice in a camper van.

But then I got it. Spain is about meat, starting to think about it there is no real doubt anymore. Just picture the aisles of sliced ham, they are beyond imagination. But to cap it all there are the area’s where you can just buy the whole ham, including the most mouth watering apparatus to slice the whole damned things.

Montblanc is just an average kind of town. But the amount of ham inventory they have hanging up is just mind boggling. Each single ham goes for at least €55 ($75). The two times a half hour I stayed there nobody bought the things. Maybe it is a saturday morning kind of exercise, feeling one needs a little bit of extravagance after a whole week of slaving away.If Spain is about anything, it is about ham! I have never been in a place where the butts of pigs have been more sanctified than as here in Spain, or Catalunya, as the citizens would like us to believe this country here is called.

Supermarkets market them as they are the latest fad. Since breeding our own pig, last year, I consider myself an expert. And I have to say, our pig looked less appealing than the sanctified versions of pigs that were allowed in our Supermercado in Montblanc. But then, nobody bought the darn things, at least not in the two times of a half hour – where in the world do they sell their shaving cream? – that I spent there.

But that is like a museum, isn’t it. You just look and admire. Do not touch anything. Let alone think about buying anything. Maybe that’s why I seemed to recognize the same impressive large fish in the counter for the past three days.

But then again. How often do the sell the Nightwatch, of Rembrandt, or the Sixtine Chapel of Michelangelo. It is there to look at and admire. The hams are, according to the Spanish, in the same league as the masterworks of past Masters.

Thinking about it I am not sure if this is the Achilles heel of the Spanish economy, or its hidden treasure. Longing to buy the ham, and not feeling able to do it, I prefer the treasure part.