El mercado que olía a vida: así era comprar en los pueblos españoles de los años 60

Before daylight arrived, the market was already awake. The fishmonger breaking the ice. The butcher hanging the cuts on hooks. The greengrocer stacking the tomatoes they'd picked that very morning. And the smell. That smell that doesn't exist in any supermarket in the world, and that those who knew it recognize anywhere when they happen upon something similar. The village market in the 1960s wasn't just where you bought your weekly groceries. It was the village newspaper. It was the neighborhood bank, with its credit ledger where everything was recorded and paid for when it was due. It was the place where your mother knew before you even got home that Mrs. Concha's daughter was engaged. It was the heart of the village. And it beat before anyone asked it to. Do you remember the village market of your childhood? The fishmonger's name, the smell of the fruit stand, the sound of the butcher's axe? 👇 Tell us in the comments. These stories are yours. 📌 Subscribe to keep exploring the Spain we live in:    / @espanaquevivimos