I Went for the Pork, I Stayed for the Olives

Coarsely translated: Sausage Fest

I went for the pork, I stayed for the olives



I didn’t really set out to buy olives, and although I think it is worth it, good olives can probably be found without spending three hours on a train with a metro ride to the station on either end. I really was out to see the Muestra del Embutido, or sausage festival in Requena, Spain. I had read about it earlier in the week in the newspaper and thought about going and then I was prompted again by someone who knows my weakness for Spanish pork products. This would be the first time I had been out of Valencia since I got here, besides some long bike rides.

I have never been a big fan of airports; they are simply a means to an end. I have to admit that I love train stations. The bigger ones in the U.S. and in Europe have a majesty that airports, in their modernity, could never match. I guess part of my fondness for train station has to do with the fact that I think train travel is exciting and sophisticated. I wonder if I will ever get over my tendency to over-romanticize train stations and train travel? I hope not. If you love train stations you won’t be disappointed by Valencia’s Estación del Norte.

Everything went smoothly, but the train station in Valencia was a little confusing for the first–timer. I walked in, saw a ticket counter, stood in line, realized I was in the wrong place, went to the information booth, asked about the cercanías (local trains), was told to go to the window directly to the left, walked over but noticed an automatic ticket machine, and bought a 3.60€ ticket to Requena. I didn’t know when I was leaving or on what train but I had a ticket. I walked around the beautiful station and found the platform for the cercanías. There is an outdoor café right in front of the platform so I sat down and read.

Once we got going the view out the window quickly beat out my book for my full attention. The train meandered into the hills east of Valencia and passed through a couple of rocky, uninhabited canyons without even a trace of goat trails. After passing through a series of tunnels we stopped rather unceremoniously, and without an announcement in Requena.

I had no idea where I was going but all I had to do was walk out of the front doors and I could see a crowd of people on a street several blocks below the station. The festival itself was like most street festivals I have been to in Seattle. They are just an excuse to eat and drink. For 9€ you get a tray and a wine glass and then it is up to you to fill both of them as many times as you can.

There was just too much of a scrum at the stalls selling sausages to take some home with me. Besides, I didn’t notice anything above and beyond the quality of the meats I have available at my local market. I left the festival after only one lap and looked around the old section of the city. After I maxed out my rather anemic camera memory I headed back to the center of town for a glass of wine before my train back home.

When it comes to olives I always have the time, money, and extra room in my shoulder bag to carry them. The problem is figuring out whether or not I have room in my refrigerator for another bucket of olives. The olives that I bought in Requena are the best I have had so far on this visit to Spain, and I have had a lot of good olives.