There are many things that have surprised me living in Sao Paulo and the weekly feira, or street market, is one of them.  After months of doing my grocery shopping at local grocery stores (and always leaving dis-satisfied), I decided to try my neighborhood feira. 

Luckily, my feira is close, and small (the large ones are too loud, crowded, and big for me).  The first thing that struck me was the beautiful presentation of the fruits and vegetables.  As my husband would attest, I’m not normally a huge fan of fresh veggies, but these called to me – they were art! 

I quickly learned to build relationships with my vegetable lady and fruit guy – for they could not only choose the perfect pieces for me (say, depending on when I wanted to eat it), but also would send me home with “brindes,” or free pieces to try.  There’s the lime guy, the banana guy, the egg guy, the coconut guy, and the chicken guy.

At first, I walked straight past the meats, afraid of the thought of eating something that has sat out all day.  But I finally caved and purchased some chicken one day, and it was the tastiest meat I have ever eaten in my life.  Juicy. Bursting with flavor.  Then, slowly, I kept migrating my purchases to the feira – eggs, biscoitos de povilho (Brazilian version of chips), trash bags – until I only go to the grocery store now for the things I can’t buy at the feira (milk, water, bread).

And also, speaking of food, one of my favorite things to eat in the world resides at the feira – pastel.  These luscious little fried pockets contain ooey-gooey cheese, and at my feira such delicacies as arugula, bacon, and cheddar or broccoli, parmesan, and bacon. Topped with hot sauce and the homemade cole slaw/pico de gallo mix they call vinagrete, there is nothing more sublime.

But maybe even more important than the quality of the food at the feira, is the atmosphere.  People are friendly, it doesn’t feel rushed, and well, the guys all yell “Hey, Beautiful!” at me.  Of course, they do it to every woman, but my ego really enjoys it nonetheless. 

Especially from the parking guy, who shakes me down for a couple of Reais to park on the street (which is free, by the way), and who carries my heavy load for me as he asks me where I’m from, tells me how beautiful I am, and how awesome the U.S. is.  I am a sucker, I know it, but at this point paid kindness is still kindness.