Cariño Chaos – Lost in Translation, Found in Spain!

Nina Between Checkout Yoga, Shopping-Trolley Everest and “Cariño, ¿el precio?”

There are certain things I will probably never fully understand as a German.

For example: Why does a Spanish supermarket on a perfectly ordinary Wednesday evening look like the final shopping day before the apocalypse?

So, there I am, innocently walking into Carrefour. Just a quick dash for some milk. Perhaps a Tarta de Queso. Maybe a little Jamón. You never know.

And then I see them.

The queues.

Not small, polite, orderly lines.

Oh no. These are queues that appear to stretch all the way to Panama. Or at least to the underground car park. Twelve, thirteen checkouts. Every single one open. And yet you stand there as though you have embarked on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela – only without hiking boots, but with a shopping trolley.

And the trolleys?

Not full.

Overflowing.

I am talking about shopping trolleys that look like the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

Yes, I know. Pisa is in Italy. But if Spain had its own leaning tower, it would probably be standing inside Carrefour, constructed from watermelons, six multipacks of yoghurt, four litres of olive oil and three Tupperware containers for Abuela.

Because in Spain, nobody shops merely for themselves.

People shop for Tío, Abuela, la Vecina, the third cousin twice removed and the entire fin de semana.

Football is not Spain’s national sport.

Food is.

And Spain plays professionally.

The Art of Staying Calm in the Queue

What leaves me speechless every single time is not the length of the queue.

It is the calm.

So there you stand.

The German pulse begins climbing past 90.

Behind you, a mother with two children. In front of you, a Señor with enough meat in his trolley to cater a wedding for 120 guests.

And then it happens.

One item has no price.

The cashier – entirely unbothered – calls the store manager.

The store manager arrives.

Eventually.

In the meantime, everyone discusses the weather, the latest special offers and whether today’s Tarta is particularly creamy.

No grumbling. No sighing. No irritated rolling of the eyes.

Just one collective:

“No pasa nada.”

In Germany?

Imagine the scene. A shopping trolley would suddenly be transformed into a Ferrari. Someone would loudly announce that “this is absolutely outrageous.” A pensioner would leave the checkout zone with military precision and march straight towards customer services.

Here?

Here, you stand as though you have accidentally joined a yoga retreat.

Breathe in.

Breathe out.

Visualise the Tarta.

Dreaming of Tarta de Queso

While I am already compiling an internal Excel spreadsheet calculating every lost minute, the Spanish remain completely relaxed – and dream.

They dream of Tarta de Queso.

Of the Tortilla waiting for them that evening.

Of wine.

Of sitting around a table and eating together.

And suddenly, something becomes clear:

This queue is not an inconvenience.

It is anticipation.

In Germany, people wait because they desperately want to move on.

In Spain, people wait so they can enjoy what comes next even more.

Pet Name Chaos: My Life Between Jamón, Megaphones and “Cariño, ¿el precio?”

And then, not long ago, it happened.

Carrefour. Saturday. 6:47 p.m.

The precise time when half of Spain decides to pop out for “just a few things.” Although “just a few things” is a relative concept here – rather like waiting times, patience and personal space.

In front of me: a trolley full of watermelons.

Behind me: a family apparently shopping for three generations.

In my basket? Jamón. Cheese. A few olives. In other words, the basic equipment required for emotional stability.

The problem:

Neither the Jamón nor the cheese had a price label.

Still lightly conditioned by my German upbringing, I attempted a little efficiency.

“I think the Jamón was €18.95.”

The cashier gave me a gentle smile – the sort of smile you give someone who has just claimed to be able to read minds.

“No, no, no… eso no puede ser. We’ll have to find out another way.”

And then it happened.

She did not reach for the telephone.

Oh no.

She reached for the megaphone.

This was not a normal microphone. It was an acoustic natural disaster.

“CARIÑOOOOOOO! CARIÑOOOOO! EL PRECIO PARA JAMÓN!”

The entire supermarket vibrated.

A child nearly dropped his ice cream.

An elderly gentleman did not even turn around – clearly, this was nothing new.

I had to hold on to the checkout belt because I was laughing so hard.

Are they married? flashed through my mind.

How wonderfully romantic: asking for the price of ham by calling someone Cariño.

The cashier grinned.

“I only call him Cariño because that’s what we do here. Perhaps his wife doesn’t call him that anymore.”

And before anyone had time to recover, round two began:

“PRINCESA, ¿QUEREMOS EL PRECIO DEL JAMÓN O ESPERAMOS HASTA NAVIDAD? ¡IGUAL ENTONCES ESTÁ EN OFERTA!”

“Princess, do we want the price of the Jamón, or shall we wait until Christmas? Perhaps it’ll be on special offer by then!”

The queue grew longer.

People laughed. Loudly. Brightly. Without restraint. But never with irritation – always with that unmistakable sound of life.

Shopping in Spain is not a logistical task.

It is a social event.

An improvisation.

A small theatrical performance staged somewhere between the refrigerated section and the till receipt.

In Germany, someone would almost certainly have become restless by now.

Here, it became a show.

The price arrived eventually. Someone shouted it from somewhere. Probably using another pet name. Perhaps his official name was José – but in that moment, he was simply Cariño del Jamón.

You stand.

You wait.

You practise patience.

And suddenly, something happens that no amount of money could ever buy:

A moment.

A laugh.

A “Princesa” over the megaphone.

These tiny, chaotic, noisy, affectionate interruptions.

They do not happen everywhere.

They happen here.

Cariño.

Princesa.

Guapa.

And eventually: el precio.

A Love Letter to Spanish Lässigkeit

Perhaps that is exactly what makes this country so special.

This ability to stand in a queue stretching all the way to Panama without completely losing the plot.

No pushing.

No shouting.

No dramatic complaints to management.

Just waiting.

With dignity.

With a smile.

With a Tarta in the trolley.

Somewhere between olive oil and Lebensphilosophie, you suddenly understand:

Perhaps waiting for an hour is not actually so terrible.

Perhaps it is a gift.

After all, what is time when, at the end of it, a table full of food, family and laughter is waiting?

Spain teaches you many things.

Flamenco in your heart.

Summer nights on your skin.

And patience at the checkout.

And ganz ehrlich?

I absolutely love it.