Alright, so, the Ventimiglia market. People talk about it, you know? Especially if you find yourself kicking around the French Riviera, it’s like this legendary thing. I’d heard the stories – massive, chaotic, full of everything. So, one Friday, I just decided, “That’s it, I’m going.” Didn’t really plan much beyond getting on a train.
The train ride itself was pretty decent, actually. Hugging the coast, lots of blue water, all that scenic stuff. Then you pull into Ventimiglia, and even before you’re properly out of the station, you can kinda feel the market. It’s not just a few stalls, this thing is a monster. It stretches out, way down along the seafront. Seriously, it just goes on and on.
And let me tell you, it was packed. Like, sardines-in-a-can packed. People everywhere, all shuffling along. The stalls are crammed side-by-side. First thing that hits you is probably the leather goods – bags, belts, wallets, you name it. Then you’ve got clothes, mountains of them. Some looked alright, some looked like they’d fall apart if you sneezed too hard. And shoes, so many shoes. It’s an assault on the senses, but in a good way, mostly.
I wasn’t really there for clothes or trinkets, to be honest. My mission, and this might sound a bit daft, was food. Specifically, I was on a quest for real Italian cheese and some proper olives. See, I’d been having this running argument with my mate back home. He kept saying the stuff we get in our local supermarket was “basically the same.” Drove me nuts. So, this trip to Ventimiglia? It was partly to gather evidence. Petty, I know, but there you go.
Finding the food section took a bit of navigating. You gotta push through the crowds, past the guys selling knock-off sunglasses and phone chargers. But then, you hit it. Oh man. The smell of cured meats, cheeses, fresh bread. It was incredible. I found this stall run by an old Italian fella, barely spoke a word of English, and I barely spoke Italian. But we managed, you know? Pointing, nodding, a lot of “Bueno?” He let me try a few bits of cheese. The Pecorino was out of this world. Nothing like the rubbery stuff my mate was probably eating.
And the olives! Buckets of them, all different kinds. Sun-dried tomatoes too, looking all rich and oily. I ended up buying a good chunk of that Pecorino, a bag of mixed olives, and some of that amazing sun-dried tomato paste. My bag was definitely heavier on the way back, and smelled a whole lot better.
It’s not all sunshine and rainbows, mind you. It gets seriously hot and sweaty in the thick of it. And you do have to keep an eye on your wallet, just common sense really. Some of the sellers can be a bit… enthusiastic. “Signore, signore, good price for you!” Yeah, yeah. But you just gotta brush it off, it’s part of the whole chaotic charm, I suppose. You can haggle a bit, but don’t expect miracles.
So, I spent a good few hours just wandering, soaking it all in. Drank a super strong, tiny espresso from a little stand that probably cost about one euro. Watched the world go by. It’s a proper experience, that market. Not like those sterile, boring shopping centres. This place has got life, it’s got grit.
Was it worth the trip? Absolutely. If you want to see a real, bustling, slightly overwhelming Italian market, Ventimiglia is the place. And yeah, I did send my mate a photo of the cheese. He finally admitted I might have had a point. Small victories, eh?
