Vallarta
For as long as I can remember, trips to Vallarta — a California-based Hispanic grocery store — were the biggest treat. I’d always be rewarded with a freshly baked concha or oreja for the ride home, and nothing beat that. But beyond the sweet treats that always awaited me at the end of the trip, going to Vallarta itself was an adventure. It was the one place where I actually felt close to my family and my heritage. Being Mexican and looking White doesn’t always lend itself to being easily proud of your culture. It’s a confusing dichotomy where you have to pick and choose who you are given your surroundings. At school, I always was (and still am) White, unless someone asks. But in Vallarta, I am Mexican. And I am proud of it.
Roaming through the aisles with my mom and my grandma, they always point out their favorite dulces and papitas, urging me to place them in the cart for a taste test at home. As someone who finds happiness in food, there is truly nothing better than this. And being encouraged to place more items in the cart, how could I not grow to love this magical place? The fluorescent lights and loud, redundant mariachi music have become synonymous with happiness — an instant mood-booster. And because Vallarta is so far from our house, going there is truly a special occasion. When I was younger, we normally went if my mom or my grandma were cooking for an event or family gathering, and that was even more exciting. Not only was Vallarta an environment that signaled a full belly, it was also a place that ensured my whole family would be celebrating together soon. Each trip, we’d stock the cart with freshly made tortillas, tomatillos and onions for homemade salsa, and most importantly, the best carnitas money can buy.
I don’t frequent Vallarta often, but that’s what makes it so special. The thirty minute drive to the nearest store always feels exponentially long, staring out the window dreaming about the pastelito I’m about to devour. But most importantly, the long ride gives my grandma time to handwrite her grocery list and take a mental inventory of how many bags of black beans, rice, and cans of chipotle she already has at home. Once we arrive at the store, the three generations — my mom, my grandma, and I — all have our tasks. My mom heads towards the produce, picking out jicama for our daily snack and avocados for every meal. My grandma beelines for the butcher counter, asking for precisely tres libras de carne arrachera. And my job, even as a 20-year-old, is to scour the store for salty snacks and spicy candies to tide us over until our next trip.
This grocery store raised me. Its comforting smells and sounds will forever hold a place in my heart.
I am thankful that my mom and grandma brought me to this place and introduced me to my culture in an unforgettable way. I am grateful for our trips to Vallarta. They make me certain of who I am, and certain that I will never let go of that part of me.