I woke up this morning with the kind of excitement that makes your stomach flutter — either adventure or hunger and luckily Jamaica have plenty for both.

After a quick cup of strong, sweet Blue Mountain coffee, I wandered toward a narrow side street a taxi driver told me about yesterday: “If yuh want real food, not de tourist tings, go where de grannies sell it,” he had said with a wink.

He wasn’t kidding.

The market was tucked behind a row of pastel-painted shops, humming with life even before the sun got high.

The first thing that hit me was the smell — smoke, spices, ripe fruit and something sizzling on a hot griddle.

A woman with bright yellow earrings waved me over to her stall where she was flipping festivals like she’d done it a million times.

“First time in Jamaica?” she asked, laughing before I even answered, like she already knew.

I nodded sheepishly. “Well, try dis. Hot, careful now.”

The festival was crisp outside and soft inside, slightly sweet, warm enough to fog my glasses.

I tried to say something eloquent but managed only an enthusiastic “Mmm!”

She clapped her hands and told me that meant I was officially Jamaican for the day.

Farther in, I found stalls piled with glossy Scotch bonnet peppers, bundles of thyme and green bananas stacked like tiny sculptures.

A vendor slicing chunks of coconut offered me a piece before telling me stories about how his grandmother used to make coconut drops.

Another man, selling jerk chicken from a drum grill, insisted I take a tiny sample “just to judge de flavour,” as if there were any judging to do — it was spicy and smoky and perfect.

My favourite moment happened near noon when I followed the sound of laughter to a small corner where two vendors were playfully arguing about whose curry goat sold faster.

They pulled me into the debate, shoving tasting bowls into my hands.

I pretended to think deeply, tapping my chin like a food critic, but eventually declared a tie just to avoid starting a market war.

They roared with laughter and patted my shoulders like I’d passed some unspoken test.

By the time I headed back toward my guesthouse, my pockets smelled like spices and my bag was stuffed with fruit I didn’t need but couldn’t resist — mangoes, June plums and a few star apples.

Today felt less like sightseeing and more like sitting at a family table, even though I was half a world away from mine.

Jamaica does that to you, wraps you up in warmth, feeds you, talks to you and sends you home full in every sense.

I can’t wait for tomorrow.