Here’s something to love about Europe: I can drink Campari on the rocks with lunch (or for lunch, for that matter) and this is considered acceptable behavior. Doing so is certainly not common practice on my part, but work has kicked my butt in recent days, and sometimes a girl just needs a break in the form of a tranquilizer.
Hours ago, I received a reminder from Vueling airlines that my flight "shall depart to Paris on Saturday, 16 January". Indeed it shall! This is easily the most exciting news I have received in weeks, leaving me with a sense of anticipation and relief that I have not felt in a long time. Anticipation, because I consider Paris to be nothing short of heaven. Relief, because - and I say this with all due respect and in no reference whatsoever to the wonderful friends who live here - one month in Valencia has been about 24.5 days too long.
Valencia is one of those cities that sounds like a great idea. Situated along the southeastern beaches of Spain, Valencia enjoys reasonably mild winters and sunshine nearly year-round. It offers all those wonderful things that Spain does best: Fiestas. Siestas. Espresso. Red wine. Manchego cheese. Inexpensive spa treatments in luxurious settings (recommended: Spa Del Mar). A good, albeit expensive, selection of organic and eco-friendly food products (check out J. Navarro). Cool music. Stunning architecture. Charming plazas. A well-preserved cultural heritage. A plethora of museums.
With all this to offer, a tourist could certainly enjoy Valencia for a few days.
It doesn't take long, however, to realize that Valencia's image of grandeur and beauty is all surface. This is an image that was – according to my roommate – bought by the conservative local government. Massive amounts of Euros exchanged hands in order to bring two international events here: Formula One and the America's Cup. Undoubtedly the objective was to put Valencia on the world map, give the impression that this is a modern, cosmopolitan city, and shine the spotlight on a city that has always been outshined by its neighbor to the north, Barcelona, otherwise known as the darling of Spain.
One cannot blame the government for their efforts; any city would do and has done the same. These two events have put Valencia on the world map, and they certainly have brought in a tremendous amount of tourism and foreign investment. As I type this now, spectators are pouring into town in anticipation of next month's America's Cup race. They will enjoy the city for a short time, and the international press will shine a very bright spotlight on Valencia. To the outside world, it will look like a fabulously exciting place to be.
But the race will end, the boats and spectators will depart, and the truth that lies under the shiny surface will be revealed. The truth being this: Valencia is one very big pueblo. One big, unimaginative, uninspiring... and dare I say it, boring pueblo. Apart from the handful of fascinating and kind people I had the pleasure to know, not much else was on offer here in Spain's third biggest city.
With all that said, my advice for you is this: if you are at all like me (someone who thrives in an international setting; someone who prefers to feel comfortable and welcomed regardless of nationality, religion or race; someone who longs for variety, and maybe at least one smoke-free setting other than Starbucks) and if you are traveling to Spain in search of all those aforementioned wonderful things that the country has to offer - tolerable winters, beaches, coffee, siestas, cheese, wine... if this all applies to you, then - as one dear friend wisely put it - you might as well just go to Barcelona. There is a reason, after all, that she is the darling of Spain.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Monday, January 4, 2010
Just another day in Valencia
On one brilliantly sunny Saturday afternoon, I take a break from a busy day of doing nothing at all, and perch myself on a park bench in the center of Plaza de La Reina. Taking out my Blackberry, I begin to type an email message to my dad to tell him all about the beautiful Washburn guitar I have just seen at the UME music store on Calle Paz. (Truth be told, I sit for a moment in the vain hopes that the beautiful man I have just seen at UME might coincidentally walk by... but no such luck.) Within moments, a dark shadow crosses over me, and before I can look up to see what has so rudely blocked my sun, an older Valenciano gentleman, smiling the bright-eyed smile of a mischievous teenager, plops himself down on the bench next to me.
Now by older, I mean somewhere in the range of 88 to 94 years old. Not exactly my type, but I am open to conversation.
Despite the bench being otherwise empty, he positions himself within millimeters of where I sit, closing off all space between us. He leans toward me as he speaks, his breath hot against my face, and I try as politely as I can to back away and reclaim some air around me.
Where am I staying? he asks... how long am I here? He would like to show me around Valencia, he tells me. "You know", he says (I can almost hear the "wink wink, nudge nudge" in his voice) "I have been a bachelor all my life."
With one very wrinkled hand resting possessively on my knee, he leans in close – so close that I can count the unruly gray hairs bursting from his nostrils – and declares with eyes sparkling: "I could always get it up when I was younger, but now it’s not so easy!"
As if needed, this is my cue to extricate myself from that bench and head home. I laugh out loud, and can’t help but think this is one time I wish I couldn’t understand Spanish.
Now by older, I mean somewhere in the range of 88 to 94 years old. Not exactly my type, but I am open to conversation.
Despite the bench being otherwise empty, he positions himself within millimeters of where I sit, closing off all space between us. He leans toward me as he speaks, his breath hot against my face, and I try as politely as I can to back away and reclaim some air around me.
Where am I staying? he asks... how long am I here? He would like to show me around Valencia, he tells me. "You know", he says (I can almost hear the "wink wink, nudge nudge" in his voice) "I have been a bachelor all my life."
With one very wrinkled hand resting possessively on my knee, he leans in close – so close that I can count the unruly gray hairs bursting from his nostrils – and declares with eyes sparkling: "I could always get it up when I was younger, but now it’s not so easy!"
As if needed, this is my cue to extricate myself from that bench and head home. I laugh out loud, and can’t help but think this is one time I wish I couldn’t understand Spanish.
Friday, January 1, 2010
Finding family
December 24, 2009: the downstairs neighbors join me and my roommate, Saul, for a Christmas Eve dinner among non-believers. We are all of either Mexican or US origin, and have somehow found ourselves here in Spain. Five otherwise displaced people - six including Lulu the Chihuahua – come together tonight, creating a family out of the basic human desire to not be alone on a holiday.
Loneliness is a funny thing. For some, it can be a debilitating disease that gnaws away at our insides and breaks down any ounce of desire or motivation we may have ever known. We lock ourselves up inside our homes – inside of ourselves – and accept "alone" as a familiar state of being. For others, loneliness can be the greatest source of encouragement, a heavy-handed push that forces us to step out into the world, become a part of the human race... become a part of something.
Just one week ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a dark sedan on an even darker pre-dawn morning, somewhere outside of dreary London. I was on my way to yet another airport to catch yet another flight. We had just left the hotel when, from somewhere in the front seat, came the statement: "I imagine it gets pretty lonely, traveling around all the time and living out of a suitcase." I mumbled some nonsense answer, trying to convince my driver and me both that it was all fine, that I was used to the lifestyle. And for once I felt grateful for England's dreary darkness; through the rear-view mirror, he would never see the tears sliding down my cheeks.
Fast-forward to Valencia. I am here, alone, surrounded by strangers. And it's Christmas. As with everything in life, I know I have a choice: I can let the disease tear me down, or I can allow it to shove me out into the world.
No doubt about it, I choose the latter. Thus when my roommate asks if we should host a dinner party on Christmas eve, I tell him Yes. Absolutely yes.
A quick run to El Mercado Central ensures we have all the ingredients necessary to destroy the kitchen. Every pot and pan is pulled from storage and prepped for a workout. Saul takes on the main course: an Indian curry with a fragrant basmati rice. I prepare a very American salad laden with dried cranberries and homemade caramelized walnuts. The neighbors arrive bearing 2 bottles of Spanish cava and a delicious German apple strudel. An international mish-mash of food will feed this mish-mash of people.
Conversation and cava flow. We battle over the laptop's keyboard, streaming Elvis, Tchaikovksy, French rap songs. Our neighbors' teenage daughter dances around the room, animated yet stunning, exuding a confidence at 15 that I – more than twice her age – have never known. I marvel at this gregarious child, marvel at the warmth and friendliness of her parents, at the unconditional kindness of my roommate. On this holiday, in this unknown place, surrounded by strangers, I feel part of something, part of a family. We talk, we laugh, we stuff ourselves with too much food, and torture our livers with too much cheap Spanish wine. The evening winds down and sleep finally calls. The kitchen remains in a state of destruction. But this is Spain. Nothing needs to happen today. We’ll clean it manana.
Loneliness is a funny thing. For some, it can be a debilitating disease that gnaws away at our insides and breaks down any ounce of desire or motivation we may have ever known. We lock ourselves up inside our homes – inside of ourselves – and accept "alone" as a familiar state of being. For others, loneliness can be the greatest source of encouragement, a heavy-handed push that forces us to step out into the world, become a part of the human race... become a part of something.
Just one week ago, I was sitting in the backseat of a dark sedan on an even darker pre-dawn morning, somewhere outside of dreary London. I was on my way to yet another airport to catch yet another flight. We had just left the hotel when, from somewhere in the front seat, came the statement: "I imagine it gets pretty lonely, traveling around all the time and living out of a suitcase." I mumbled some nonsense answer, trying to convince my driver and me both that it was all fine, that I was used to the lifestyle. And for once I felt grateful for England's dreary darkness; through the rear-view mirror, he would never see the tears sliding down my cheeks.
Fast-forward to Valencia. I am here, alone, surrounded by strangers. And it's Christmas. As with everything in life, I know I have a choice: I can let the disease tear me down, or I can allow it to shove me out into the world.
No doubt about it, I choose the latter. Thus when my roommate asks if we should host a dinner party on Christmas eve, I tell him Yes. Absolutely yes.
A quick run to El Mercado Central ensures we have all the ingredients necessary to destroy the kitchen. Every pot and pan is pulled from storage and prepped for a workout. Saul takes on the main course: an Indian curry with a fragrant basmati rice. I prepare a very American salad laden with dried cranberries and homemade caramelized walnuts. The neighbors arrive bearing 2 bottles of Spanish cava and a delicious German apple strudel. An international mish-mash of food will feed this mish-mash of people.
Conversation and cava flow. We battle over the laptop's keyboard, streaming Elvis, Tchaikovksy, French rap songs. Our neighbors' teenage daughter dances around the room, animated yet stunning, exuding a confidence at 15 that I – more than twice her age – have never known. I marvel at this gregarious child, marvel at the warmth and friendliness of her parents, at the unconditional kindness of my roommate. On this holiday, in this unknown place, surrounded by strangers, I feel part of something, part of a family. We talk, we laugh, we stuff ourselves with too much food, and torture our livers with too much cheap Spanish wine. The evening winds down and sleep finally calls. The kitchen remains in a state of destruction. But this is Spain. Nothing needs to happen today. We’ll clean it manana.
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