Estamos todos en un viaje

Valencia isn’t easily accessible from our part of the north of England, at any time of year. Part of me hopes there will always be a few challenges in accessing Valencia from the UK. Even now, with the "easy city break" culture that so many people enjoy, Valencia retains something unexplained, something unique, something secret that I don’t feel in Alicante or the Costa del Sol or the more accessible (and therefore more crowded) Barcelona.

For all its provincial limitations, our local airport in the UK is convenient. But there are no flights to Valencia. When we use this airport, we fly to Alicante and take the train up to Valencia, carefully working out the times of flights and trains, and crossing fingers that there are no delays with either.

The journey is a fascinating part of the trip if you’re prepared to absorb it. Take in all of its many interactions, experience it, and enrich yourself from the whole series of small events.

The flight to Alicante was uneventful. The vast majority of our fellow travelers were headed for Alicante itself, or for Benidorm, of course. Many of the throng had enjoyed a breakfast-time lager in the terminal, but the flight was quiet… we had all been up early.

We grabbed a taxi to Alacant Terminal, and with time to spare, enjoyed a beer or two in the sunshine outside the excellent cafés at the railway station. The snarled traffic outside the station beeped and gesticulated as the weather sparkled.

As the train departure time approached, we passed though security and walked right to the edge of one of the widest cultural chasms that exists between the UK and most of Southern Europe.

Queuing.

The Spanish don’t really see it the way we see it. The protocols around queuing that exist in the UK are similarly observed in Spain, right up to the point where they can’t be arsed to observe them any more, and whole thing breaks down. For Brits (still including ourselves) this takes a bit of getting used to.

The queue snaked back from the booth where they check your tickets, and here, everything was fine. Our delicate queuing sensibilities were satisfied by the gently waving line that had already formed with the magical, shining portal to the Valencia and Barcelona train at its head. These queuers (?) had done well. But latecomers were confused by the need to double back to join the back of the queue, so just joined where they felt appropriate. Soon there were a number of tributaries to the queue river. In the UK, a tributary would never have been allowed. Not ever.

In the UK, the most confident/indignant member of the queue would snarl: “Back of the queue’s there mate” or something along those lines, perhaps accompanied by some eye-rolling and a face slightly flushed with frustration. Here, there was confused muttering, some elaborate hand movements and some tutting… but none of it was directed outwards, it was just another topic of ceaseless conversation within groups.

As if sensing the tension, a RENFE employee announced that there were now 2 ticket booths open, so 2 queues should be formed.

Not the best idea she’s ever had. The queue clearly thought she’d said: “everyone please rush the ticket booths. I repeat, please rush the ticket booths”.

There were a brief few moments of carnage, one or two smaller travelers were crushed under massive wheelie suitcases, but eventually something like 2 ragged, non-UK-style queues naturally formed.

We all had tickets, after all. We weren’t queuing for the last 10 loaves of bread. And nobody actually got crushed, I made that bit up.

We watched the dusty, yellow land north of Alicante slide past as we started towards Valencia. Darkness fell early at this time of year, so we knew that the enchanting sights of fairytale castles perched on seemingly inaccessible crags and mountain-tops would have to wait for the return journey.

We dozed a little, along with the rest of the carriage. The comfortable train continued to slide effortlessly northwards. Before too long, a huge IKEA logo told me that we were passing through Massanssa, just south of Valencia. Buildings soon became recognisable, and we pulled into Estacion Joaquín Sorolla only slightly late. 

Queuing problems at Alicante, apparently.

“We leave something of ourselves behind when we leave a place, we stay there, even though we go away. And there are things in us that we can find again only by going back there.”  

Pascal Mercier, Night Train to Lisbon

There were some changes in the apartment. Our rental agent had made sure to have jobs done in time for our arrival… a little painting, one or two repairs. We reconnected with the place quickly, with the things we had left there, the things that welcomed us back.

Torres Serranos. The last spectacular sight to enjoy
before the old town takes us in.

Out into the mild December evening for the happy little journey into the old town. All the familiar sights along the walk. Where to go, what to drink, what to eat. There is so much to offer, and we are so lucky to be able to enjoy it.

The next day, we took the tranvia to the beach. Marina Real Juan Carlos I and Paseo Maritimo, to bask in sunshine with a beer and to anticipate the Paella Valenciana to come is now customary. The paella didn’t disappoint.

We always relish and appreciate this treat to ourselves, but is this the real Valencia that’s experienced and lived in by “normal” Valencians?

No, it isn’t. It has nothing to do with their everyday struggle with utility bills and IBI tax, nothing to do with what they have to pay when the lift needs servicing in their apartment block, however much they might have wanted to delay this until they have a few more euros to spare.

The real Valencia that we are
lucky to be part of.

We are privileged to have our Valencian home in an area where real Valencians live. There are no swimming pools. There are no English breakfasts. There are no queuing protocols. There are supermarkets, fishmongers and cafés. There are kids and dogs, and motorbikes, and cars. There are day centres for the elderly. There are people that clean the streets. There are people that make the streets dirty. Things are being built, and things are being refurbished. There is renewal, and there is decay. We would so love to be more involved in the cyclical nature of all this, but as it stands, our time spent in Valencia is short and very precious.

But you get a sense of how hard it can be.

But then you walk through the Jardin del Turia on the way into the old town. When the sun shines in the middle of a December day, you can sit and enjoy the warmth, and enjoy this remarkable park that wraps itself around the heart of the city. It doesn’t make the utility bills disappear, but it might blunt their sharp edges for a little while. I know that the Valencians love and appreciate this place... it’s the first of many things that are quoted as the best things about their city. And it is a beautiful thing.

We shopped and we explored again. We picked up where we had left off in October. The countless orange trees lining the streets were heavily laden. The atmosphere in the city was building towards El Día de los Tres Reyes Magos, and the fever of Las Fallas will inevitably follow. There were new things, redeveloped things, closed things, open things. Café Sant Jaume was well and truly up and running again. For the most part, the weather was sharp and sunny, warm enough for lunch in the sun. We would get back home and doze a little until it was time to enjoy evening Valencia. We enjoyed the different vibes from bars and restaurants only metres apart.

Plaza Doctor Collado. A little heat needed.

In Plaza Doctor Collado one evening, at the foot of the illuminated Christmas tree, a pair of buskers put on a show of flamenco music of such high quality (although I’m no afficionado) that it would have graced any venue. We recognized one of the guys, as we had seen him playing classical Spanish guitar in the past. Now he had been joined by another who played the flute and the guitar, and performed palmas, the essential flamenco clapping that is such an integral part of the performance. I recognised the music of the great Paco de Lucia, and it was fabulous.

By contrast, as we had lunch outside on Paseo Alameda on another day, a busker from the other end of the spectrum treated us to his delights. There are several like him in Valencia. Old men who rock up on their bike, unload their guitar and a small amplifier, and proceed to smash out the tunes. Unfortunately this one, as with many of them, could neither sing nor play. Genuinely awful.

On the way to Paseo Alameda,
lunch, and Pink Floyd's finest.

I normally refuse their requests for money when they are so comically dreadful, but I dropped a little change onto the back of his guitar on this occasion. This sudden flush of philanthropy was based on the fact that I will never, ever hear a version of Pink Floyd’s “Another Brick in the Wall” performed like that ever again. I’m 100% sure that his performance would have persuaded that teacher to leave those kids alone. And run away.

The time to head back to the UK arrived too soon, as ever. We had cleaned up after the painters and left the apartment ready for a couple of potential rentals. One may be for a long period, yet to be confirmed, so our Fallas experience may have to wait another year. Time will tell.

The quality of the queuing at Estacion Joaquín Sorolla was vastly improved. We found our seats on the Alicante train, and watched the other passengers wheel their luggage past the window, searching for the right carriage. A group of Spanish ladies (of a certain age) chattered past, more intent on their conversation that on boarding the right carriage.

A Russian guy with a small dog on his lap was told in no uncertain terms that the animal needed to be in a carrier. He explained (in English) that his wife had the carrier in another carriage. The Spanish RENFE employee was understandably confused, and not just by the language barrier. Luckily an English-speaking colleague arrived to sort it all out, and the Russian guy was marched down the train to marry up small dog with pet carrier. He returned with snarling, yapping dog in pet carrier. Fortunately, it settled eventually, and all was well.

While all of this was happening, 2 of the Spanish ladies (of a certain age) had doubled back towards the door of our carriage. Now, I’ve mentioned this fascinating sub-section of Spanish society before, and the experience hasn’t always been good. I glanced at the 2 empty seats across the aisle from us. You can guess the rest.

The first of these ladies started down the aisle, stopped next to us, and asked a fellow passenger to identify seat 5C for her… “no tengo mis gafas!”. She then realized her companion had got lost somewhere between the carriage entrance and seat 5D, so proceeded to shout to her, then move up the carriage to drag her to their seats.

Lady #1 sighed a rather dramatic “las maletas…” in my general direction, and so it was the guiri to the rescue. I found a place for both her vanity case and her matching suitcase on the luggage racks above them. Inevitably, Lady #2 needed similar help with her identical (El Corte Ingles) luggage. All this luggage-wrangling was eventually complete, and we all settled down.

I was anxious that these ladies might now want to launch into 1hr and 39 minutes of conversation with us. This anxiety was not born from a desire to be antisocial, but my Spanish is nowhere near good enough to converse with these ladies, and I didn’t want them to think I was rude.

I need not have worried. They produced and devoured sandwiches before we had left las afueras de Valencia, followed these up with their medication, and were predictably asleep within 15 minutes.

We enjoyed passing the small towns basking in the December sun, many with castles hovering above them on rocky outcrops. Xativa and Villena. A particularly spectacular castle at Sax. The smooth, efficient train pushed on into Alicante, right on time this time so that we would make our flight home comfortably.

The performance with las maletas was repeated when we arrived in Alicante, of course. Lady #2 got a bit confused, Lady #1 berated her for getting in the way, but they were very grateful and all was well. I was happy that I had been able to help. They got off the train and blocked the platform outside the train door, along with a few others of their species. They don’t care, so neither should we, I reckon.

“If you reject the food, ignore the customs, fear the religion, and avoid the people, you might better stay home.”  

James A. Michener

Alicante airport. A very British queue at the boarding gate, due to it being 100% made up of Brits. The vast majority had been to Benidorm. I’m going to try very hard not to be judgemental here, and relate only the facts, but the following one-sided conversation took place behind us, and could not be unheard:

“I live in Hull, me. On my street, there are 6 foreign shops now. All the English shops are closing, and more foreign shops are opening”.

(Companions mutter casually racist agreement).

“Most of them are Turkish, you know. I don’t know how they get in, do you? Turkey aren’t in the EU are they?”

(Companions mutter casually racist agreement).

30 seconds later:

“I have a lad who’s a joiner, you know. He went on holiday to the States and finished up getting a job there. That was 18 years ago, and he’s still there. We’re right proud of him, we are.”

I’m just going to leave that there.

“Travel brings wisdom only to the wise. It renders the ignorant more ignorant than ever.”

Joe Abercrombie, Last Argument of Kings

Hasta proxima, Valencia. 
Feliz Año Nuevo!!