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