In which Valencia (Spain) goes through constant change, and offers up the things you can rely on to make it all worthwhile.
It has always been the plan to extend the amount of time we spend in Valencia on an ongoing basis, so this would be a 3-week summer holiday with a little apartment/agent/tenant housekeeping thrown in.
Once again, we emerged victorious from our initial skirmishes with a few unwanted pests on first arrival in the apartment. It had been deserted and dark for a few weeks, and the cockroaches love that in combination with the heat and humidity. Keeping them away is an ongoing project in the warmer months (for everyone in the city) but successful deployment of an electronic repellent and plenty of insecticida did the job.
We also had an odd situation with our upstairs neighbour, who was most definitely a human person, and had never featured in Men in Black. He tried to explain to me in Spanish that we had something that belonged to him, but I didn’t understand him. The breakneck speed of his explanation defeated me initially. After a few days and some good-natured but confusing conversations, I returned a kitchen rug to the family upstairs. It had apparently fallen from their washing line above onto our balcony, and our tenants had kept it!
The situation was amicably resolved, but there had been some grumbles from our neighbours about our most recent tenants, and I was starting to see why.
“There had always been an earth-wisdom about the people and the place, a sense of what was truly right or wrong in any situation beyond superficial judgements. It was a country where to be ‘well-educated’ referred to polite and correct behavior towards other human beings, not whether you’d read more books that the person standing next to you. And I loved all this about it. Yet now it felt under threat.”
Jason Webster: Sacred Sierra
I will lean a little on this author in this post, both in ‘illustrative’ use of direct quotes like the one above, but also in using Jason Webster’s perceptive and informative commentary on Spain’s history and culture to help me understand where we are now, and what we experience day-to-day.
One such observation (and it isn’t a criticism) is that Spain is (and perhaps always has been) a nation of ‘them’ and ‘us’.
“By drawing a veil over aspects of her history, pretending that they never happended or placing them in some sanitizing parenthesis, she (Spain) tries to create a positive out of a negative aimed at uniting a notoriously disunited people. If we are not that, then we must be this.”
Jason Webster: Violencia
So attitudes and outlooks can be very black and white. Here’s a small number of examples from a vast array:
Christians v Moors1
Muslims v Jews
Catholics v Jews
Inquisitors v Heretics
Republicans v Monarchists
Nationalists v Republicans2
Tortilla with potato only v Tortilla with onion added
Unified Spain v Catalan separatists
Spaniards v Extranjeros3
Authentic Valencian Paella v Paellas with Other Things
Cyclists v Motorists
Left v Right
It’s clear that the last example is not unique to Spain, but it is particularly relevant. Following a recent general election, neither of the major parties: Partido Popular (broadly UK Tory equivalent) or PSOE (broadly UK Labour equivalent) have secured a majority, even with their current coalition partners. Pretty much a 50/50 split. Them and us.
The news channels during our visit reported on the scramble by each party for new coalition partners, but none of the options were comfortable. PP being forced to consider support from far-right Vox, but the moderate part of the PP would hate this, as would many voters.
Incumbent PM Pedro Sanchez and the PSOE were being forced into a relationship with far-left parties and potentially the Catalan independence movement. Carles Puigdemont, the exiled leading light of this movement was visibly energised by being back in front of the news cameras. Memories of ugly scenes during the 2017 Catalan independence referendum, and the spectre of a fractured Spain made this just as uncomfortable as PP’s options.
From the finest Jamon Iberico Bellota and DOP Queso Manchego to your squares of processed ham and cheese in your toastie, it’s there to offer comfort and familiarity in a world of change. Along with ensaladilla rusa4, albondigas and patatas bravas, it makes up that group of old friends that you can rely on time and time again.
To this list of “reliables” you can add daily sunshine, welcoming cafés, friendly neighbours, the old guy in an apartment opposite who tends to his caged birds in his pants, the morning dog chorus, cheap and efficient public transport, lots of public holidays, a pharmacy every 200 metres and paella to die for.
There is already a Burger King on the same beachfront paseo6, and McDonalds clearly needed to establish their own presence. But a knight in shining armour rode into town in the shape of the owner of the Marina Beach Club nearby, and he bought La Pepica to keep the business going and end any interest from McDonald’s, for the moment at least.
With rescues such as this comes change once again, and we noticed a tighter ship, a more commercial La Pepica. There was a little less indulgence in the amounts of linen and crockery, waiters' outfits sported all the logos of the restaurants now owned by our savior... the team was looking for efficiency, a more formalised system of being welcomed and confirming your booking, and a 90-minute maximum time at your table. Understandable measures from a new owner looking to make this work as a business as well as an institution.
Our waiter was from the old school, however. We struck up a good rapport with him, and in return the service was relaxed and friendly. His command of the much under-rated skill of Spanglish was impressive. My choice of wine met with his approval, and was described as “muy nice”. Following a good paella valenciana, I asked him what time he would need the table back as we contemplated desserts, but he assured me that I shouldn’t worry about this, it was tranquilo.
Our tip was relatively generous as a result, and this was greeted by him with a “muy very good”. Spanglish at its best. I’m so happy La Pepica has survived. The changes are a small price to pay.
It occurred to me that the beach is a leveller. You may be paying top dollar for the privilege of enjoying the delicately fragranced Hotel Las Arenas, or keeping your head above water in a one-bedroomed flat on Avenida del Puerto, but the sea, sand, wind and weather affect you both just the same. Neither the inviting mediterranean, the cooling easterly breeze coming in from the Balearics, or the constant warm sunshine know or care what sits in your bank account. And neither prince or pauper can walk on that lava-hot sand in bare feet, although it’s astonishing how many people try, time and time again.
There is almost always a pleasant buzz to beach life. The sunbed guys are friendly, and the lady in the beach quiosco dispenses your cold drinks and bocadillos (jamon y queso obvs) with a smile and a chat. People come and go, and the police keep up their presence, often rumbling past on their quad bikes.
Along with the unlicensed beach sellers that the police seek to control, you do see the occasional wrong ‘un who is clearly not there to enjoy the weather. Your average wrong ‘un doesn’t appear to know how obvious they are though!
It’s always surprising how quickly you are in the huerta when you leave the city in some directions. There is no city-edge centro commercial, or box-house suburban hinterland that you might find in the UK. You’re straight out of apartment blocks, and straight into the growing regions that define the Alboraya area and provide some of the incredible produce that Valencia is famous for. We pass expertly laid out fields and orchards, looking fertile and relying on centuries-old irrigation methods that are still successful despite the scant rainfall.
The driver employed a less than delicate approach to his work, and we soon left the V21, screeched around a couple of roundabouts and scrambled off the bus (along with almost all the passengers) into Port Saplaya’s heat and busy beach-side cafés. We wandered along the road lining the southern half of the beach, breezy but attractive in the bright sunshine, passing many cafés and restaurants as we made our way towards the harbor and a real change of scenery for us.
Then the circuit continued. Port Saplaya is known as “the little Venice”, but it put me in mind of other places… Sotogrande Marina, Es Castell and some of the smaller Menorcan harbours, even the harbor part of Ciutadella. The smart but deliberately assorted colours of the bulidings with an extra splash of colour from hibiscus and bouganvilea.
After taking a look at the slightly more commercial part of the resort on the other side of the buildings surrounding the harbor, we enjoyed a nice lunch in a restaurant in a shady corner. The owner’s cooking was rather better that his anger management, and his aggressive approach towards one of his staff in particular was a reminder that the ugly things in life can exist behind the thin veneer of the customer experience.
After a short visit to the bright and breezy northern section of the beach (back here for a beach day next time) we made our way back around to the bus stop, outside the busy cafés and over the road from a large centro commercial.
We joined the random group of hopefuls waiting for the yellow bus once more. In the UK, this might ordinarily be called a queue, but not in these parts. After a time, a bus arrived, many people tried to cram through the doors at the same time while asking “esto va a Valencia?” to anyone who might be prepared to answer. We failed to get on this bus by being much too British and polite, but had better success with another that randomly arrived a few minutes later.
The bus was as full as one can imagine a bus can get, and either we had the same driver, or that particular driving style was the norm for the yellow buses. There were 2 speeds employed here: very fast and stop. For those of us standing, this was manageable as we screeched round the 2 roundabouts and back on to the V21, headed south through the huerta once again.
But when we came to the series of bus stops between the Torre Miramar roundabout and our stop close to the apartment, it was necessary to hold onto anything you could, often including the passenger closest to you… stranger or not. Teens introduced you to their backpacks as they lurched backwards and forwards, people needing to get off pushed through the throng, but often failed to reach the doors in time for the driver to close them and stamp on the gas once again.
Somehow, by the time we reached our stop on Avenida de la Constitución, we were able eject ourselves from the yellow missile and make our way safely home.
As we have for our more recent visits, we tried to live locally a little more, and use local cafés and bars for evening food and drinks. An old favourite is still very friendly, very good and very cheap, but they need to stop wiping their tables directly onto the large pavement area that they are lucky enough to have. The cockroaches demonstrate how much they appreciate this each evening, and customers will periodically jump up and squeal as the critters dart around under the tables.
We used another, closer to the apartment. It’s smaller, but a similar setup. Run by a family of chinese origin as so many of them are, it’s so local that you’ll see the same faces each evening, and they all know each other. The elderly lady who had held everyone up in Mercadona earlier, was giggling at videos on her phone along with her even more elderly husband. They set off home, but she returns soon after with her little dog as she walks it around the block. The 4 mates playing cards, the workmates enjoying enormous bocadillos7, friends discuss their dogs and their daily lives, carers bring elderly relatives out for a drink and a change of scenery.
Our neighbours remain friendly despite the issues with our tenants. Mercifully, I had the chance to apologise for any disturbances to our closest neighbour as we all waited for the lift one day late in our visit, and she graciously waved away my apology. The 2 ladies who seem inseparable are always around, always say a breezy “hola” as we meet them around the building or at the bench in the street where they’ll hold their daily conference, accompanied by a dog with a face that only a mother could love.
Another couple appear to care for a very elderly and disabled lady in an apartment on our floor. More than once, we saw one of the couple sitting on the steps in the lobby, taking a break from their task, and enjoying the flow of cooler air through the front door.
One of the routes back from town to the apartment has a particular appeal in the hours of darkness. If you leave the old town via the imposing archway through the Torres de Serranos and continue onto the bridge of the same name, you may be lucky ehough to witness one of the more unique “musical” spectacles on offer across the city.
Precisely half way across the bridge, a “performer” treats passers-by to a “performance” that is unlike any other I have heard, or probably will ever hear. This young man has only one song in his repertoire, so his backing track of Michael Jackson’s “The Way You Make Me Feel” is on a loop. His interpretation of the track is what singles this guy out from any other performer in the known world. I’m aware that he is delivering his astonishing “performance” in his second (or possibly third) language, but it’s evident that he has never read or learnt the lyrics or taken any advice or instruction on how to sing each word or how they should sound. Either he has no concept of how the song should be sung, or he doesn't care, or he is incapable of getting anywhere near delivering it. And his “singing” is indescribably bad.
Is this deliberate? Has he been disallowed from delivering his spectacular performance within earshot of anyone who might need to sleep, listen to more earthly sounds, or simply remain sane? Is this the spot that moves him as far away from anyone that it’s possible to get in this neighbourhood? There are so many questions.
If he was in any major University town in the UK, he would have achieved a cult following by now via the magic of social media. Heaven forbid, he may even appear on a “talent” show to demonstrate that our Michael did not explore all the available interpretations of one of his more popular tunes.
If he’s not there when we go back, I’ll miss him.
Our last day shopping plans were scuppered by Santa Maria herself. It turns out that this was the Assumption of the Virgin Mary9, and a public holiday in Spain. This being the case, all the shops were closed. I really must get to know the public holidays better. This will come hand in handy with longer stays in Valencia.
I’ll leave you with a little more of Jason Webster and his experience of Spain, very much aligned to my own:
“Along the way it seemed that each new facet I discovered was entirely different to what I already knew, and so ‘Spain’ itself, its essence, appeared elusive: there was always something else to learn, something which would almost certainly contradict what I thought I already understood.
Jason Webster: Violencia
1 There is so much much more to this than a simplistic presentation of a complex and hugely significant part of Spain’s history.
2 This refers to the la guerra civil of the 1930s that most people will be aware of. It’s worth noting, however (as Jason Webster points out): “… every century in the country’s history has witnessed at least one major civil war, often several.”
3 We will always be extranjeros… foreigners. If we were to live in Valencia for the next 20 years, we would still be los ingleses. This isn’t a bad thing, it doesn't exclude trust and friendship, and we are rarely discriminated against.
4 During Franco’s dictatorship, he ordered that ensaladilla rusa should be known as ensaladilla nacional to avoid the reference to communism.
5 It’s not likely that any paella afficionados read this blog. If they did, they may scoff at our choice of La Pepica as our favourite. La Pepica is as special to us in holiday folklore as El Jardin in Malaga is. If the aficionados want to scoff, perhaps let us have recommendations instead?
6 It’s not too hard to imagine Burger King offering our hero a little incentive to make his purchase and thwart the golden arches of doom.
7 The cult of almuerzo (esmorzaret in valenciano) is alive and well. Normally taken in late morning, this is the habit of eating a huge bocadillo sandwich with a beer or perhaps tinto de verano, and maybe other snacks. It derives from the days when the workers in the huerta would have a very early start with little or no breakfast, then need a big boost of energy in the late morning to help them work. When my diet in Valencia consists mainly of carbs, this is one of the excuses that I come up with. Culture, innit?
9 Santa Maria is possibly the most significant religious figure in Spain, and I have no wish to diminish her importance by presenting her as a mild inconvenience. The Assumption of Mary is observed throughout Spain. It includes spiritual and secular customs like church services, parades, feasts, and more because it’s believed that Mother Mary’s body was transported into Heaven rather than going through the usual post-death process. I feel like she deserved that after all she’d been through.
And thanks to Jason.
