The Appreciation

It has been three weeks, well technically three weeks and a day since I set foot in Valencia.

Today I played fútbol, or at least I tried. The small amount of skill that I gained last spring, and then lost back home, is slowly returning. Now the ball goes in the general area that I kick it, instead of backwards. The legs are getting back into Valencia shape, with the help of Wednesday’s hour of soccer, the ease of running through the riverbed, and the forced mile or two walks each day.

Walking

Here it is just a part of life. Cars are a luxury. People walk everywhere. Some of the walkers are so old that it is nearly impossible to hold their pace. These ancient Valencianos link arms and block the path as though forcing us to slow down. Slow down and appreciate the city, the weather, the people. To appreciate where we are and how we got here. To enjoy.

Valencia

Valencia is beautiful. Valencia has history. History that is extremely difficult to comprehend, very challenging  to grasp with our American-soaked minds. Each smooth tile on the ground, each brick of the torres, each artifact in the small museum of the center, has an unimaginable story. The feet that have stepped on the tiles, the callused hands that laid the bricks, the lips that have touched the bowls.

The torres

The steps are large and require and awkward stride to find rhythm while climbing. “Can you imagine how many people have died on these?” At first I thought it was a joke about the steepness and danger of the steps, but then realized it was a comment on the history. The history of the torres. The countless archers that climbed the steps, beginning their shifts, just to put bread on the table. The armies that have rushed the steps, fighting for their beliefs, for their families, just to put bread on the table. The researchers, tour guides, repair crews that have scaled the steps, just to..

Bread

Yesterday I bought my first baguette. Not my first baguette ever, but since the return. A simple uncut, slightly stale, skinny loaf of bread that I got from the central market. I have been eating it dipped it in olive oil, balsamic, and black pepper. The addiction to balsamic is returning, day by day. The bread was called pan de pueblo. Bread of the town. Bread of the people. Bread of Valencianos.

Valencianos

I was working the front desk with a coworker. He speaks very little English but can always be found with a smile on his face and a pleasant greeting. He mentions that he is going to run out and get lunch, and about five minutes later comes back eating a small croissant and holding a small bag of what can only be described as large croutons. Immediately he offers me one, which I accept without hesitation. It was good. It had a surprising moistness and flavor that one wouldn’t expect at first glance. But the thing is, that is his lunch: a small bag of large croutons, a small croissant, and a coffee from the study center. Most likely cost him a euro-fifty, and he his happy. He doesn’t need to spend at least seven euros on lunch. I can’t imagine what he would be able to get with a packet of cheques. I am sure he wouldn’t gorge on the massive amounts of food that we do. We have been trained though. “Finish your plate. Do you want seconds? Would you like to supersize that? All you can eat. Bottomless. Free refills.” We would drive to the grocery stores and park in the nearest possible spot and use drive-thrus in order to exert zero effort to stuff our faces. There are not obese people in Valencia. Well I am sure there might be a few, but I compared to what I have seen walking around Tallahassee and Orlando, there are none. People are constantly moving.

Movement

In the central market, around the city, and in the riverbed the movement is clear. While in the riverbed, I see men and women old enough in the US to be in nursing or retirement homes running at a pace that it seems like they could keep indefinitely. It is visible by their technique and calf muscles that they have been running for a very long time. Their daily runs are a part of their routine, a part of their life. They must know others who run in the park. That is why they stare. I try to fit in, but I don’t. I run in shorts, my cool Valencian soccer shorts, everyone else wears long pants. I wear a long sleeve white t-shirt to fight the initial chill, everyone else wears dark colors. I run on the line of the bike path, no one else runs on the line of the bike path. They can tell. They stare. What do they think? Who is this American running in our park? Are they offended? Are they interested? I make an effort to catch every gaze they give me. I know they are staring. I want them to know that I know. I stare back.

Staring

“It’s rude to stare.” Valencianos missed that chapter of the book. But how can you blame them, if there was a large group of loud and out of place Spaniards walking through the middle of FSU, we would stare also. I tend to think they are staring at me and my good looks. I could be wrong. They could be staring at out bright colors, our strange hairstyles, our clothes, our loud American accents. They could be staring at the girls, some dressed in clothes that Spanish girls wouldn’t even wear in the peak of Summer.

Weather

Valencianos are cold. They look at me as though I belong in the loony bin when I wear shorts or sandals. It is not that cold. It is between 65-50 during the day. But Valencianos are cold. They wear layers, they wear scarfs, they blast the heat, they complain about the cold. They stare if you wear short sleeves, no jacket, no scarf. Again, it could just be my hunky American complexion..

Americans

They are continuing to adapt. The transformation is happening. They still talk too loud, block the path, drop their drinks, trip over small pillars, always want ketchup, can’t find la Plaza de Ayuntamiento, and don’t fully appreciate Valencia. But they are changing, they are trying, they are beginning to appreciate. Some have easily slipped into the folds of Valencian life, hitting up the central market multiple times a week, playing soccer in the river bed, finding new restaurants, discovering favorite restaurants, getting to know the chino guy, the pan de queso  guy, the para llevar guy, the guy who sells beer in Plaza de la Virgen, the Pappardella waiters, the Finnegans bartenders, club promoters, the staff. Some have mastered the routes to Wok to Wok, the Central Market, Corte Ingles, Gulliver, Pomadora, Negrito. All have perfected the routes to la Plaze de la Virgen, Finnegans, Consum, Pan de queso. They have begun to appreciate the riverbed, the Torres, the study center, Valencia.

The phrases are coming.

Una café con leche por favor.

Una cerveza por favor.

La cuenta por favor.

Hasta luego.

Gracias.

Chao.

We have seen the City of Arts and Sciences and experienced the Requena wine tour. Next week is Andalucía: Cordoba, Sevilla, y Granada. This weekend is Segorbe, a type of running with the bulls. But these bulls have their horns on fire, almost as though flares are attached. 

This will be interesting..

Hope nobody gets hit like last time. 

The Adaptation

I close my eyes and feel the rush of emotion. Extreme excitement. The feeling that is almost too much to bare. The feeling that I have pushed back and tried not to think about since I received the phone call. The feeling that comes when people get me talking about next semester.
I am going back.
I picture the Torres, la Plaza  de la Virgen, la Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, and the study center. I envision my old room, my old apartment, my old bathroom. I see the staff but not the students, instead a mass of strange people, new people. I don't want to but I have to, We are not there anymore. They will be there. I have to be ready for what is to come.
Again, I try to push back the thoughts and emotions. I need to get some sleep, I leave in the morning.

I sit in an empty row in the Chicago airport. Thirty minutes until boarding. I have my water, book, and boarding pass. I look around and see Americans, most of them about my age. Spaniards are sprinkled amongst them looking annoyed. They are loud. They are laughing, talking, and shouting. They are taking pictures. They are excited.
On my last flight I sat next to two of them. They giggled, took pictures, and talked loudly. They asked questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes was unmistakable. They were excited.
I board the plane with the mix of study abroad students embarking on the adventure of the lifetime, along with Spaniards returning home. I was exactly in these American's shoes a year ago. Was I that loud? Was I that obvious? Was I that excited?
How many of them are scared? Nervous about this big new world without their parents and closest friends to hold their hands. What do they expect? I wouldn't know what to say if I was asked that a year ago. Nothing would have prepared me for a semester in Valencia no matter how many people explained the insides and out of it.
I sit down next to three of them. They giggle, take pictures, and talk loudly. They ask questions about Europe, about traveling, about hostels. The gleam in their eyes is unmistakable. They are excited.

I am at the top of the Torres looking over the beautiful city. There are five of us, two of which are program assistants. They were still sleeping. They were meant to be here. It is 2PM.
They partied like Americans. I partied like an American. The pre-gaming starting at six or even earlier. Leaving the center at 1AM after being told to be quieter multiple times by the night staff, I take them to Radio City. It is big enough to handle them. They are loud. They yell orders of their favorite drink, they drop glasses, they are misunderstood. They are eyed by Spaniards.
Talking, drinking, noise.
We are sitting in Ghecko. They are talking to each other, making small steps towards the strong friendships that will form. They are judging each other whether they want to or not. They are assuming they don't like each other. They are assuming they do like each other.
Dancing, drinking, noise.
The stories flow through the center. He woke up where? She threw up on who? Are the Kabobs good? The center comes alive about 5PM. Where do I eat? Pan de Queso. What do I get? Bola de espinacas. What is it? Delicioso. Where do I get ____? Chino. What is the plan for tonight? No sé exactamente. 


Many were smart. The seven hour pre-game turned into a three hour pre-game. Even so, the next night was worse. They hated the night front desk staff whom I felt bad for. It is damn near impossible to tame a pack of fifty or more highly intoxicated American college students. Apartment six became a club. Spaniards in the street were invited up. The front desk staff had to escort them out of the lobby, not with ease.

The place was a wreck, apartments were damaged and dirty. An accidental hole in the red leather. These are our couches, this is our home. The hole couldn't have said it better. Something had to be done. The alcohol had to go. The ban was placed.

They will learn. It was only the third night.

They were excited.

The Adaptation was beginning.

The plethora of items in the Chino were realized. The walk to Consum was memorized. The phrase la Cuenta por favor was vocalized. Los Torres were recognized.

The independent and adventurous explored the city. They took in the smells, the sights, the names. La Plaza de la Virgen became a place with a fountain and a cathedral, not just a complicated phrase spoken too fast for comfort. Cheque stickers were located, with a promise to return to the restaurants another day. A promise that may be soon forgotten when favorites are discovered.
El Mercado Central was revealed, with the jaw-dropping sights and smells. La Plaza de la Reina became the place where 100 Mondatidos, Finnegans and MacDonalds are located.
The rooftop, skybox, and Moroccan Happy Hour were founded. 
A daily pattern was slowly forming. 


The Adaptation was beginning. 


My Adaptation was beginning. 


I got the names down sooner than I thought. It was easy, I was one of them. I cheated off of Facebook, the study center's list of names accompanied by pictures of faces, and by asking other students. 
My fading cognitive map of Valencia began to clear with the side streets and alleys becoming more familiar. The culture of Valencia was a refreshing blast to my dulled, re-Americanized mind. 
My re-Americanized mind that left my full wallet in my back pocket. 
The mind that carried my entire wallet out with me late at night. 
That trusted turning my back to a man in the street. 
That was punished sufficiently for its ignorance. 
That will have to borrow from Ignacio and his center until the credit cards can be replaced. The mind that reminded me that I was one of them. Although I may look at them with critical eyes, and laugh at their blind actions, I am just as guilty. 


I promised that I would do better. 
I walked across town to the police station. A place I had never been to before. I found the Biblioteca de Valencia that I will be spending time at weekly. I only had to check the map once, but did so discreetly. No one knew I was lost. 
I front pocketed my wallet, the small wallet I should have been carrying. The wallet that Santa thoughtfully got me. 
I took the bus to El Corte Inglés. I flagged it down as it approached. I ignored the seats. I kept my balance. I scanned the crowd of old people. I didn't miss my stop. I spoke Spanish with a man in the store. I walked home without trouble. 
The walk was inspiring. I carried a mental dialogue in Spanish. I made a promise to meet more Valencianos. To speak more Spanish. To not let this semester slip by. 


I played fútbol. Or at least tried. 


It was undeniable. 
They were Adapting.
I was Adapting.

The Return

Walking out of the airport, Valencia greeted me with a breeze of 70 degree fresh air. Before I knew it I was muttering the all too familiar phrase, Los torres de serranos por favor. As I sat in the taxi I formed a list of the three most important things on my mind:

 A shower, a siesta, and a cafe con leche.

The journey from Orlando to Chicago to Madrid and then finally Valencia had been long and tiresome, but none of that, including missing my connecting flight to Valencia and sitting behind two young kids who felt as tired and irritated as I did, without the ability to mask their emotions, and comprehend the complexities of airplane etiquette, could damper my spirits.

Feeling the affects of a combination of sleep deprivation, hunger, and dehydration, I truly felt as though I was dreaming during the taxi ride. A dream I have dreamt many times before, of seeing the Torres once again, of ringing that unforgettable buzzer and the sound of the unmistakable click. A small step through the wooden door hidden in the frame of the grand entrance brought me into the center.
The FSU Valencia study center.
The building I had said goodbye to seven months prior.
The building that I had sworn to visit, when someday in my future, I had enough time and money to return.
The building that had started to fade from my memory.
My old home.

The rush of emotions were overshadowed by distractions. Greeting the staff, my old family. Meeting new staff members and early student arrivals, the beginnings of my new family. Luggage had to be dealt with. New students had to exchange money, find their hostels, and store their bags.

A blur of movement, nodding, Spanish.

I was sitting in the room. Not my room. A room of two friends. Why was I in their room? Where were they? Why can't I have my old room? This room sucks. Who has my room? Why bunk beds? Which bathroom? Who is my roommate? Which desk? Which closet? Why?

I left the room, left the apartment. No decisions made. I didn't want that room. Was this a joke? That isn't my apartment. I live in the strange downstairs of Top Shelf with the bathroom too small to turn around, the mini fridge blocking the only sensible entrance, and the balcony with a perfect view of the Torres. I go up a steeper, extra flight of stairs to go down a dangerous, spiraling flight of tile stairs. That is where my room is.

In the elevator it hit me. This isn't about you. You didn't pay for this. You don't get to choose. You are an employee. Your placement in the center is not of comfort, but of strategy. Your room is very accessible, your old room isn't. This is your room. You are in Valencia. You are back.

Adapt.

I am sitting on a tiny stool. The affects of long travels and jet lag on my shoulders. The menu is different yet very familiar. It was not Wednesday. Why was I in here?
I give my name with my order, or at least the version of my name I give in situations like this. Keep it short and simple Fred. She looks confused, "Fren?" Sí. It was close enough. I should have used a funny name like We used to. Barbara Streisand. George Washington. Mike Hunt.

New students join the table. They see on the menu the same strange combination of words that I saw a year ago. The search for familiar words like pollo, queso, y salsa are hindered by the discovery of words like  chorrizo, ternera, jamón Iberica, y cordero. The semester long game of Montadito testing begins. Like an assortment of chocolates without the cheat sheet.

I stop by my chino. I want to say hi to my chino guy. It is not him. Who is this? He barely mumbles an audible hasta luego, which sounds like twaygo. 


The familiar battling the unfamiliar.

Adapt.

I join Cati to the airport. I have to be mature. I have to set an alarm. I have to be ready, on time.

Cafe con leche saves the day.


I have to greet students. They don't know me. They are jet lagged. They need a shower, siesta, and a cafe con leche, I know. They are worried about their lost luggage, contacting their parents, trying to act natural in this strange place. Some are openly excited, all are tired.

The attempt at learning names begins, which soon becomes a blur of Megans, Eriks, Thomas's. That can wait, the names will come. We will be family.

Seven hours in the Valencia airport. I was starting to feel like Victor Navorski.

Cati and I return with the last group just in time for Ignacio's introduction meeting. I look around. Students are nodding off, some half listening. They are tired.
The walk to dinner is basic, Virgen, Reina, y Ayuntamiento. It is simple. Three plazas. Now everyone knows.
No they don't. They are tired. They talk loudly. They block the path. They walk too slow. They get stuck behind Walkers. They step into streets blindly. They trip over small black pillars. They wear colors that are too bright. They don't notice the Chino. Finnegans goes unseen. The plazas mean nothing. The cathedral is just a big building. Virgen has a smooth ground. The center of Ayuntamiento has a Christmas tree, no explosions, no Falla.

We were the same. I was the same. How do I tell them? Don't be so American. You need to be Valencianos.

It was only the first night.

They will Adapt.
I will Adapt.