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.