We entered Valencia a few hours before twilight, but felt the purple of the oncoming evening. Valencia immediately felt more city-like than Seville. Tall buildings hugged the side of each street and lights shone bright from shops and busy cars. The hostel, part of “World’s Best Hostel” systems, lived up mostly to its name. No complaints here. We changed out of our travel clothes and hit the streets looking for sights, drinks, and a decent Paella.
Sarah found a cute pink scarf at a tiny boutique. (It is impossible to live in Europe without a proper fashionable scarf. You might catch a draft!) We sat down at an open-air café and immediately began fighting off men selling trinkets, dancing stuffed cows, and knock-off hand bags. Of course they were ready to run from the police as soon necessary.
A few hours later (the earliest you may eat dinner here is 8pm, though 10pm is the generally accepted time) we sat down at a restaurant serving a decently-priced Paella. The ever-faithful Cory ordered for us, preferring the shock value to actual desires. The waiter brought the piles of appetizers to our outdoor table: squid with dashes of smokey paprika, a salty white unnamed fish with a sweet chili sauce, and , , lskdfjasdf and alskdfjaksldfj. Paella, which stems from the Catalan word for ‘pan,’ apparently originated in the swampy province of Valencia. Our Paella du jour was of the traditional type, with thick green beans and baked bunny atop the saffron-infused rice. It seemed a bit too hearty for an end-of-summer meal, but it delighted the tastebuds nonetheless.
What luck we had to arrive in Valencia that day. That evening kicked off the celebration of Valencia’s Independence from the Moors. While dining we watched a group of guys and gals practice a dance with brooms, marching, and loud drumming in one of the alleys. Sounds creepy, but it was actually kind of festive. Loud cracks and booms and bright lights flashing in the air sidetracked our walk home. A large fireworks display shot out over the bay and peeked through the tall buildings. I have seen some incredible fireworks shows in my life (Washington DC, 4th of July) but this one came close to topping all. We tired out before the fireworks did.
A sleepy town greeted us the next morning. Most of the shops close for the day, except for a few restaurants and all of the bakeries. It is also the Valencian’s Valentine’s day, a day when Valencian men buy marzipan treats and stuff them in handkerchiefs for their lover. Sarah and I decided to be fine with the fact that our boys didn’t take the hint.
Breakfast at a café, complete with Valencia fresh-squeezed orange juice jump-started our day. We intended to wander around the city before catching our train, but got side-tracked by a twittering crowd circling around the government building, which explained the empty streets. An expectant celebration filled the warm air. People clumsily hoisted Valencian flags up whatever stick or umbrella or broom handle they could find. Some people just wrapped a flag around their kids’ shoulders. We sat on a barrier fence facing the red and gold draped stately building, not realizing that the forest of fireworks dangling from shoulder-high wires behind us were set to go off shortly.
A hush fell over the reverent crowd when an ancient faded Valencian flag passed over the balcony to waiting gloved hands below. A parade of soldiers, traditionally costumed ladies, and government big-wigs formed around the venerated icon while the boom of fireworks threatened to deafen us. We decided that was worthy of our ‘Adios’ and hopped another train to Barcelona.
wonderful writing, memories, and pictures! truly a lovely experience!
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