I Speak Whale Now

I’ve decided that by no means will this blog be a play-by-play of my day-to-day. But hey, who’s to say I won’t disclose unwarranted details of my stay? On that note, if you’d like detailed recollections of my bowel movements, please message me.

My first thought about Valencia was ooofty pop, I need to move here. Strange because I’m usually a soulless demon that scoffs at love at first sight. If I had to sum it up, I’d choose most descriptive word ever: nice! It’s more of a feeling than a view. Turia Park is so pristine there could be tarts left by the queen of hearts.

Today at the museum I learned a Fun! Fact! Whales don’t have voice boxes, they just expel air really fast through their noses. So next time you hear me humming, well, I’m NOT. I’m speaking whale. They also have different dialects depending on which part of the ocean they’re from. I thought that tied in nicely to the whole foreign language saga.

In addition, I’ll mention my experiences as a whale in the Mediterranean Sea. This was in another life so if we met you wouldn’t have known. I was a prick anyway. Swallowed some guy called Jonah and one of those awful cults condemned me to eternal damnation in a very long book.

Week one and I’m sensing I have a weak stomach. Preparing my conscious mind to be blind for tomorrow’s seafood paella. Will she do it or kook it? (Update, she did not do it. So much for TRYING NEW THINGS YOU SQUARE)

“Fuck Shit” says my Peruvian Airbnb host in nearly every sentence. He can do accents too but I can barely tell the difference because they’re all in Spanish. He insists that he’s very lazy and a little crazy. I say “same” and offer some whale noises. We gather on Max’s couch (the happiest dog ever) and he writes me a list of alternative things to do in the area. Here’s a little baby rhyme about my orgahhhnic veggie dinner: Tonight I’m having pizza and it’s 1 euro 80. Gonzalo said he’d hate me if I didn’t take him. My vaso de vino es poccito but I’m tipsy already and my neck is sweaty.

Another hot walk on another hot day and I’ve bopped to the top of the sandcastle. Far below, a street performer is playing a classical rendition of Alan Walker’s 2015 hit “Faded.” Might be my uncultured snobbery failing to recognize an age-old piano ballad. Nevertheless, that’s my theme song and I’m Mia Mignonette Thermopolis Renaldi, Princesa de Valencia. I may have reached peak euphoria. Perched at a right angle, all I can see is sky and a few Catalonian flags atop the uncircumcised heads of cathedrals.

Along with Paella, Valencia is famous for horchata, a tiger-nut milk drink. I spilled it on my notebook. Disastrous! Flashback to primary school when I outlined a teardrop in the middle of a short story to “convey the sadness of the piece.” Laugh at me now but I’m pretty sure there was a big red tick next to it.

My current paradox is this: I hate tourists, yet I am a tourist. Ergo, do I hate myself? No, but now I’m muddled in this puddle of brain juice.

Frase del día: Está de puta madre (it’s fucking awesome)

Musica del lugar: Valleri - Monkees

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