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
A travel blog? Who me?! Yes! I’m an i-n-f-l-u-e-n-c-e-r now. Follow my lead. I’m harbouring a small yacht called adventure ready to sail into the Great Known because I know it all. I am young and bulletproof! I can imagine a lot of this content will sprawl haphazardly like a broken egg on cobblestones. This may be attributed to a) Lack of patience, b) there’s too much fun to be had or c) I am a lunatic. In this next sentence I’m going to use my least favourite phrase because this is MY BLOG and I’ll do what I want. Without further ado, here we go bitches.
Airborne passengers are united in various states of discomfort and denial. Three quarters asleep and still these stanzas creep along spider pathways. Only mildly high and within atmospheric bounds, my crusty dust-caked brain cells are straining. Engulfed in plastic-wrapped blankets and webs of headphone cables, their human necks are contorted like origami. They wish they were swans.
Almost annoyingly analog, what’s my novel doing in a place like this? There’s heaps of leg room and the only rhyme I can think of is egg moon. Watch me stretch you wretched cretin, stop banging on my seat and give back my vegetarian meal. I’m waiting for apparition to become real.
Alas I arrive, bleary but unnervingly on edge (see above portrait). Wondering how I’m meant to carry a conversation when it’s much heavier than a watermelon and more unstable than Baby during the big lift. I’ve taken to involuntarily scolding myself for having thoughts in English, translating everything on impulse. Between power naps in the park, I google “how to be funny in Spanish.” I’m worried my unique dance moves might not cut it.
This inexplicable urge to plunge myself straight into the deep end leads to one very leaky submarine. Initial hopes of seamlessly assimilating to Spanish life are tucked into that pocket of my backpack I always forget to open. (Oh HEY sim card from 2017). I walk up the right side of the wrong street, my robot brain continuing to force me left. Honestly how many times can I get lost in a day? I reckon if I start a tally up my leg, when it reaches my face I’ll either be outside the country or right back where I started.
I guess I can point fingers at everyone staring at the doofus in a bucket hat walking circles but I’m staring back just as hard. At the lights, I’m anxious for some indication of an alien civilisation, a sudden snatch or altercation. Unfortunately this is still planet earth, people are still people and there’s a blister swelling on my foot.
Here are some words to describe Casa Vicens, even though I have none. It’s vibrant in its miscellaneous eccentricity, silent inside but the patterns seem to make music. There are wide open rooms and geometric sunlight dappled by wooden doors. An adventure at every turn! It’s easy to imagine Gaudí reclining on the balcony or draped in afternoon glow poring over drafts. There are raspberries on the ceiling. I want everyone to leave so I can lie face up on the floor and examine them properly. Somehow I don’t think my 12€ ticket covers that.
Pulled up at La Sagrada Familia and out escapes a loud Oh Fuck. That’s all I really have to say about it. A brief scan of the tourist pool surprises me as I didn’t realise duck faces were still a thing. Paris Hilton did it better. Side note, apparently low waisted crop pants are Fashion Baby. I might start writing my blog entries like this: Today I went to the beach. It was hot. I saw some nice buildings with lots of colours. I hated writing that only marginally less than you hated reading it.
Frase del día: Una mesa solo para mi, por favor.
Musica del lugar: Glória Ao Rei Dos Confines Do Alem - Os Mutantes