Valencia, Spain 2017

 

Accept Defeat and Move On

During our first visit to Spain, Barcelona blessed us with parakeets overhead as we walked through parks, extended stretches of white sand as we hit the beaches and plenty of delicious, cheap food and drinks in which to refuel with. But Spain isn’t just Barcelona and I wanted to see more of it. Valencia- the birth place of paella, or how this mutt from Ohio, Texas and California says it, “pay-ella.” Looks and sometimes tastes just like gumbo ya’ll, but you’re eating it next to a beach instead of a bayou. Way better than the horse burger, trust me.

Our Air BnB accommodation was located just a few blocks from the beach, mere walking distance to sand, sun and spears. Well maybe not spears, but when a sun umbrella is picked up by the wind and flies at you unexpectedly, well you can see the comparison. By the grace of Rihanna that umbrella barely missed Alisa. I never could get back into the deep state of meditation after that, keeping an ever watchful eye out for rouge shade-makers.

Being so close to the beach was convenient, but this beach apparently was controlled by those who prefer to wear both tops and bottoms to the beach. I was looking for an opportunity to shed the cotton constriction of society’s obligations. I found such a place north, way north, like take a bus north to El Saler.

The buses in Valencia are clean, comfortable and very affordable. Passing through the City of Arts and Science, one realizes more days should have been booked through our AirBnB. Leaving the city to the north welcomed farmland and well, more farmland. Every so often we would stop in a small town or village to allow the exchange of passengers. When we saw the people on the bus with towels and spears get off, we followed. I was seconds away from securing my place in the halls of navigational superiority. I began leading the walk ensuring my partner, my friend, my love that I knew what I was doing. It wasn’t until the third rat in the ditch to our right that I heard a complaint from behind. Without a sidewalk, we continued exploring, squeezed between the rat infested ditch and speeding traffic, sweating profusely in the Spanish sun. What is that smell? After a good half mile we found a parking lot. Yep. I had to concede. Stripped of potential medals, groveling, I turned back. I could hear the ocean, feel the waves and yet could not quite get there. If only there was a road, a trail anything to lead me to short-less freedom.

Ahead, on the left the telltale signs of driven-over grass caught my eye. I was sure, once again, this was the way. Alisa was a bit more hesitant, a bit more cautious, a bit more not in danger of dying. I’m not sure which shack I walked by housed the murderer owner. Who would leave machetes, sombreros and cancer filled, wart covered chickens and geese alone unprotected? The beach grew closer, just over that fence. Alisa meanwhile grew farther, staying behind a safe distance from the machete wielding Spanish casa filled with inquisitive poultry. The fence was un-climbable and locked. Dang. We eventually returned to the exact same spot we were dropped off the bus, took a left, walked 50 yards and quickly arrived at the beach.

I often hear the journey is more important than the destination. But in this case, any reference to optimistic travelling advice will be met with a bare tanned backside.