2 February to 11 February 2019

My fingers were nearly numb and the several layers of clothing I had on were not warding off Berlin’s chill. And then an old friend called inviting me to her cousin’s apartment near Valencia. Although the details were vague, it didn’t take me long to say yes, and the promise of Spain’s warmth did not encourage me to ask many questions.

Ang and I met up in Paris for a few days, then took a flight down to Valencia together. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but the absence dissolved quickly and easily as we caught each other up with our lives.

Ang comes from a big family and referred to them often. It felt as if they’d all come along, sometimes crowding our space. Each of us define our reality with what we know. Coming from a small family, I refer to films.

We’d been told the town of Gandia, where we were staying, is an hour from Valencia. But with no car, it was over three hours. We took a local bus from the airport, a train from Valencia to Gandia, and then a taxi from the station to the apartment.

It was all pleasant enough: Arriving in Valencia’s center, I was happy to practice my Spanish and stopped into a small shop for directions to the train station– the English-speaking owner from Africa stepped outside to give us clear, detailed instructions. We walked a direct path to the station through a lively street market with piles of housewares, shoes, and clothes for sale, and embarked on a train half an hour later.

The passengers included a long-haired dusty pilgrim with the emblematic shell attached to his backpack, well-dressed local women with stylish handbags and bright, polished, high-heeled shoes, a scattering of tourists, farm workers, and boisterous students. We passed through the acres and acres of Valencia’s orange groves. Some of us attentively watched the landscape taking photos, others were content to look at their phones, and others dozed.

Ang and I got a taxi at the Gandia station, drove along nondescript avenues, and passed a banal strip mall. The driver dropped us off at the cousin’s address and we stood in front of a complex of modern apartment buildings. This was not the Spain I knew nor cared to. My previous travels had been limited to the famed cities and stunningly picturesque towns and villages oozing Iberian culture. From our vantage point everything looked generic and we could have been anywhere, including one of those charmless resort towns in the US.

My friend looked equally surprised. Apparently she hadn’t asked many questions either.

Once we saw the apartment, we conceded the place had potential. It had three bedrooms, two baths, a living room, dining area, and a large terrace overlooking the port. However trying to ignore the pounding of construction, that barely diminished making its way up to the 10th floor, would be difficult. The town’s off-season is primetime for repairs and maintenance.

Ang had originally envisioned staying three weeks or more. I’d remained noncommittal, but had thought ten days might be ideal. Those plans whittled away quickly. We wondered if we’d last a few nights.

But I was tired from my recent travels, and Ang had badly sprained her ankle in Paris. We decided to take it day by day.

And one day led into another: We walked to the animated port and watched fishermen tending to their nets, daily catch, and boats.

The construction ceased on the weekends, tapas bars, dotting the small, but charming old part of town offered a chance to meet the locals and eat divine seafood, the wide, long beach–if one looked at the sea and not the high-rises, was gorgeous and nearly empty.

I slept extremely well, rested, read, drew, took long walks, visited the local market, and shared engaging discussions and differing opinions on reincarnation and the spiritual world with my friend.

The fresh ocean air and warming sun revitalized us.

Despite the emerging charm, the construction continued, and after a week we decided to move on.

During each of my trips to Spain, I’d managed to miss both Cordoba and Granada. Neither were convenient to get to from Gandia, but I was in Spain after all, and decided to go.

Ang stayed on another day to rest before taking a flight to meet relatives she’d never met in Italy.

I returned to Valencia for a night and was very pleasantly surprised: The Art Nouveau central market is exquisite to look at and ideal for lingering. Animated vendors offer fresh products, and places to sit and eat local specialities.

Street life and street art are vibrant, the dozens of different paellas and quaint cafes are enticing, and there is no shortage of charm or beauty to the public plazas and monuments. I was sorry I hadn’t planned a longer stay.

Getting my travel plans to Cordoba sorted out was not straight forward. The internet offered conflicting information. But my long wait in line at the train station to speak with a man face to face, who clearly appreciated my effort to speak his tongue, paid off.  I bought a ticket for an early morning direct train to Cordoba.

I booked a hotel for two nights in the old quarter a few minutes walk from Cordoba’s jewel, La Mezquita, an immense mosque with a breathtaking interior, dating from 784 A.D.. I hadn’t taken into account that this proximity would place me right smack in the town’s tourist center. I should have known better. But with the many places to visit during my short stay, it was very convenient.

There were several highlights, but none compared to an evening tour of the famed mosque. Muted light and medieval melodies filled the arched interior. Visitors listened to the knowledgable guide in respectful silence, or maybe it was just our collective awe.

Cordoba is known for its “patios,” public and private courtyards colorfully and artfully decorated with flowers. The famed Palacio de Viana offered a splendid display.

Traditional music and dance is kept alive. Several schools teach flamenco and classical guitar; one is more likely to hear students in public practicing the riffs of Andrés Segovia than Jimi Hendrix.

Cordoba was lovely, but with plans already in place to leave Spain and return to Paris, I decided to spend my remaining four nights in Granada.