Valencia is the third populous metropolitan area in Spain after Madrid and Barcelona, though not so far behind is Sevilla. It seemed logical to cover all the major cities in my tour of Spain and also I needed a couple of stops between Barcelona and Madrid, as Spain is a sizable country.
Breakfast was a croissant and café con leche, very typical, taken at the Mos Cafeteria. In Spain you get a sugar sachet with orange juice, even if it's sweet enough already. At the Mercat Central I browsed the aisles. I like noting what people eat, and looking out for distinctive products. Those patches of red at the fruit stalls are for sure strawberries since I recorded that I bought some, as well as pistachios and apples.
In other sections were vegetables, meat, fish, poultry (aves), dried fruits, cheeses, preserves and pulses.
There were also a video stall and a photo stall in the market. Makes sense, do your market shopping, get entertainment for the evening and prints of that last family gathering all in the same building.
A huge bonbonerie was another shop to drool at the windows of.
Opposite the market is the Lonja de la Seda (Silk Exchange). A nationalist had defaced Lonja to the Catalan orthography Llotja. This gothic building goes back to the glory days from the 15th century onwards, when Valencia was a major mercantile city.
More French again! Schoolchildren and teachers on an educational tour, doubtless. There was a retrospective of Finnish architect Alvar Aalto's works, such as Sanitoria Paimio, and Villa Mairea. They were modernist and, to my taste, a bit sterile.
A large electronic billboard exhorted citizens to economise on water, which no doubt the climate requires.
Which leads to the next attraction, the noon Tribunal de las Aguas. This is a reenactment of an ancient ritual where allocations for irrigated plots were adjudicated. It was all over in a few minutes. Schoolkids on study outings were observing.
I caught a bus to the Playa de Arena at Malvarossa but didn't like it because it was unrelieved glaring sand, and there was no shade. The trees were still young. Maybe in a decade's time. I gave that up as a bad job and returned to the centre.
This is the Palau de la Musica (Concert Hall), by the Túria again. My mistake the day before was expecting people outside in the middle of the day. Post-siesta, joggers, strollers, dog-walkers were in abundance. All and sundry were there to see and to be seen: couples, young, elderly, etc.
Back at the centre, the main drag, Gran Via, was more touristy than Barcelona's, menus had translations, a sure sign of visitors.
I found a cheap dinner of tortilla española at the Cafeteria Duero. It's basically a potato omlette, more like a potato quiche I would say. A simple but filling and tasty dish.
El Pais is a popular national newspaper, I noted, amidst the clatter of crockery at the bar where I took breakfast. (Note from the future: I read this daily over the Internet now.)
The Intercity was late coming from Estació Francia, but departed on time. Spaniards add a smacking noise when they kiss on the cheek. The train was packed and as a result of the curtailed time for embarcation, a man helping his mother settle in her seat was still on board when the train pulled out. When the conductor came around to punch tickets, a voluble argument ensued, punctuated often by a phrase I recognised from lessons: ¡Hombre, por favor! (Mate, please! would be a local equivalent.) They went to another carriage to continue the altercation. When the man returned he was smiling so a compromise had been negotiated and he later disembarked at Tarragona. The conductor responded to questions from other passengers, no doubt to satisfy their curiosity about the outcome. I made a mental note in future to arrive early for a service, reserve a seat or risk traveling standing. Incidentally the conductor made no comment about me sitting in a non-smoking car inspite of holding a smoking car ticket, an unintentional purchase.
We passed beaches and homes in overcast weather. Around Sitges, the sun emerged and the landscape gleamed. We swished past fields of grass, caravan parks, golf courses, marinas. Where the land was open, the soil was yellow.
It looked like I was the only foreigner on the train. There was a girl with a Body Shop bag but she turned out to be Spanish. We passed new and shiny Tarragona station (where there is a Via 0, I noted) and as we headed southwest the soil darkened. It felt cooler than the stated 20C due to the dusty breeze when I stepped out at Valencia station. My first impression of Valencia was more space and light than Barcelona. At the Hospedia Del Pilar I got a good deal, a double room for the price of a single as it was out of season, but the shared shower was extra.
Valencia is the birthplace of paella and I wasn't going to miss the opportunity so I lunched on an excellent portion at Cafetería Valiente. On the way to Túria Park I noticed a Restaurant Koala. No idea about its origin. The civic park is the dry bed of the Túria, created to alleviate flooding. There were schoolkids walking there but not much else was happening. So it was back to the hospedia via Plaça de la Virgen (pictured above). More French tourists. I noted orange trees with fallen fruit on the ground all over the city.
After the siesta, I went looking for dinner in the old city but nothing looked promising. The restaurants around the Ajuntament were expensive. Eventually I settled for a bocadillo calamares (squid sub) with patatas bravas (fried potatoes in hot sauce), washed down with a cerveza at the Cafetería Xátiva. The potatoes were quite good, the sauce reminded me of buffalo wings sauce. It was a typical Spanish bar: the TV was going full blast, mostly for the benefit of the waiters, Juventus Turin beat Borrusia Dortmund 3:1; and patrons were conversing loudly.
The main streets of Valencia were brightly lit. There was a greater police presence so I felt even safer than in Barcelona but Valencia didn't have as much nightlife. Though they were showing a Fritz Lang film at the Rialto so it wasn't devoid of culture.
Spanish drivers like to honk because they are impatient. It's not a macho thing. Even the women drivers honk.
