As we approached Valencia we were pleasantly surprised by a long stretch of extremely productive farms and gardens on its northern outskirts. To the east was a white coastline with beaches and a bustling harbor. Because this would be our future home base, we were hoping to find a city either elegant or welcoming, something that might capture our attention and put a pause to our wandering. We found boulevards thriving with beehive intensity, more practical than breathtaking, form following function.
Those early perceptions of the city — granted, from two people who 20 years ago abandoned urban sensibilities — softened almost immediately when we stopped at the Ruzafa Market around the lunch hour. We identified the neighborhood of Ruzafa because of its proximity to the Berklee College of Music campus where I’ll be studying for four months in 2018. On the outside, the market bears the trademarks of Franco’s fascist architecture. It is rectangular, made of concrete block, with simple ornamental vertical bands of primary colors. Inside, we found a seriously fabulous city market with all the fresh ingredients to cook anything imaginable at our fingertips: fruits, vegetables, cheeses, meats and seafood, wines, olive oils and vinegars, dried fruits and nuts and an abundance of cured olives, coffees, breads and baked goods, organically grown produce, seaweeds and a stand where you can sample a few oysters and a glass of sparkling wine, cava, for 6 euros.
Interior of the world class Central Market in Valencia’s old town.
Clearly the Ruzafa Market would become a magical hub if we adopted this neighborhood which we soon decided was a bit Brooklynesque — once industrial now hip, fashionable, food forward, still affordable — inside Spain’s third largest city. It is on the border of Valencia’s more touristy old town, not far from some of the city gates that date back to the Roman times and ancient cathedrals and the bull fighting ring that Hemingway so admired and that is still used in the spring and summer.
After a recent push for urban renewal in the area, Ruzafa has become the lightning rod for some of the city’s best restaurants, bars, and fashion shops. Renovated apartments, of which we explored at least a dozen, often retain features from their early 20th century splendor: colorful ceramic tiles, dark hardwood beams or vigas, high ceilings, masonry walls, and ornamental balconies looking out over the streets where the Valencianos apparently go insane during the spring feria.
The Ruzafa neighborhood, we soon learn, is ground zero for the Fallas celebration in mid-March, when a million visitors descend upon the city for the spring festival,. Massive music and light show installations are erected, street corners are transformed into community paella popups, elaborate paper sculptures are built many stories high and then set on fire, and pyrotechnics take the city in their grasp from morning till night in some wild former urban incantation of Burning Man. I believe there are also bull fights during this time, so these spring rituals must blaze deeply within the culture and human psyche of this area of the world.
Ancient city gate with an amazing city view, old town Valencia.
If France is a country of cats, Spain is a land of dogs. Canine shit is smeared rather shockingly across Valencian sidewalks. Dogs are everywhere. It makes little sense to me to keep dogs or cats for that matter in apartments, though it must be noted that there is a massive park that runs for many miles through the heart of the city. Even so, Valencia perhaps rivals only Buenos Aires in its nonchalant attitude toward dog crap on city sidewalks. As one of my former songwriting teachers was prone to say, what the fuck is up with that about? How can intelligent people accept this, I wonder, as a dog owner myself? Is this merely a manifestation of Spain’s collective tendencies toward anarchy?
Our Valencia junket turned into the longest stay anywhere so far, as we experimented with various apartment rentals, hoping to find a long term housing solution when we return. Those initial impressions gave way to a deeper appreciation, and sense of excitement, for a city rooted by not just by one but two world class markets. We soon discovered the market in the center city is absolutely elegant and charming and old world and inspiring with its glass domed roof and light pouring in and every imaginable Mediterranean ingredient easily twice as impressive as the Ruzafa complex and still just fifteen minutes away by foot.
Berklee student showcase at the Sala Ruzafa — a night of great acts.
The Berklee College of Music, located adjacent the city’s extraordinary opera building complex, seems indeed like one of those rare deep wells in the world you may fall into, where music is the spoken language and excellence is what most people are striving for, and the name of the game is creating situations where you can succeed, and there is absolutely no place to hide, everyone participates. More about that when the time comes.
Lunch time paella for two, in Valencia’s El Cabanyl beach district.
We rented bikes and rode many miles out to Valencia’s sprawling beach neighborhood of El Cabanyal and stopped in at La Perla Restaurant for paella, which is eaten only at lunch, never for dinner, and is cooked slowly until there is a crunchy crusty caramelized burnt bottom layer on the pan called la soccarat that should be savored to the very last bite. Paella should never contain mixed proteins, such as poultry and seafood. It can also be ordered either as ciego or senyoret, meaning that all the shellfish has been peeled and cleaned and all you have to do is eat away at the saffrony, savory, risottoy goodness, even if you’re blind or wearing your finest shirt or dress, and it can be accompanied by a bottle of whatever cold crisp Rias Baixas albariño white wine you can get your hands on. The country’s national dish, paella, we were told, was traditionally cooked by the men as a midday family meal on Sundays, in the spirit of giving the women a day off from cooking — para ella meaning “for her,” and eventually, paella.
In the sprit of Spain and Hemingway I am re-reading For Whom the Bell Tolls and recently came across the passage where Pilar, his gruff female protagonist, reminisces about Valencia, when she was madly in love with a bullfighter and indulging in all the delights that the city has to offer two young people, the oxen pulling boats from the sea and mounds of prawns and paella and eels and shellfish and wine and beer and melons so cheap for the taking, clearly one of the best times of her life.
“Valencia,” says Pillar. “Do not talk to me of Valencia.”
I just got here, what do I know?
