Valencia

Valencia was a blast. The raucous and internationally populated bar on the main floor of the hostel ensured a good night every night (depending on one's definition of "good", of course; the mornings were not as "good"). And of course I didn't forget to walk around the place a whole lot while I was there, and really "drink" in the local culture (this pun inspired by Dr. Michael Hawley). As usual, the town's historical center was a wonderful mix of ornate antique buildings adorned with mischieviously snickering gargoyles, sparkling water-spraying fountains, airy cobblestone plazas, and enough pidgeons to shit all over every inch of it. I've discovered that the best way to figure out which part of town is the historical center (that is, other than to simply walk towards the biggest church on the skyline) is to pick up any map and take a look at the general layout of the roads; if the roads are organized perpendicularly, in neat rows and oriented North-South and East-West, then you are not looking at the historical center of the town. If, on the other hand, the roads appear clumsily laid out, heading in any and every direction, as though a clumbsy toddler had come along and dumped out a box of matches on the map, then you know you're looking at the historical center of town. That's why the historical center is always the best place to walk around; you can spend hours getting lost in the enigmatic labyrinth of narrow streets, and every corner turned brings a new bit of wonder (Left - I wandered into a church and looked up)

In Valencia the architecture was markedly different from my previous Spanish destinations. It had a certain Moorish feel, for lack of a better description. The gothic spires had been mostly (though not entirely) replaced by large colourful bulbous domes, arches and doorways were differently shaped and buildings had a different feel to them, somehow; it's hard to put my finger on, but it just felt different. I wandered in and out of churches holding service, took my time sightseeing and watched the locals buzzing around like busy little bees before settling in for an hour or so to watch a local soccer game as the sun set behind the old city, just over my shoulder. Obviously I took a trillion pictures, and here you see the fruits of that loving labour.

There were parades all over the place on Monday, which was yet another national holiday here in Spain. I didn't even ask why (the answer invariably involves Jesus); I just snapped some photos of the local military regiment in full gear, each soldier completing his costume with a large garden tool of some kind strapped to their back (axes, pitchforks, spades, hammers, shovels... everything but a lawn-mower). After that night's festivities I got myself up later than I wanted to the next morning and headed for the local market, where I saw more skinned bunnies and the like (complete with an excellently sardonic photo on the price tag; the picture will be at the bottom of the post as it has some skinned rabbits in it, and some won't want to see that. Don't scroll down too far unless you do want to see it!), as well as the local array of fresh seafood, wriggling and swimming around in their pens, awaiting the inevitable knife. I was verbally accosted by a geriatric Spanish shop owner after touching a few of her avocados to test for firmness:

"What are you doing touching the avocados?"

"Oh I'm just making sure they're ripe before I buy one"

"Of course they're ripe, you don't go around touching all the avocados!"

"Well... why not?" (not the most pacifying of responses but she was already so upset I didn't mind egging her on)

"In Spain you don't go around touching avocados and then not buy one"

"Well I was going to buy one, but now I'm not..."

"You have ruined all the avocados and now you're not going to buy one!"

"How did I ruin the avocados? I didn't crush them, I just felt them lightly to make sure they were ripe."

"I told you they are all ripe!"

(pointing at a hard green avocado) "That one isn't ripe, look, it's hard as a rock"

"WELL THAT ONE'S GREEN ONLY THE DARK ONES ARE RIPE *&%*^&^$*$ (undecipherable Spanish old lady cursing my soul to satan) YOU TOUCHED ALL MY AVOCADOOOOOOS!"

At this point I thought her head, which looked like a bloated sundried tomato, might explode with anger, so I Shrugged my shoulders with raised eyebrows (in the Spanish fashion) and took my leave, deciding to call it a draw. Though I still think I'm entirely in the right as far as avocado touching goes... I could hear locals all around giggling, so at least we entertained some people with the exchange.

Today I took a seven hour train from Valencia to Granada. I looked up occasionally in between chapters of "The golden compass" (started and finished on the train ride, an excellent read - oh how a good, thick volume can make the time pass) to see rows of olive trees, rolling countryside and mountains in the distance. If Valencia was architecturally different from the Spanish towns I'd visited before, then Granada seems like another country altogether; even my bedposts, made from richly painted wood and shaped like perfectly balanced eggs all pointing skyward, betray the Moorish influence in this region. I heard almost as much Arabic while walking through the streets as I heard Spanish, and the smells and sights of this place seem more closely related to Cairo than to Madrid. As such, this will be an excellent stop for me, and a quick reprieve from traditional European culture and architecture before I head back to Barcelona to pick up Lana. I'm most excited about my trip to Alhambra, which is booked in for Friday afternoon; I'm hoping for a good dose of sunshine so I can capture the sparkling beauty of what's been called the "eighth wonder of the world".

C

***BELOW IS THE IRONICALLY FUNNY BUT KINDA GROSS SKINNED RABBIT PICTURE DESCRIBED ABOVE. Don't say I didn't warn you***