These are the Spanish streets: you hear the intense ringing of glass crashing out from the restaurant bins, and church bells striking four times an hour, and the enchanting song of a violin twisting and turning down the roads, serenading you while you sip your sweet sangria. There is the jolly man who plays the accordion right where you are, who flips his fedora to collect small change and frowns when it's not enough -- who doesn't see how you emptied your pockets and pouches to give the last of your coins away. Then there are beggars with no arms and beggars slumped over buckets of grub and beggars with collared cats who climb over their heads. There are white pigeons you mistake for napkins in the breeze and small dogs who live without grass and tourists who toss back their heads and marvel at gargoyles in the sky. There are dads pushing strollers and moms in tight sundresses and there are cafes on every corner, in busy squares and hushed alleys, where voices almost whisper. Where you can hear the pitter-patter of dog paws on slick black stone and think, how is it possible that in this city of thousands of people it is quiet here? How is it possible that in late afternoon a city this beautiful can feel so undisturbed?
When I came to Valencia, Austin told me to prepare for the juxtaposition of busy and calm. For the prettiest thing he’s ever heard. This whole city feels like acoustic art, the way the tall apartments absorb the noises so that you can see buses in the distance without hearing them, so you can move through big groups of people but still hear yourself talk-- like the only thing that’s really right in your ear is what you ask for: bachata music at the crowded club, blasting down where you’re sipping your tall mojito, or salsa music on the beach while you swallow your Mahou beer. It's rare to find cities like this, that so easily offer you silence.
In the late afternoon and evening, the noises on the rooftop are soft: the neighbor’s laundry wrestling with the wind; the clink of silverware from someone eating alone; the playful squeaking of a flight of gulls. At night there are whining children and drunken men and stray cats crying for food; there’s the pop of a soda can and voices that fade. At 1 am the garbage trucks barrel through the streets, and I think back to Madrid when Austin and I were waiting outside the club; there were party people in their glam and beer bottles stacked and shared, and garbagemen and women who jogged past them to the trash. That was the city at midnight, being recycled and swept.
Valencia at night is yellow-gold with pockets of light and sound, with soft lanterns and grandmothers' songs: you hear the voice of an old woman as she clings to someone younger, and you wonder how often she goes out with her family like this, shuffling through strangers on the Saturday streets.
Austin and I have had so many lazy days where we stay up until after 2 am and sleep until almost noon. We’ve had days where I work while he slays ogres and blocks out shapes, where we skip tapas for Greek yogurt and oats and Earl Grey with spoons of honey. We’ve had days where we hit the gym and then the market where vendors touch all the fish, where they wiggle a limp shrimp with their gloved hands and encourage you to do the same, where they touch your money and then the bag until everything is just saltwater and slime. We’ve had days where we drink water and days where we drink the "water of Valencia" in the square. We've had days where we've had morning horchata and days where we've preferred fresh-squeezed juice. We’ve already had so many days, and there's so much in-between: last Wednesday night Austin and I swiped seven Euros of sweets from candy barrels with plastic domes, and we strolled to the park on desolate narrow roads, through ancient alleys that have seen romance time and time again: centuries' worth of couples who share sugar hearts and chocolate river rocks, who laugh when they finally snap the big gummy, the heavy alligator with an elastic tail.
We've eaten well: Indian platters and Argentinian meals-- lamb and empanadas and oily, melted cheese. Salami pizza and lemon sorbet, with vodka and champagne. Austin's juicy lemon chicken and overpriced shrimp. Harissa rice and butter potatoes, peppered and brown. Dragon fruit that bends to the spoon, that drips neon pink. We eat leftovers for as long as they'll last, and granola bars in-between. We don't leave bread on the counter, because after a couple of hours the crust cracks sharp. We don't buy bins of Saturn peaches, because after 24 hours their flesh turns fuzzy white.
On Tuesday we went to the ocean for the first time. The waves were some of the best I've ever had: forceful enough to smack off your top, soft enough to ride. Playful and warm. Austin dove under the crests as I bobbed on the swells. I swam out toward the buoys but never too far--just enough to pretend I was lost at sea, to search for Austin during peaks that blocked the shore. When we danced salsa right after, I bit down on sand.
Here on the Spanish rooftops the sky feels so close—there’s a stillness four stories up that helps you notice your slow breath, the way your whole chest is moving like you’ve seen others sleep. You look up at the drifting puffs of clouds and catch a blazing star burn for several seconds against the midnight blue and you can’t remember the last time you’ve seen one that’s lasted this long, or seen so many in a row; you can't remember the last time you steadied your gaze on the sky.
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