I’m OK, Your Team Sucks

When I get to the point when I’m not stumbling around lost, finding landmarks purely by luck, dead reckoning, and kilometers of aimless walking; when I half-way know a section of town, it’s time to get lost in another area. This seems to be a recurring theme, an overriding metaphor in my life. I doubt that anyone could be more of a creature of habit, or find as much comfort in the familiar as I, but every so often I like to move over a couple of time zones, a couple degrees of latitude, and even more in longitude, and start all over from scratch.

I suppose that I could have started all over from less scratch that I did this time. I already spoke quite a bit of Spanish before I got here, and I have been to Spain a few times, but this is all pretty new. When I am around at the African immigrants here in Valencia I can only think that their former lives were a lot more different than what I left behind in Seattle. The languages I hear them speak are unlike anything I have ever heard before—and I have studied a few languages. As much of an outsider as I think I must be in this culture, the African immigrants must feel even more out of place.

I seriously doubt that anyone would assume that they are Spanish. Just this afternoon as I was walking into my building, I was approached by a couple of guys from Madrid who were going to the big football match at Mestalla Stadium. Real Madrid is playing Valencia CF (Club de Fútbol) tonight at 7:00, or 19:00 as they write it here. The out-of-towners asked me about bars in the neighborhood. They had parked in the lot across from my building and were planning to walk and drink the ten or so blocks to the stadium. I pointed them in the right direction and wished them luck.

I am often taken for a local—something that never happens to me in Mexico, no matter how hard I try to blend in. I really like it when, like today, I am asked directions from Spaniards and I am able to help them out. Usually it’s me asking the questions.
Tonight, as I mentioned before, Real Madrid is in town to play Valencia CF at the stadium near where I live. I walked over to the stadium before the game just to check out what goes on. It is a lot like big games in the States, except that there isn’t a crazy amount of automobile traffic. Most people either walk or take public transportation. In Seattle I would guess that a majority of people at football and baseball games arrive either on foot or by bus. There are people on the sidewalks around the stadium selling bags of peanuts and sunflower seeds. All of the bars around the stadium are too full for a novice like me to even try to enter. Lots of fans bring their own beer and drink it in the open areas around the stadium

As game time neared on my walk back to my apartment, I noticed that every bar with a television was packed to the rafters. The bars with big screen TVs had people standing outside looking in the windows. After passing dozens of crowded neighborhood restaurants I find one where I am able to make my way inside and install myself at the bar.

Once the game begins the language barrier falls like the Berlin Wall, This important match has brought out the entire city, and many, I quickly notice, are immigrants. There are Sub-Saharan Africans, Arabs, Eastern Europeans, East Indians, and at least one American. This isn’t going to turn into a homily about how sport brings us all together; it just means that people were swearing at the TV in a cacophony of foreign languages. The bar was like an obscene tower of Babel. No lessons to be learned here, folks.

Valencia CF controlled the ball for much of the game but it only took a few seconds for Real Madrid’s Spanish superstar forward, Raul, to take a pass from Robinho to score what would be the only goal of the night.

Earlier in the day I had a coffee at the café near the bus stop and started to read an excellent article on the history of the Turia Park, the converted river bed that runs through Valencia. I meant to pick up a copy of Las Provincias newspaper to finish the story and now it would be too late to find a kiosk. I noticed a guy at the end of the bar reading this paper. When time ran out and Real Madrid left the field with a win, the bar emptied in a matter of minutes. I was able to scrounge the newspaper along with the soccer daily Marca which had a three panel, time-lapse photo of Ronaldinho’s bicycle kick goal against Villarreal the night before. This over the head and backwards kick was made famous by another great Brazilian, Pele. For some reason that kick is called a chilena in Spain. It is one of those goals that will be shown on TV for the next century. It happened a couple days ago and I’ve already seen it a dozen times, at least.

My bill for the two beers I had during the game came to less than what the two newspapers would have cost at a kiosk, so drinking is cheaper than reading in Spain. That’s a lesson I won’t forget.