The New News

Reading the newspapers here is a lot like trying to read them as a child. I often lack knowledge of the social context of the stories which means that I’m just reading words on a page. This is especially true when it comes to the local scene. International news is not a problem; it’s the same as in English. It’s almost impossible to avoid soccer news. It makes up a good portion of the daily newspapers. This is in addition to the several soccer dailies in circulation.

If I feel like keeping up with the war in Iraq I read the excellent Madrid daily, El País. From what I have read so far I’d say their in-depth coverage can only be matched by the New York Times. I read a feature about Sadr City from November 24 that was very gritty and descriptive. Americans would be well served to read a little more outside-the-green-zone reporting. After the horrible car bombings of November 23 in which over 150 Shiites were killed, El País didn’t hesitate to call this an all-out civil war.

But for the most part Spanish newspapers are concerned with Spanish news. Like most cities in Europe, news kiosks seem to occupy almost every corner. Valencia has several daily newspapers including at least one written in Valenciano, Valéncia hui, or Valencia Today. I don’t know how they can compete but there are four daily sport newspapers that deal primarily with Spanish soccer: As, Super Deporte, Marca, and Sport.

My contact with the Spanish press has been casual at best. I’ve been too preoccupied with finding a place to live. I read as much of the papers as I can while I am having a cup of coffee or a beer. If I find an article that interests me I’ll take the paper home for further study.
TV news is about my last choice of programming but it’s on pretty much all the time and is hard to avoid. If it pertains to things or events about which I am familiar, I am able to understand it well. The more arcane matters of Spanish politics and society are a little more of a challenge for the newcomer.

I told myself before I left that I was only going to get my news and entertainment through Spanish or French sources. I have a subscription to The New Yorker magazine that I may forward here once I get an address but I may keep 100% faithful to my original promise. I really don’t care much about the news, anyway. Today over coffee with someone we got on to the subject of American politics. I began an explanation of the whole liberal/conservative split in America and I stopped myself short. I was boring myself half to death. The only reason that I have any interest in Spanish politics—at least for the moment—is for the cultural literacy it affords me.

El Jardín del Turia

Before I got here I had read a little about Valencia’s Turia Garden, a park that meanders from the northwest corner of the old city to the southern reaches and will soon run all the way to the port. This marks the 30^th anniversary of the park when this former river bed began the change from a muddy expanse of debris and overgrowth into what is now a signature feature of the city.

There is a new causeway for flood waters to the west of the city which left the old river bed superfluous. At one point there was talk of using the site for a highway but in December of 1976 the Spanish king, Juan Carlos, handed over this area of Valencia to be used as a public park. Perhaps it isn’t coincidental that his was only a year after the death of the Spanish dictator Franco.

The Turia Garden is like a Central Park that comes to you. It stretches from one side of Valencia to the other. You have to walk down to enter the park, as if you were descending into a subway entrance. About midway through the park there is a subway stop. The park is bordered on both sides by the ancient stone river walls and is crossed by 18 bridges, the oldest of which date back to the XIV century.

The park is a blend of aesthetic beauty and function. There are manicured gardens as well as forests of pines and date palms. Fountains and ponds are scattered throughout the park which now is something like eight kilometers long. A separate bike path runs from one end to the other. I saw some Spanish kids playing baseball the other day, they weren’t playing very well but they were trying. One kid fielded an infield grounder and then stood there thinking whether he should kick it or throw it to first base. There are rugby fields, diamonds, basketball courts, and, of course, soccer fields all of which have lights for night games. There is even a rock climbing wall hidden under one of the ancient bridges.

There are a few scattered cafes inside the park, but for the most part it is free of any sort of commerce—there is plenty of that above the park on either side. There is no vehicular traffic in the park, aside from the kiddie train the rolls by occasionally. Although it is only a few hundreds yards in width, the park is incredibly quiet because it is below the level of the street. The Turia Garden is a perfect refuge from the city above and around it. It is one of my favorite things about Valencia.

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.

Lost, Found; Insider, Outsider

After two weeks I feel like I can get around fairly well. I fought my way up to the counter of a butcher stall yesterday at the crowded central market. Saturday is probably the busiest day because almost everything is closed on Sunday. I bought some magro which is very lean pork loin. I had the woman slice into thin cutlets. I also bought a couple of dried chorizo links just to try them out. I made a pork loin sandwich for lunch when I got home but I haven’t decided what to do with the rest. It just looked too good not to buy it. I think that is the point of daily shopping: you can buy whatever it is that looks the best that day. I also bought a couple of beautiful red peppers.

Like almost everyone else walking through the downtown carrying shopping bags from the market, I stop at a café to have a beer before I get on the bus back home. I’m nothing if not a follower.

I’m still pretty lost in the dog-eat-dog world of the crowded central market; it will take a lot of shopping trips before I will feel like anything other than a dumb tourist. For anyone who enjoys cooking, the Mercado Central in Valencia is about as good as it gets. All you have to do is take it home and do something with it. I don’t know which part I like better: the shopping or the cooking. The eating and drinking part rates way up there as well.

I have at least three maps of Valencia. I carry a small compass on my keychain. I have been walking tirelessly (and sometimes not so tirelessly) all over town these past two weeks, and there are things that I only seem to find by accident. When you are in the old part of town walking around in circles, and feeling embarrassed about it, you quickly notice that a lot of other people are also walking in the same circles. Little by little I am beginning to actually find my way around this labyrinthine historic section. I still carry a map but I only consult it clandestinely. I know it sounds ridiculous but I think consulting a map in public is totally dorky. I think it has something to do with everyone’s desire to be an insider, not an outsider; a local, not a tourist; found, not lost.

I am still lost when it comes to how the whole European football league is structured. To the outsider, it is more of a maze than Valencia’s old city. With one win over Athens’ Olympiakos squad, Valencia CF went from desperation to first place in their division. It is still very early in the season so I am not panicking just yet. I have actually been paying closer attention to the news and arts section of the newspapers instead of the sports.

It is in learning Spanish that I am the most impatient to find my way. If I am at home, I have the television turned on. I’ve noticed that I am beginning to pick up more and more. Not just when I am paying close attention to a television program I am watching or a conversation I have with another person. I understand more of the background noise of the Spanish being spoken around me. Without really meaning to eavesdrop I heard some people bitching about how crowded the buses have been compared to years past.

The thing about learning a new language is that there is no finish line. It never ends. You can always learn more. No matter how many new words I write down in my little notebook, no matter how many TV shows I force myself to watch, I’ll always be an outsider when it comes to Spanish. And then there is Catalan or Valenciano—I can’t even tell the difference between the two languages at this point.

New, Old

New, Old


I noticed something the last time I was in Spain a couple of years ago: They don’t tear down buildings. No matter what a fucking wreck it is, it ain’t coming down. I don’t think that they would let a natural disaster destroy an historic edifice, let alone let one fall down simply through neglect or a misguided idea of progress. Everywhere you turn in Valencia, and other places in Spain, you see heroic, quixotic efforts to rebuild crumbling structures that give the Spanish ties to their past.

I have come across façades of old structures, and nothing more than the façades, like only a couple of feet deep, that are in the process of being rebuilt. I can’t imagine how much it must cost to preserve these dilapidated remnants, these ruins of the past, and incorporate them into a new construction. It would certainly be less expensive to raze the old buildings and start from scratch. Spain appears committed to cling to their past no matter what the cost.

The Mercado Central, Valencia’s old city market, is undergoing an 11 million Euro, three year rehabilitation project. The Mercado Colon, inaugurated in 1916, has been completely renovated and is now a showplace of old and new urban architecture. It is part urban mall, part old school market, and 100% the place to be and be seen. Chic cafes blend with a flower market. A big chain bookstore takes up part of the lower level along with a few food specialty shops. On one occasion a big fashion show that took up a big section of the market didn’t seem to conflict with, or give the slightest notice to, a group of older women out for a cup of coffee on their nightly rounds of shopping and socializing. It’s the architecture of inclusion.

At the same time, Spain seems equally committed to the new. A few blocks from my apartment is the Ciutat de les Ciencias y de les Artes, a museum to art and science, but museum is a terrible word for this futuristic campus at the southern end to the lovely Jardín del Turia. The Ciutat, more than anything, is a nod to Valencia’s future and its pledge to be as excellent in its present, and future as their ancestors were in their past. It seems to me that the Ciutat is Valencia’s answer to the Pyramids, to Machu Pichu, to the Acropolis, and to every other awe-inspiring man-made achievement. This campus seems to be present day Valencia’s wish to be compared favorably to the beautiful architecture of its past.

The home to Valencia’s revered football club, Valencia CF, is only a ten minute walk from where I live. The stadium is called Mestalla. It reminds me a lot of the Kingdome when I first arrived in Seattle. The Kingdome was home to both the Seattle Mariners and the Seahawks, but it was a total eyesore. Not a single person lamented when they blew up the Kingdome, because in its place they built the beautiful new home for the Mariners, known in unfortunate corporate-speak as Safeco Field. Valencia CF is now in the process of soliciting bids for a new stadium. The candidate that seems to be getting the biggest push is a very Frank Ghuery-esque futuristic structure that has a roof over all of the seating. I am a little bit of a newcomer to be in on all of the dialogue that is going on for the new stadium but all I do know is that, like the Kingdome in Seattle, no one here will miss the old Mestalla stadium. Whatever they decide to build, it seems they are determined to build something great.

It’s impossible not to notice all of the real estate offices all over town. They are on almost every block. There are for sale signs hanging from hundreds of balconies. I don’t have the figures on home ownership here in Valencia but I would assume that it is fairly high. There are commercials all over the television about the government’s commitment to home ownership for the Spanish, and how it is a good thing for their children.

I have to interrupt here with an announcement. I just saw an ad on TV that I thought had something to do with alcoholism—something that I didn’t think they thought was much of a problem here in Spain. It had really somber music and had images of wine chugging. It turns out that the commercial was about recycling your empty wine bottles. Excuse me while I finish my glass of wine and stop laughing. I’ll have to see it again to explain it to you.