Valencia

My first emotion on landing in Valencia was mild disappointment. On the signboards in the airport everything was repeated in three languages. The first line was in a language similar to Spanish, the next was English and then proper Spanish. I guessed the first language could be Catalan, spoken in Barcelona and other places in Catalonia. It was a bit like an Indian railway station where the signboards have the first line in the local language, then Hindi (the presumed national language although we southies resent this imposition), and finally English.

I ignored the Catalan, known locally as Valencian, and concentrated only on the español. Walking from the plane to the passport control, I picked up a few new words. Heaps of old ones tucked away in obscure crannies of my brain emerged with gusto. It was blissfully refreshing – like the smell of first rain on parched land, like finding some long-lost heirloom behind the cupboard. My Spanish proficiency was traveling back to me through the intervening decades with reckless speed.

The taxi driver who was engaged to take me to the hotel was called Alexandro (he pronounced x like a hard h, like the Spanish J, Alehandro). He started talking to me in laborious English. When I replied in even more laborious Spanish, he was well pleased and didn’t need any encouragement to switch languages. He started rattling away in Spanish at break neck speed. I pleaded with him to slow down,

“Despacio, por favor.”

Then he calmed down and spoke deliberately and slowly. I understood most of what he said. What a warm feeling it was! Old forgotten phrases came alive and danced in the air like cherubs. It’s intriguing how a language comes back to you when you’re immersed in the environment.

Alexandro told me he’s from Argentina. I promptly endeared myself to him further by telling him of my visit to the port of Rosario and my day trip to Buenos Aires from there. I told him how a complete stranger had invited me to a cocktail party and I then extrapolated generously to how I thought the Argentinians were a hospitable lot. It’s always unwise to generalise but when it’s complimentary generalisation, it could work in one’s favour.

Alexandro asked me if I liked living in the U.K. I said, “Sí, me encanta” (Yes, I love it). Then he told me about his uncle who had fought in the Falkland war. Apparently his uncle was captured as a POW but the Brits fed him better than the Argentinian army ever did. I was glad someone was speaking well of my home considering the world thinks it fashionable to knock America and Britain.

By the time we reached the hotel, he and I had filled in each other about our respective families and exchanged personal telephone numbers. I had a best friend in Valencia.

When one visits a place as a tourist, one is well informed about it. YouTube videos, Wikipedia articles and ChatGPT are studied and consulted. However, when the visit is related to work, this is rarely the case. I was engrossed in the details of the accident, worried about the challenges of conducting a thorough investigation in one day and was generally preoccupied with the logistics of the job. I knew nothing about Valencia.

So, when after breakfast I took a stroll outside not expecting to see anything extraordinary, the sight of the most creative structures ever built, the set of buildings known collectively as ‘La ciudad de las artes y las siencias’ (The city of arts and sciences) took my breath away. Built on the bed of a river that was drained and diverted due to past flooding, these were extraordinarily elegant and ingenious in construction. Some of them appeared weightless!

I walked around clicking my phone like photography was going out of fashion. Usually, I don’t do selfies. I have a view on selfies, perhaps to be expanded on another occasion. Nevertheless, that morning, I wanted to be immortalised among the magical buildings. I handed my phone to a stranger and requested him to take my picture. Maybe I got the Spanish wrong or perhaps the man was psychic and became aware of my aversion to selfies. On examining the pictures he took, I observed that I was not included in any of the pictures.

“Muchas gracias, ¿pero dónde estoy?” I said
(Thank you very much, but where am I?).

He seemed surprised and gave me a look that said, “make up your mind, mate!” He then took a couple of pictures with me in it.

The ship arrived around 11 am. I was on board soon after and only completed my work late in the evening. The driver who transported me back to the hotel was from Uruguay. I was exhausted mentally and physically. There was no energy left for further gymnastics with Spanish. We spoke in English and I reminisced about the time my wife and I visited the lovely capital city of Uruguay, Montevideo. I made another best friend in Valencia.

“Buenas noches, Martín,” I wished the Uruguayan driver good night and within an hour fell asleep in my room.

The next morning, after securely filing away all the electronic evidence from the ship, I had exactly four free hours before the taxi ride back to the airport. But that story must wait until the next post.