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| Brand-spankin' new kicks!! |
“Las fallas!!” What the bloody hell was ‘las fires??’ Yeaaaa…I get my Spanish still isn’t quite the best but I can have a pretty decent conversation by now. “So what is with all these dudes in creepy yet colourful medieval getup??” The taxi driver looked bewildered by my own bewilderment. “Las Fallas!!” Ahh, no shit!! The entire city was swarming with mobs. I thought some political meltdown was taking place, and somehow we were caught up in a fix of history. To this day I am still oblivious to the meaning of the Valencian Las Fallas Festival. I feel most Valencians are indeed clueless to its actual origins. In hindsight we probably should have jumped cab & joined the party. Or better yet, wait till I’d been stuffed with Subway sandwich & reunited with KarateKid, to make life a whole lot happier. The labyrinth like streets confused me, and I was ice-bitingly cold. Short-shorts are not a happy European winter option as we have previously discussed.
To be completely honest, much of my memory from the time spent
in that city has well & truly become diluted. I can’t recall much from my
first night in the hostel. However, what I can remember of course was meeting a
fine little Argentinean doctor, who I
ended up dragging to the devils doorstep, only to have the gates barred and
barricaded over the next two days in a relentless display of blue-balled
affection. The woes of a wandering warrior.
We also met an Australian girl
from god-knows-where-in whoop-whoop land. She ended up wasted on the hostel
steps, engulfed in the arms of our kung-fu’ing tag-along, who as it turned out indeed
had a girlfriend back home he didn’t want these women to know about. Ohhh hail
the lady slayer!! I really don’t think she’ll be coming back for more, and ol’ Grün here now sure won’t be wanting a
bar of it. He’d been dealt the Turkish wrath. I blame his clean shaven arm pits.
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| Getting all 'cultured' at the flamenco |
We gave him some leeway. By the morning he’d taken off and
left us with some 7th grade social-suicide letter, addressed in a
way which was supposedly meant to let us dwell on our wrongdoings and his dismissal,
yet in turn only really made us realise how much of a baby faced fool he
actually was. Chinks in the square. Stuttgarts
finest. Yes. Now, that’s enough of my rant. Despite this little row, Valencia dealt us up some crackin’ good
times!! I got to juggle oranges with a giant concrete Pope; we won the hearts of
more Latina goddesses; and jived the nights away to the sounds of flamenco wailers
& stern faced twirlers.
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| Juggling oranges with the Pope |
We even made it to the beach!! Now this time was fo real!!
That water stung, but it had to be done. A radiant sky shone blue &
inviting, yet surprisingly those sands were fair near vacant! Fast forward four
or five months and most of northern Europe will be sprawled along these
artificial stretches. I loved & lapped-up those chilly hours along with sidekick
Grün & my Argentinean mistress; my bare feet breathing free once again…bliss.
But like for most of my frantic get-about on this continent, time & money
was running short. We were once more prodded & propelled forward, in that
never ending venture south in search of fun & sun. I had to comply. I
needed a job…and aqui en España there
was at present little optimism. All I could do was live it while it lasted…combing
down the coast in our cooped-up caravan.
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| Beach combing in Valencia |
Where to now hombres?? Let's gooooooo!!! xx
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