A Little Travel Writing

Last week Dora and I traveled to Valencia, Spain where we were guests at a spectacular wedding, tourists, sea-side sunbathers, witnesses to the beaching of a corpse, and participants in the miraculously fashioned Spanish lifestyle.

We traveled to Spain for the wedding of Nick and Maria. Nick went to college with Dora in Southern California, but he is originally from Montana. He met Maria while traveling through Europe. They fell in love. After Nick spent some time back in the States, he returned to live with Maria in Madrid, and last weekend the two of them were married in Valencia, Maria’s hometown. It was an incredibly festive blend of two cultures where family and friends from all over America came to offer their fun-loving spirit to the culture and traditions of family and friends living on the Continent.

If this story doesn’t sound familiar to you, then you do not know me very well, do you?

I was deeply touched when mid-way through the reception, Nick told me that he drew a lot of inspiration for his wedding celebration from the wedding he attended in Hungary nearly three years ago. This complement was particularly poignant because the party going on around me was absolutely stunning in its every detail.

Five-star hotel on a quite Mediterranean beach outside of the city. Ceremony under a crisp blue sky. Moments and dedications that brought those in attendance to tears. A cocktail hour with, among other things, a guy carving jamon (Spanish ham that you must eat before you die). Then a buffet diner with food that went so far beyond my expectations I couldn’t properly express my shock: crabs, shrimp, pâté, a range of meats grilled to order, and this mousse thing with citrus custard that blew my mind. And there was the band.

Oh, the band. They played jazz standards during dinner, but when the last course had been served they returned from their break doing a New Orleans-style funeral march in white straw hats. They proceeded to stake their claim as one of the most authentic Dixieland bands in Spain (I’m not sure what such a title imparts, but be certain, they were damn good). I eventually got rather enthusiastic about the dancing. I think the call-and-response version of “Oh, When the Saints” is what did it for me. I had worked off most of dinner on the dance floor when the party moved to Maria’s family beach house - a ten-minute walk down the beach.

There Maria’s ultra-hip friends deejay-ed an outdoor dance party until sunrise. There were moments when I looked around at the group of us, dressed up and dancing, and felt I was witnessing the Plutonic ideal of the word “party.”

So, that was nice.

However, it was not the whole trip. Dora and I arrived a week early and rented an apartment in the center of Valencia. It’s a nice city: lots of young people, hip storefronts, a beautiful central market, great museums, a diverted river that has since been turned into a park that surrounds the old city, and much more. After two days our friend Kat joined us, and we toured the city streets, drank Spanish wine, and ate wonderful dinners late at night - as the Spanish would have us do.

They’ve carved out a nice lifestyle for themselves, those Spaniards. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m jealous.

The beach helps drive that home. Valencia’s coast is an endless stretch of fine gold sand. The water was chilly, but great for swimming once you were in. And then there are the topless women. Now, I did not ogle, but I didn’t shut my eyes either. Coming from prudish America, it was nice to see so many… women feeling comfortable enough to avoid tan lines.

At one point I was on a walk, just stretching my legs and admiring the… women feeling comfortable enough to avoid tan lines. On this walk I encountered an older woman and her dog playing in the water. Dog aren’t allowed on the beach, so the two of them got my attention. She must have been in her late sixties and, judging by her matted hair, either a hippy or homeless. Then I noticed that she was completely nude, no bikini bottom for this lady. She was going commando in the truest sense of the word. I thought I would return to Dora with the “Strange Story of the Day.”

Dora trumped my story before I was in earshot. She was sitting up on her beach towel, looking away from me. I followed her line of sight and saw several policemen on quads riding toward the shoreline. When I caught Dora’s eye, she mouthed the words, “Is that a dead guy?”
Sure enough, the body of a man in swim trunks had washed up on shore just 50 meters from where we'd laid out our beach towels. He was not a natural color, and his limbs were stiff - held in the position of a man following through on a basketball lay-up. It was unsettling, but what really struck me was the group of women laying-out on their towels less then 10 meters from the body. They did not feel compelled to move. They were laying in a spot just outside the cordon the police eventually put up, and apparently that was good enough for them.

Dora and I called it a day.

The next day Kat arrived, and we have since told the story a dozen times or more. So, now I’ve told you, but don’t let it discourage you from heading to Spain if you ever get the chance. It is an amazing place.