The Woman in Valencia by Annie Perreault (book recommendations website txt) 📗

bile only to spew it up again into a coffee mug that had quickly overflowed, all the while trying to fix her eyes and plant her hands on something—anything—that wasn’t already pitching and heaving in the ship’s cabin, which wouldn’t stop spinning.

She’d tied one on more than once on the road, relishing the burning sensation of the vodka, arak and rum, mixed with fresh juices and luscious fruits plucked straight from the tree: mangoes, rambutans, mangosteens and others whose names she’ll never know. Then there had been the warm milk, manioc, breakfasts of fish and boiled callaloo, seafood soups in the Valparaíso market at night and, in the markets of Asia, bowls of fragrant, steaming broth floating with chunks of mystery meat and strange-tasting balls that looked suspiciously like animal testicles. What else? Thali eaten off banana leaves, staining fingernails yellow with turmeric. Small packets of sticky rice wrapped up like trinkets bought from old ladies in train stations. Green almonds picked in a garden in Santiago. Curries and peppers hot enough to make her eyes water. The unforgettable flavours of her journeys, like a travelogue engraved on her taste buds.

BARCELONA ON A SHOESTRING

Her room is in a quaint building at the end of a sloped, flower-lined alley. Assorted cacti stand in pots next to the front door, which gives onto a gloomy stairwell. Claire hauls her suitcase up to the third floor.

Her hosts greet her warmly, show her around the room, hand her a set of keys, give her the wi-fi password and explain how the gas stove and shower work.

Claire sits down on the narrow bed, suddenly overwhelmed by an exhaustion that runs deeper than just the regular sluggishness of jet lag. The room is so cramped that the single bed barely fits into the space along the wall, to the left of the door. She has to slide her suitcase under the bed to make room to move around. A tiny window looks out onto the neighbours’ patio. The place is lacking in charm, but Claire tells herself that it’ll do. It’s only somewhere to sleep, to rest for a while before heading back to Valencia.

She stretches out, smooths the wrinkles from her dress, searches for a pen in her bag. On the back of her boarding pass, she jots down a few reminders before they slip her mind:

Buy train ticket

Book room at Valencia Palace

Run → Parc de les Aigües or beach

(map out 25–30 km)

Go back to Sagrada Família

Find address of place they keep unclaimed bodies

Buy postcards for kids

Hairdresser?

KILOMETRE 6

… a slight incline, no sweat, the fastest marathon in Spain, I chose well for my first marathon, no hills, elevation that doesn’t aggravate my calf injury, the shooting pain that developed this summer after my hill sprint workouts, there’s the campus on my right, the road’s widening out here, finally some room to breathe, some people have already slowed down, quick glance at my watch,

all good, five minutes thirty-eight seconds per kilometre, sidelong glance at the gardens planted down the middle of Avenida de Blasco Ibáñez: neatly trimmed shrubbery, hedges and gravel, leafy trees, a fountain,

it’s November and everything’s still green, it’s pretty, I’d pictured the city as being shabbier, dirtier, from reading your journals, I’d never have guessed that Valencia was so beautiful, back then you were living under what Dad called a “black cloud,” always seeing the glass as half empty, it took a while for your friends and family to realize, to admit that it wasn’t just a passing phase, you were never the same after Valencia, but what they couldn’t know is that after that trip to Spain, a part of you—the sweet, sunny part—would never quite make it back…

KILOMETRE 7

… I’m trailing behind a man, fortyish I’d say, the word Guide printed on his back, he’s attached at the wrist to a woman wearing an orange vest emblazoned with Blind in black letters, people are applauding her and cheering her on, a chill runs down my spine, I grin, see what you’re missing, Mama, we could be here together running in Valencia, together like these two, mother and daughter, side by side, crossing one of your fiftieth-birthday wishes off the list… I wonder what the point is of running without being able to see what’s in front of you, how it feels to depend so completely on someone else, to experience the movements, sounds and smells without any outside interference, to move about in the dark and match your pace to someone else’s, maybe they’re a couple, I speed up slightly to pass them, I need quiet so I can focus, I can’t stand shouting and displays of emotion, they make me uncomfortable, like hugs, I look at my watch, I’ve been running for about half an hour, not very long, but it went by fast, I do the math: one-sixth of the course, one-third of a half-marathon, still three hundred metres to go before kilometre seven, seven kilometres, that’s a round trip between my apartment and the architecture department, I’ve done that run hundreds of times…

KILOMETRE 8

… I’m entering my comfort zone now, forty minutes, that’s how long it takes to get to that state where I lose all sense of myself, a second wind, a different kind of effort, a mild floating sensation, like a cushion of air under my feet, I feel powerful and free, I notice smells, sounds and the quality of the light, for a second I register the faces of the people in the crowds, I high-five the kids, I finger the energy gel in my pocket, won’t be long now, can’t miss the next water station, must tear open the pouch before I reach the tables, that’s my biggest fear—collapsing because I miscalculated my fluids and carbs, I hate it when I can feel my body starting to weaken, when the little stars appear in