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

and oranges. That’s about it. No music, no visuals. The foggy notion of a paella and a vowel-heavy adjective that rolls off the tongue: Valencian. Nothing specific in the way of architecture except for a few impressive examples of Gothic structures, which don’t particularly interest Claire Halde. None of the originality of Gaudí in Barcelona or the appeal of the museums in Madrid, no Goya or Velasquez to contemplate during never-ending museum visits, no trace of Picasso, none of the mysterious charm of the Moorish buildings of Andalusia, not even any real mountains to speak of—you have to go north for those, to the Pyrenees, another elegantly written word, with all those e’s and that y. The mystics and the trekkers won’t find any pilgrimages here; the city doesn’t have much in the way of attractions, or at least that’s what the tour guides used to say, but that’s changing now at the turn of the century, with the City of Arts and Sciences springing up at the mouth of the old Turia riverbed, a daring architectural feat, all fish and ocean floors, glass and waterlily-inspired roofs, and a seventy-five-ton steel eyelid. Alright, time to explore Valencia.

STAYING IN VALENCIA:

THE VALENCIA PALACE HOTEL

A taxi drops Claire Halde and her family off in front of the Valencia Palace Hotel. Claire pays the fare while Jean hoists the suitcases out of the trunk. The children wait obediently as their luggage is piled up on the sidewalk. The lobby is bright, with windows on two sides, one of which overlooks the congress centre designed by Sir Norman Foster, where there seems to be absolutely nothing going on; the deserted building appears almost frozen in time, snuffed out in the Valencian summer. Dead leaves rustle on the ground in front of the glass entrance. The fountains are dry.

At fifteen storeys high, the towering Valencia Palace casts a shadow over the building next door. It’s like a giant cruise ship run aground in the middle of the city, in the middle of nowhere, its triangular prow bearing down on Avinguda de las Cortes Valencianas.

They’d chosen it for the pool, for the four stars, to make the kids happy. Even though they’d known it wasn’t in the best of locations, they’d given in to the temptation of a summer deal. They couldn’t have predicted that their bargain trip would become a catalyst in the demise of their relationship.

At the front desk, they’re given a key card for room 714, where they set down their bags. Claire’s first impression is that the decor is cold and impersonal.

She remarks to Jean that they could be in any city, anywhere in the world. The windows don’t open; there’s no whiff of city air, no warmth, no noise. And they’re nowhere near the sea.

The room is dark and gloomy. The thick, heavy, floral-patterned curtains will stay drawn for most of their visit. Claire and Jean look out the window at everything happening below: cars driving through the roundabout, taxis pulling up, doors opening and closing, smoke rising from a distant chimney, and a Leroy Merlin warehouse store, rectangular and white, sitting next to a highway. They won’t touch the curtains again after that, because nothing about their immediate surroundings, about the drab, boring Valencia outside their window, holds any interest for them.

The pool is on the fourth floor, on a rooftop terrace tucked into the shadow of the looming hotel with the square windows. There’s a sign on the wall: No Lifeguard on Duty. Further along, there’s a line of potted plants and leafy green hedges that pass for a natural privacy screen, a few spindly trees chosen for their wind resistance and, in the way of furniture, deck chairs—mostly empty—lined up along the edge of the pool.

There’s little shade to be found around the pool. The afternoon sun makes you screw up your face and squint your eyes and turns sensitive skin a delicate shade of pink on the tips of noses, foreheads, bare shoulders and tiny toes. The city below is invisible from the rooftop terrace of the Valencia Palace Hotel, giving the impression that the terrace itself is propped up in the sky, suspended high above Valencia.

If they’d been on a romantic getaway, they would have probably booked less extravagant accommodations, like a B&B or a quaint hotel in the Old Town. The furniture would have been dark wood, worn to a sheen and scuffed in places, and the bedsprings might have squeaked. The windows would have opened onto the street and the curtains been faded in the folds. The smells and sounds of the city would have permeated the room. Valencia would have seemed less cold.

GETTING AROUND VALENCIA

They end up isolated from the touristy part of Valencia, in the mostly forgotten and out-of-the-way neighbourhood of Beniferri, between the Old Town and the business district, north of Campanar, which they visit by subway, bus and tram. They consult their colourful tourist maps, but there are absolutely no points of interest to speak of; they stare indifferently out the windows at the succession of nondescript streets rolling by.

Early in the evening, after a dip in the pool, they head out to explore Ciutat Vella, promising the kids that if they don’t act up or argue on the bus, they’ll take them to the Horchatería Santa Catalina to dunk fartons in horchata. They cram onto the N3 bus, breathing in the rank smell of the other passengers’ sweat after a day of work, their citrusy perfumes lingering at the napes of their necks and in their hair, and the fresh scent of toddlers squirming in the aisle and on the moulded plastic seats.

DAY 2 ITINERARY:

THE MAIN ATTRACTIONS

The next day, Claire, Jean and the children slip on sundresses and breezy shorts. Feet shod in strappy sandals, they set out on their itinerary for day 2: the City of Arts and Sciences in the morning for an exhausting visit to the