Granada / 1

21/08/18 to 23/08/18

Granada was where I was to stay the longest, a decision met with some surprise by those who rationalised that bigger, more prominent cities such as Barcelona or Madrid should instead merit such an honour. Yet, it was the city I found myself most curious about, swayed by tales of how travellers fell deeply in love with the city, and perhaps most of all by those who labelled Makuto Backpackers Hostel the best they’d ever stayed in.

I thus booked myself in for four nights – a sort of ‘rest stop’ at the approximate mid-point of my trip, if you will. I’d begun to feel the strain of packing my life into a backpack every few days, and the unwavering heat of Spanish summer was also beginning to wear me down.

A shot of Granada’s ‘El Albaicín’ district, hurriedly snapped during a walking tour.

I took a bus from Córdoba to Granada, as the terrain of the latter was too rocky and uneven to permit the construction of a trainline. After then catching a metropolitan bus from the bus terminal into the city centre, I found myself in direct line of the beating sun, planted in a main street that looked much more like a ‘city’ in the sense that I was familiar with, as compared to my prior destinations of Córdoba and Valencia.

Being not only unperturbed by but quite pleased at the prospect of long walks, I decided it would be no issue for me to walk the remainder of the way to my hostel, despite there being an additional bus I could catch to shorten this distance. I’d failed to predict, however, how ridiculously hilly the city would be – it comprised footpaths veering up and down, upon which I struggled to maintain my balance in my Birkenstocks while burdened by my backpack. Yet the city centre felt as flat as London in comparison to El Albaicín, the old Moorish quarter of the city within which Makuto Backpackers Hostel was nestled.

I didn’t know it then, but this was merely a stepping stone for the topography I was to later face in Lisbon and Porto.

Once I made it to the hostel, red-faced and sporting a light sheen of perspiration, I was greeted by three girls dancing out in the courtyard who turned out to be hostel staff. I immediately understood what reviewers had meant when they’d described Makuto as ‘laid-back’ – it projected a decidedly hippy vibe, and maintained a strong smell of weed that permeated the common areas. In line with this, the staff were lovely, relaxed, and all ridiculously multilingual. I was to later learn that only few of them were Spanish natives (or native Spanish speakers, for that matter) – there was a German girl from Berlin who’d studied sign language in London and bore strong resemblance to a fairy, a Brazilian studying in France who was working here for the holidays, and a cute English boy from Southampton who pledged to never return to his home country, and who reminded me of an English boy I briefly dated in their shared love for Hawaiian shirts.

While checking in, I met another girl doing the same. Her name was Tania, she was from Germany, and I was to later learn that she was a physiotherapist. Not only did she speak English perfectly, but she also spoke fluent Spanish, as she aptly demonstrated by conducting her entire check-in in its staccato rhythms.

Later that night we took a sunset tour offered for free by the hostel, which rotated tours daily.

Mirador de San Miguel – much smaller and thus much harder to find a quiet spot on than the bunkers in Barcelona (but still beautiful).

When we returned, there was still ample time before dinner – which is not to say that we returned early, as to have dinner before eight in Spain is nothing short of blasphemy. I settled myself at a table with some recent arrivals – a guy named Mitch from somewhere north of Perth, who was living in Tooting and working as a carpenter. He was accompanied by a German girl who later enthused about the flamenco show she’d just returned from, and with whom I had an engaging discussion about refugees at one in the morning. Then there was Max The Art Guy (he put himself as this in my phone), who always seemed to be wearing the same thing, and who appeared to have effectively taken up residence at the hostel. He did the chalk illustrations for the noticeboard, and had historically been more of a chef than an artist.  

The next morning I made my way to the Alhambra, which is apparently the most visited tourist attraction in Spain. I’m recounting this entirely from memory, although I can’t exactly recall where I read this – I’d never actually heard of it prior to researching Granada, and even then, I’d only heard it mentioned in person by fellow travellers at Makuto.

I must acknowledge how lovely Alhambra was despite the kerfuffle that I now associate with it – a stunning example of Moorish architecture, reflecting the Arabic influences on the region that so clearly distinguished it from anywhere up north. Yet strongest in my memory is the frustration I felt in realising I’d failed to properly read the instructions on my ticket, which had issued me an entrance time. I’d taken heed of the warnings of internet forums of how strict these times were, but what I hadn’t noted was that the entrance time was listed for the Palacios Nazaríes (Nasrid Palaces), which was entirely on the other side of where I’d entered at the Puerta de la Justicia.

Views from the Alcazaba.

As I’d taken my time absorbing the views at the fortress, Alcazaba, I arrived at the palaces later than my selected time, and was curtly denied entry. I rather glumly wandered off to the expansive Generalife Gardens and Palace, my mind in a whir as to what I should do now that I’d missed out on seeing the main draw to the Alhambra itself. After spending the best part of an hour feeling wronged by the layout of the complex, I conceded that what had happened was entirely my fault, and that I would just have to cop buying another ticket. I was lucky enough to be able to get one for the next day, as the Alhambra is so often booked out in advance – for those of you looking to go, please be sure to not make the same mistake I did. The Alhambra really is quite confusing, so do look up a map of it online, and plan to be at the palaces at least half an hour before your entrance time.

The Generalife Gardens – admittedly not the worst place to mope around in.

When I got back to Makuto I was feeling rather down, and supposed that being social was better than slumping around by myself. I settled myself at a table in the courtyard, where I met Kathyrn and Keira. Kathryn was from Surrey, and had the kind of accent that was so unmistakeably English that it seeped into every language she spoke. She’d been working on a horse farm nearby, and was spending her last few days in Granada relaxing before returning home, and then later back to Edinburgh, where she was studying. Keira was from Sydney, and had been travelling for and indeterminate amount of time (by that I mean I can’t remember, but it must’ve been more than a year). I was convinced she had something going on with the cute staff member from Southampton, a suspicion bolstered the next night when they regaled us with the tale of how they were ambushed by police after climbing up to an apparently protected structure in the hills nearby.

I also met a woman from the north of Spain through Tania, who attempted to speak to me in rapid Spanish. I wish I could say that this went better than it did, but in reality it was a lot of her speaking, and me giving uncertain and often single-worded answers. I’m convinced that my comprehension of spoken Spanish was improved through her alone, and that my expectations about my ability to hold a conversation with a Spanish native dropped considerably.

Having so enjoyed the sunset tour the previous day, I signed up for the mirador (viewpoint) tour and attached paella night. Just prior to leaving, I bumped into two brothers from Toronto in the courtyard, who were ridiculously friendly (as apparently all Canadians are), and who reeled when I told them I’d planned my whole itinerary well in advance (‘you need to be a little spontaneous!’). I should note that the social atmosphere of the hostel was helped by you having to walk through the courtyard – the main common area – to get to your dorm, or the bathrooms. This meant that you were effectively forced into contact with others, and towards the end of my time in Granada, I seldom walked through it without bumping into someone I’d met before. That familiarity – however small – made me feel much more grounded than I had in previous hostels, and contributed to how at ease I felt throughout my time there.

The ‘miradores’ (at times not officially so) were beautiful in and of themselves.

I spent the bulk of the tour engaged in conversation with a half-Filipino Dutch boy, who was studying something related to peace (?), and who insisted on cooking every meal he ate while travelling. He voiced his displeasure to me that his hostel (Eco Hostel) didn’t actually have a kitchen, which would obviously make cooking quite difficult. I also met an Austrian guy around the same age as me, who was studying too, although I can’t recall what.

Besides my company, the mirador tour itself was nothing short of incredible. I’m convinced that it was both the number and quality of miradores scattered throughout el Albaicín that nurtured my love for viewpoints, turning the seedlings planted by los Bunkers de Barcelona into a fully-grown obsession.

Overlooking the Alhambra, with its turrets outlined by the sky.

There’s nothing quite like heights – something about expanses of land lain out before you, whether that be the rolling hills of the countryside as they stretch to sea, or the paint-stripped walls of houses in varying states of disrepair. Granada gave me tiled terracotta rooves, buildings that dutifully outlined the slopes of its terrain, and subtle signs of life – a shirt hanging out a window, washing lines flapping in the wind, a neat collection of plants lining a windowsill. Like many others, I find such panoramic views set against the backdrop of a sunset incomparable, yet there is also value in settling yourself in at a mirador at varying times of day. As day turns to dusk, and as dusk turns to night, the character of the city changes, and the bustle that accompanies Spanish nights makes its way to the surface.

Another Andalusian sunset.

At paella night, I found myself on a table with a girl from Brisbane (or somewhere near it), who was taking some time off her work in the medical field. She was leaving the next morning for a tour around Eastern Europe, for which she’d been rendered less anxious about by the ‘chill’ impression she’d gotten of her tourmates through the group chat the company had set up. I later found myself chatting to Mason, a guy from New Orleans who I remember by the Class of 2011 Columbia shirt he was wearing when we met.

¡Delicioso!

When we returned to the hostel, we found ourselves amongst familiar faces in the courtyard. It was abuzz with conversation, and I found myself bouncing back and forth between the languages being spoken in an attempt to keep up with them all. As the night drew on, people began to make their way back to their own hostels and rooms, and the courtyard soon lay quiet.

The remainder of my time in Granada will be continued in a subsequent post.

Until next time,

x

A slight interruption

It’s become increasingly clear that I have difficulty sticking to any self-proclaimed ‘hobby’ should I not have some academic motivation to do so; I struggle to practice instruments without an exam to work towards, my language learning falters without some sort of looming assessment, and I rarely draw or paint unless I’m taking a class that requires me to do so. To that end, my inability to maintain any form of regularity in posting on this blog doesn’t and shouldn’t surprise me.

I’m not sure how to feel about this revelation, as it seems quite stark now that I’ve put it into words and it stares at me from the undying light of my computer screen. I’ve never thought of myself as someone who does the bare minimum, given that when I do have that academic incentive, I go above and beyond in whatever it is I’m doing. I also can’t figure out whether I’m being overly harsh on myself, as I’m supposed to be relaxing in my final stretch of holidays prior to starting medical school.

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I wish I was more ‘active’ during my free time. I love art and I love languages, but so much of what I do to entertain these loves is passive. My love for the former manifests itself in perusing art galleries and rifling through prints in market stalls; for the latter it’s the occasional YouTube video or blog post, and a weekly slew of voice messages between myself and my language exchange partner. Before, I was satisfied with how these neatly slotted in and around my university schedule, but they’ve taken on an air of complacency now that my days are largely filled with nothingness.

A recent artefact from art gallery perusals: a snapshot of Marion Abraham’s exhibition ‘Come Here, I Want To Give You A Piece Of My Mind’ at Brunswick Street Gallery.

A lot has changed in the past month or so, and I’ve thus been plunged into a sort of ‘life crisis’ (perhaps the fifth of this year). Within this span came confirmation of my postgraduate studies, my twenty-first birthday, the end of a relationship (and subsequent cancellation of a holiday I’d been holding out for), the end of my undergraduate degree, and my moving out of home. I’ve been trying to cut myself some slack as I know this is a lot to take in, but I’m plagued by the knowledge that there’s always something more I could be doing. It’s difficult to reconcile myself with the fact that I don’t need to feel guilty for taking time off, and that ‘time off’ doesn’t require a set form, nor a set goal.

That said, I don’t think that my concerns about complacency are completely unfounded. There’s a pervading sense of uselessness that creeps up on me during the holiday period, and pushing myself to be more active in pursuing my hobbies could only alleviate this, while also lending some semblance of structure to my days. As such, I want to set myself some ‘to do’ items to complete over the following weeks, which are as follows:

• Pull out my sketchbook and do some rough sketching outdoors
• Sort through my paints, and buy some canvas paper from the dollar store
• Attend a physical language meet-up
• Post about my time in Granada (which I wrote up in March, but have yet to format with images)

There’s a little part of me that hates my having to force myself to be creative. I’ve come to recognise over the years that I’ve never thrived on motivation, but on discipline instead.

Until next time,

x

Córdoba / 2

20/08/18 to 21/08/18

Calle Diario de Córdoba

If you haven’t already, read the first instalment here.

The next day – my only full day in Córdoba – I made the short walk from the hostel to La Mezquita, which can be visited before ten in the morning for free. With all due respect, I found it quite underwhelming. It looks beautiful in the thousands of photos posted of it online, but in person the colours felt somewhat muted, the atmosphere dimmed by the sparse light within. It was also marred by the sounds of the vacuum ‘truck’, which weaved between the growing crowds of tourists – although I suspect this is only an issue for morning visitors, such as myself.   

I decided to take advantage of the relative coolness of the hour, making my way to el Puente Romano, and later in search of some patios – private courtyards hidden behind the gates of homes that house miniature oases of plants. In May, a ‘patio festival’ takes place (La Fiesta de los Patios); a celebration of flowers that is likely as heart-warming as it sounds. For those of you perked up by any mention of nature, Calleja de los Flores is a particularly lovely street that can be found in La Judería.

A patio off Calle de San Basilio.

After returning to the hostel and chatting to my new Korean roommate, who shared my grievances about the fast growing heat, I headed back out to continue my exploration of the winding streets of La Judería.

Relatively deserted in the full strength of the sun.

It quickly became too hot for me to comfortably walk (or breathe), so I headed to Mercado Victoria for some reprieve from the heat. The cool blast of the air conditioning within seemed a particular draw for tourists like myself, who ambled lazily around the stalls of produce and cooked meals. Perhaps it was this sudden decrease in movement, or the chill of the air conditioners working overtime, but I felt compelled to gorge myself on some hot food.

An empanada (cheese, tomato, basil) from the ‘La Tranquera’ stall.

After spending much longer in an indoor food market than any lone person should, I deemed it sensible that I head back out again, and immediately regretted my decision. The sheer heat was worsened by the glare of the mid-afternoon sun, but I was adamant on seeing as much as of Córdoba as possible in the short time I had there. I admit that choosing to visit Córdoba in its scorching August heat was not one of my finest decisions, but I viewed it as a test – one of persistence, if you will. That said, I really would not advise that you visit in summer.

My next indoor stop was the department store El Corte Inglés – a considered choice, as all department stores have great air conditioning. I perused the supermarket on the bottom floor, which boasted a colourful selection of fruits and vegetables in an artfully arranged display. Not wanting to carry loose produce back out into the sun, I figured I’d purchase something chilled. I stumbled upon a fridge holding a selection of Spanish soups, conveniently packaged in bottles that encouraged (to me, at least) drinking straight from them. I went with salmorejo, as I’d been told it was a specialty of the region by the hostel staff member who’d greeted me upon my arrival.

It’s essentially pureed tomatoes, bread, oil, and garlic. I attempted to chug it, and immediately regretted it. I hadn’t realised there was quite an emphasis on the oil.

As afternoon blurred into evening, I continued my wandering, now on a loose trajectory back to the city centre. I should note that I inadvertently walked through many of the places I’d marked to visit, which I find to be almost always the case in smaller cities – as such, I maintain that having no agenda to my strolls doesn’t mean that I ‘miss out’ on seeing landmarks or places of interest, as is often the concern when I advise others to do the same. If anything, it contributes to sites, as you stumble upon them when you don’t expect it, without already having formed images in your head of how you imagine them to be.

Looking onto Plaza del Potro.

I spent some time in Plaza de las Tendillas waiting for La Libélula Coffee Shop to open for dinner, listening to the chattering of Spanish teens as they milled about the wooden benches. There’s no shortage of such plazas in any Spanish city, and they’re lovely for people-watching and slurping up a well-deserved ice cream (I can recommend the Kinder Bueno flavour at Heladería Escoda).

Plaza de Las Tendillas

My final night in Córdoba was marked by the lights dotted along the Roman Bridge, down which I’d been determinedly walking before arrested by the sounds of reggaeton. Situated close to the Triunfo side of the bridge was a three-piece band, formed of two Spanish guitars and a percussion all-rounder. I stayed for the good part of an hour, quietly pleased at how many of the songs I was able to recognise. A man close to me insisted on singing along (quite tunelessly), a small group of teenage girls egged on one of their friends to dance (she did eventually, and she was great – very flamenco-inspired), and people lingered as they dawdled past.

A (very high quality) frame from a video I took of the buskers.

Thus concluded my time in Córdoba, a city that has imprinted itself on my mind. La Judería is doubtlessly one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever been, and the remainder of the city – with its palm trees and sand-coloured walls – wonderfully encapsulates Andalusia, the autonomous region that borders Spain’s southern coast. The pictures I’d sent of it to my family WhatsApp group were met with delight, and I’ve found every excuse I can to put in more photos of the city in this post.

Another one – the streets of La Judería at dusk.

I expected little, but Córdoba was like nothing I’d seen before. I’d recommend it in a heartbeat, although I must stress that you really shouldn’t go in summer.

Until next time,

x

Córdoba / 1

19/08/18 to 20/08/18

If you Google Image ‘Córdoba’ (as I did with all my potential destinations, this apparently being the most effective way to narrow them down), you’ll be met with image after image of La Mezquita (the Mosque), and perhaps a few shots of el Puente Romano (Roman Bridge) at dusk. I’d heard that the latter had been used as a location in Game of Thrones, although I can say with certainty that this had no influence on my visiting the city, having never watched a full episode.

My own contribution to the many shots of el Puente Romano that litter the internet.

To this day, I find myself wondering why I chose Córdoba as one of the ten cities that defined my first solo backpacking trip. I acknowledge that this would imply that I didn’t particularly like it – quite the opposite, in fact, it was one of the most beautiful places I visited. Besides the two landmarks – neither of which had any enormous draw – Córdoba’s only other claim to fame appeared to be its climate, which verges on unbearable during the summer months. So as you can see, I remain rather confused about how and why it found its way into my itinerary.

Yet, I find that the cities for which you have the least expectations are often those with which you fall most deeply in love. As the six-hour train from Valencia sped further inland, I scrolled through the notes app on my phone, reviewing what I’d jotted down for Córdoba, and meticulously translating them into yellow stars on Google Maps. The list was notably shorter than those of other cities, and as such, the stars looked much more alone. Left at more of a loose end, I figured I’d be able to content myself with wandering through its streets, as I’d so often done in cities prior.

If you’d like, you can compare this to my starred map of London in an earlier post.

We pulled into Córdoba in the early evening, as I’d taken the slow six-hour train in the hopes that arriving later would allow me to escape the worst of the heat. I can’t fault myself for that assumption, as it really is illogical that a city would actually be hottest at seven in the evening.

I’ve written ‘please always choose the faster train option, no matter the cost’ in my physical journal. I’d wanted to miss the pain of heat, but actually got both the pain of heat and the pain of knowing that I could’ve halved my travel time.

As I marched towards my hostel as quickly as I could – carrying an increasingly heavy backpack with both buckles tightly fastened, basking in temperatures verging on forty degrees – I happened upon La Judería (the Jewish quarter), within which my hostel was nestled. I can’t recall whether there was an abrupt change in architecture and atmosphere, or whether one gently rolled into the other, but I do recall being floored by what I was now amidst. White walls towered on either side of me as my Birkenstocks slapped the cobbled streets, pots of delicately arranged greenery hanging off the odd balcony.

Upon arriving at my hostel (OptionBe, for those of you interested), I was gladly hit with the full force of the air conditioner. The hostel itself was sleek in its interior, matching the ‘hip’ descriptor given on Google. It was airy, and not very occupied – I suspect that the middle of summer is not Córdoba’s peak tourist season, and understandably so. I ran up to the rooftop to peek at the pool that had been so advertised on Hostelworld, and – contented with what I saw – made my way back down in anticipation of La Judería’s winding streets.

It was exactly how I’d imagined a rooftop pool in the Mediterranean to be.

Upon my return, I bumped into a Chinese woman standing at the door to the hostel, who asked me whether I spoke Mandarin. I never advertise that I do (because I don’t, really), but conceded that I could, ‘yī diǎn’ (a little). We chatted about bubble tea, and she advised me of some places to visit before she turned to head back inside, remarking that she’d see me later (I never saw her again).

As part of my efforts to be social following the solace of Valencia, I headed to OptionBe’s ‘sister hostel’ for their free sangria night. There, I encountered a twenty-five year old Italian with an oddly English accent; the result of having lived in Brighton for a few months. He also worked as a lawyer – from ‘nine to nine’, he’d told me (not looking particularly pleased about it), and ‘sometimes on weekends’. His slew of seven or so friends (who’d all known each other since childhood) were decidedly more laidback; one had learnt English from Bob Marley, and adopted a Jamaican lilt to his otherwise heavy Italian accent.

I also met a Brazilian girl named Lais, who’d been working at a hostel in Faro, and whose travel plans rather eerily coincided with mine. We spent the later evening discussing Netflix programs, and she bemoaned how the latest season of the series she’d been watching wasn’t available in Spain.

Then there was Megan, from Melbourne, who’d been on the road for fourteen months across continents I can no longer remember. I do recall she’d been to Mongolia (and loved it), and that she’d slept in parks in Madrid until unceremoniously woken by the water sprinkler and the gazes of wary tourists. We talked about how she’d never do the same in Australia, explained with her recommendation of the movie Wolf Creek to the now rattled Italians.

Our view on the walk back to our respective hostels after tapas, with La Mezquita on the left.

As I’d planned to wake up early to visit La Mezquita the following morning, I dutifully headed to bed before eleven, thus marking the conclusion of my first day in Cordoban heat.

The remainder of my time there will be continued in the next post.

Until next time,

x

Valencia

17/08/18 to 19/08/18

I never got quite used to seeing children out and about after 10pm, but alas, here they are.

When I think of Valencia, I think of Ariana Grande’s Sweetener, and of the people I recall being reminded of as it played on repeat. The more avid Ariana fans amongst you will recognise the date I arrived as the date of Sweetener’s release, a fact I was acutely aware of on the train journey there. I downloaded it to my phone as soon as I’d connected to hostel WiFi, and it formed the soundtrack to my adventures of the city.

I’ve spoken before about the nostalgic power of music, and its ability to transport you to specific places, moments, and people of your past. It’s for this reason that I create playlists whenever I travel, comprising songs played in shops, bars, and restaurants; ones I snatch slivers of walking down the street. Sweetener brings me back to Valencia, to a blur of sun and strolls and solitude. Perhaps my memories there have been rendered hazy by the strength of my Barcelonan ones, but I’m convinced they’re as such because I dampened my sense of urgency.

I’ve previously noted the efficacy of the solo traveller, and how this is helped by my walking pace, which apparently declares that I have somewhere to be (and I need to be there now). I’m uncertain whether this was a conscious choice, or whether I’d merely aligned myself with the sleepy rhythms of Spain, but I was no longer as determined as I’d once been to storm my way through city streets. This was coupled with a desire for rest and relaxation that I intended to satiate, after having consumed such copious volumes of sangria that I felt myself sweating wine – as such, Valencia was a haze, albeit a pleasant one.

I didn’t click with anyone in my hostel the same way I had in Barcelona, despite my efforts to be social in attending the free dinner the night I arrived. I recall chatting to boisterous Australians, a reserved Dutch girl seated beside me, and a Welsh guy living in London, who offered suggestions on places to visit in England during my exchange. I chatted with my Brazilian roommate, who was collecting keys to his new flat the next morning; spending time here in a bid improve his Spanish.

The night before I left, I found me and a thirty-three year old German named Felix the only occupants of our room. We got along well, and he’d already gotten the hang of the backpacking gig, despite it being his first time. This was evidenced by his question the following morning: ‘So, we never see each other again, right?’

A third consecutive street picture, because the streets of Valencia are really that beautiful.

I visited few landmarks in Valencia, but I don’t feel that my experience of the city suffered because of it. If anything, it was more enriched by my Google Maps-less strolls (again, unadvisable from a safety perspective), where I’d find myself in undeniable suburbia – roller doors sprayed with paint, local bakeries filled with regulars, and buildings fallen into disuse. Explorations of streets branching off the city centre showed me a Valencia that housed more street art than I’d ever imagined, and their contrast to the polished exteriors of adjacent homes made them even more remarkable.

As part of one of my strolls across the greenery that cuts through the city, I paid a visit to the Museu de Belles Arts de València. I was told I wasn’t allowed to carry my water bottle around the exhibits, and that was the strongest memory I have of it. It was filled with religious art, which didn’t appeal to me, and I wasn’t even allowed to sip water while viewing it. Nevertheless, it was a welcome reprieve from the heat.

I also walked to the Ciudad de las Artes y las Ciencias, a futuristic complex housing a science museum, open-air aquarium, and opera house, among others. I didn’t go to any of these, as they charged an entry fee I was unwilling to pay. Instead, I revelled in the sight of visitors using various contraptions to stay afloat on the vast expanses of water dotting the Ciudad, which itself resembled a Pokémon gym.

Obviously hungry after this endeavour, I found a shopping centre nearby that provided the essentials: toilets, seating, and Taco Bell. I’m aware that choosing to eat Taco Bell outside its country of origin is rather blasphemous, but I do really enjoy it. I’d also been handed Taco Bell vouchers on my first day in the city, so it felt wrong to let them go to waste. You’ll be pleased to know I’ve kept some of these as loving souvenirs.

I only ate at Taco Bell once during my trip, as essentially every other meal (apart from the vegetarian paella and watermelon smoothie I devoured from the Mercat Central) was taken from Almalibre Açaí Bar. Prior to this, I’d never actually had an açaí bowl before, discouraged primarily by their price. My sister convinced me, however, that they had ‘healing properties on holiday’, and I was in desperate need of food with nutritional value (recall my previous diet of fried potatoes and sangria). Thus began my açaí bowl addiction, and my newfound tradition of seeking out an ‘açaí place’ in every city to come.

I can confirm that açaí bowls do, indeed, have healing properties.

I was advised by Reddit and hostel staff (perhaps the two most trustworthy sources of travel advice) that I had to try horchata while here, so off to Horchateria Daniel I went.

These may have healing properties too.

I was also advised that I could hire a bike and cycle to the beach. Given the disappointment of Barceloneta, I was keen to allow Spain to redeem itself. Obviously, I chose to walk there instead, which I would only recommend to people who Really Enjoy Walking like myself. It was much further than I’d anticipated, although in looking at the obvious distance of the beach from the Ciutat Vella on Google Maps, I’m not exactly sure what I’d expected.

The beach itself was lovely – soft sand, calm waters, and house music thumping from an adjacent bar.

The only advice I didn’t take was to climb El Miguelete, the bell tower of Valencia Cathedral, which lay a cool five minute walk from my hostel. According to my photos, I did visit the cathedral itself, so I can only assume they made you pay to climb the adjoining tower.

In reviewing the pictures I’d taking during my time in Valencia, I must admit that I’d forgotten how pretty the city was. Riddled with quiet days and quiet nights, it felt slow, and I yearned for the excitement I’d found in Barcelona. It’s a lovely place to explore at leisure, although perhaps with someone else, as there came a point where I didn’t feel quite so content on my own. I’d reached a point in my trip – a week in – where I’d come to recognise what I wanted to gain from my travels. Beyond directionless walks and nutritious food, I needed people.

Until next time,

x