Part 1: The Frenchman
Off to a stumbling start here in Valencia. It’s my first day in Spain. I arrived at my new temporary rental last night around 6 pm, fresh from a couple of months in Portugal. I spent the first hour with a Frenchman. He spoke little English or Spanish. He gave me the most thorough Airbnb intro ever. Included were clever numeric sequences and tests to see if I got it. He even gave me tips and explained where the building was within the neighborhood and the city. He assured me Valencia was safe for a woman. Unlike France, he said.
A management company owns the unit. He is the welcome man and technician. Still, with his charm and aged Frenchness, I imagine he is more than an apartment technician. He gave me a detailed and what I imagine to be a French dad welcome to Valencia, explaining the room and apartment I’ll share. It’s one of 5 rooms on the 2nd floor of a complex in the northwest outskirts of Valencia. And, without the translator app, he understood when he showed me the iron; I laughed and said never. I am sure he chose to show me the ironing board later to have the humorous exchange all over again.
I questioned my decision on this location last night and today. But I have to track my budget these days. I need to work on Orange Cake Makeover and think about what making a living looks like for me now. Tourism I can’t afford can’t distract me. I do plan to get a Metro pass, though; I chose a location near a metro and a tram that would take me to the city and the beach. I have two grocery stores a 5-minute walk away, and I am hoping one of the parks I spotted on Google Maps is a real park. Yet, I intend for one of my first stops to be Turia so I can experience the real city park. It runs right through the city and is one of the reasons I chose Valencia for my first visit to Spain.
I know it’s time for me to come out of hermit mode and start to meet new people. I felt like this city might have folks I can relate to. In my current neighborhood, that may not be the case; we’ll see. I tend to consider both housing amenities and location when I select a short-term rental. I got a lot for my budget by staying outside the center of the city or a trendy neighborhood. There are many elderly folks and young people so far.
Part 2: Orange This Orange That
One of my first engagements was with an elderly woman in the grocery store. She gave me a friendly talking-to about the oranges I was looking at. They had a cute little wrapper with an image of a woman on them. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, but I got the gist of it. I can read some Spanish food words courtesy of my high school and community college Spanish. Then there were a couple of months in Mexico the summer of ’22. But I am a terrible language listener and hope to enroll in a course sometime soon. For now, I read into body language and tones and try to understand. I’m sure she’s trying to save me money. She’s telling me there are cheaper oranges below and a bag of oranges. They cost less than these top-shelf oranges with the cute artsy tissue paper wrap.
Embarrassed to admit I don’t speak Spanish, I smile and softly try to speak to her. But she leans close and then points at her ears and continues. She’s sweetly aggressive when she talks. I shake my head and say yes. Meanwhile, I keep looking at the oranges, holding a fancy one in my hand.
I am ridiculously dressed in orange from head to toe, by the way. I dressed for my mood, and not for the grocery store or demographic I am likely to encounter. I have washed my dyed hair enough times now that it is more orange than coppery red. I am wearing a French-themed orange t-shirt from the Da Nang H&M, and a custom-designed orange skirt made in Hoi An. To top it off, I have on my blue and orange scarf that I bought at the Porto Belo Market to match my Theo’s glasses and my hair. And my Thai-made bright orange foldable bag. I knew there would be elderly local women at the grocery store on a Monday afternoon, and I did it anyway. Neurodelightfully dopamine dressed.
After she walks away, I hear her telling the store staff, who are stocking the fruit, all about it. She’s both laughing and aghast.
I stare at the oranges. Then, I slowly realize that the oranges she referred to have a sticker that says “Valencia.” I had read the fruit signs that listed both options as being from Spain, but I had not read the fruit stickers. Ahh. I see. Not only are they cheaper oranges, but they are local oranges. These were seasonal Valencian oranges, and she wanted me to know that. Perhaps there was more to it, but this is what I had been able to deduce.
I thought I’d do a taste test. I grabbed one of each and headed to the fruit scale. This is a process I have not experienced much in U.S. supermarkets. We do not have to weigh all our own fruits and place price stickers on them before we get to the counter. The cashier usually weighs them for us at the register. I missed out on many fruits and veggies while grocery shopping after I started traveling. I always forgot. So, I had to run back through the store to weigh and sticker them. Or, I had to forfeit them because it was too crowded or I was too tired. I weighed the oranges; the fancy one was .75 and the Valencia orange was .48. I decided to take a photo of the cute wrapper and put it back and swap it for another Valencia orange. I glanced around to see if the woman was still around so I could tell her I figured it out, but she was gone.
I took my time wandering through the store and buying more than I planned or wanted to carry. I ended up at the checkout with a cashier who didn’t speak English. I knew the first thing she asked for was my grocery card, i.e., market research card. So I casually asked if I could sign up. She denied me the option to register because she said something like, “I don’t know what you are saying.” I sign up for these cards when I stay a month or more in one place. It lets me be a real local and collect random points I’ll never use. Unlike in the US, not having these market cards usually doesn’t stop you from getting the listed sales. So when the cashiers often refuse to sign me up, it’s actually kind of funny that they say no and that I even asked. I’m surprised by the total; it was very affordable even though I had grabbed more than intended, and I am relieved.
As I walk back, I notice the temperature is warm and lovely, but it is very windy. Then the wind blew a gust so hard I found my bright orange Vietnamese skirt flipped up almost over my head! How was it so easily flipped and yet so stiff it didn’t go back down? I was mortified. I flashed back to high school. I had tucked my skirt into my tights and walked down an entire hallway full of students. At this moment, only the window-watchers were witnesses. I pulled my linen skirt down and had to hold it while carrying my two heavy bags. I was glad I went on this cold run to the market before I headed into the city with some other billowy bottoms.
Part 3: The Roommates
Now I’m back in the apartment, in my room. It’s the nicest room in the apartment with a private bathroom, fridge, and balcony. I had to ease into the idea of sharing space to open up my location opportunities. My balcony is on a side street. It doesn’t get direct sun, except for some light bounced off a window in an apartment across the street. But there’s natural light, and I can see the sky. I am so grateful that I chose to splurge on this room that has privacy and not split a traditional apartment. I had considered another lovely, well-decorated option in the city. It cost a few hundred more. The room was small and without a desk, and I would have to spend a lot of time in the shared space. In this apartment, the only shared space is the kitchen. And two bathrooms the other roommates share. I needed private space to work and edit videos. This room has a good desk set up for that both indoors and outdoors.
I am sitting outside as I type this in the skirt-snatching Valencian wind. I am watching the neighborhood below me, a couple of floors down. In one direction, I can see other buildings and palm trees and a neighborhood corner. The other direction shows me more of the sky. It’s a long side road. It has brick and cement homes and apartments, none over six floors high. There are cars parked on both sides along the entire narrow street. That’s the direction the Frenchman told me I should take if I want to get to the tram to go to the beach. I can hear the highway a bit in the distance and chatter between neighbors.
My roommates seem to stick to themselves. And I only hear them when they are in the kitchen. I met a couple of the guys last night; they were cheerful and nice. One of them helped translate for the Frenchman. He told me he usually takes care of taking out the garbage but that I could if I wanted. He said they only separate plastic and garbage. But, he also separates paper and keeps it in his room. The Frenchman said Spain only started to separate garbage a couple of years ago. I smiled at them for all the details and told them I see and thank them.
This afternoon I got a bit of a colder welcome from the two girls. One of them is part of a Croatian couple. Her partner was nice enough last night as he passed through my orientation. But no one has bothered to introduce themselves. Except for the recycler whose name and country I can’t remember. It’s much more a room rental than a shared house. There’s a salt-and-pepper tenant from Spain who lives here year-round. Sometimes, when he leaves his door open to go to the bathroom, I can hear he’s watching a fútbol game. The other two travelers, I am not sure where they are from. But one is the other girl who struggled to share a hello or make eye contact at first. When I came back from grocery shopping, I crossed paths with her once more, and she was smiley now. She’s just young, I thought, putting on her black eyeliner in the bathroom.
I tell myself not to be the old, nice, people-pleasing me. I would have introduced myself to everyone by name. Tried to make everyone feel comfortable. Instead, I return the energy I am met with and project anonymous nomad, adorable style and keep it moving.
Part 4: W.A.Gs and Reflections
I felt down this morning. I had planned to go into the city or to the park. It was 75 F, the warmest day forecasted for my 4 weeks here. It would be a welcome relief from Porto’s mild, but still, winter dreariness. But I felt exhausted from traveling and had stayed up too late.
I decided to deactivate my TikTok upon taking off for Spain. This interrupted my usual pre-bed activity. And left an empty space in my already too-late evening. Instead of going to sleep and catching up on rest, I Netflixed and organized my beauty products.
My four drawers felt very spacious and luxurious compared to my recent rentals. But it was a very modest bathroom to accompany back-to-back episodes of W.A.Gs to Riches. I ask myself if I should, after 43 years, give up my quest for creative independence and become a Boomer’s chubby sugar baby. Or maybe I can find a queer baller in a Spanish sports league. Then I realize a woman league baller’s chances of making W.A.Gs to Riches money are slim to none. Oh well. So much for get-rich-quick reality TV wife affluence.
I canceled my TikTok and all my old socials for many reasons. One of which is so I can focus on producing more content than I consume. The other is to focus on looking forward, not back. By back, I mean my old life and the state of the United States right now.
I knew it was time to leave a couple of years ago when I first scouted Mexico. I’m very intuitive and I know we have not seen the worst of the current societal post-pandemic change. I feel sorry for those who have not gotten their passports yet. I know everyone doesn’t have the luxury, privilege, or capacity to leave. In my villain era, I chose to choose myself. After decades in social justice and nonprofit work, I needed to ask myself what I wanted for my life. I decided I want to thrive and not only survive. And for now, that’s internationally.
I will focus instead on YouTube, where I am introducing my content, and here on my blog, where I can own my content!
The wind stopped. And the palm trees have gone from an intense shaking to now still. I am glad I stopped to reflect on this moment and transition and write this. Since drafting this essay, I went back for the fancy Spanish orange and grabbed a mandarin, too. Now I have to find out where I can see these orange trees bloom.
