Dreaming

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An old woman approached my friends and me in la Plaza de la Virgen the other day. She asked if we were from Valencia. No, we aren’t. A thirty minute flood of love and pride poured out of her tiny wrinkled lips; she explained in great detail all the places we should go, cushioning her words with reverent sighs and disclaimers: although she adores her city, we might not, and to each their own.

In the States, any discussion of life is incomplete without mentioning the struggle — “it’s real”. Be the most popular fourth grader; get straight As and never waste your time playing in the sun, it’s dangerous; don’t forget, youth is temporary and once you’ve lived long enough your life is not worth living.

In Valencia, cheap wine is the same price as a bottle of water. It could be part of an unspoken consensus that enjoying life is more important than fighting for superiority. I am, however, looking at Valencia from the outside perspective of a tourist; those lucky enough to reside here are surely experiencing their own turmoil. I hope that I will become truly immersed, that I’ll understand the culture enough to know their definition of hardship. It all still feels like a glowing, incredible dream for now.

I’m surprised at how much time I spend on my balcony wondering if I’m really in Spain. On the cobblestone below there is a man in yellow suspenders and a navy shirt and bowler hat. He sells balloon animals from his cart for a couple of euro. Bells ring at the cathedral in la Plaza and somewhere nearby a trumpet wails. The only reason this might be real is because I feel the wind rush down the alley and the air is lighter in my lungs.

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