We spent two more days in Valencia after mom leaves, and it is very much back to the old routine. Just two cousins, bummin around, seeing the city. No more grandparents, no more parents. Independence has NOT lost its charm, but it has certainly lost its novelty. Taking care of ourselves now, finding our way around, getting to know the places we see, these are all second nature now.

The first day is a take care of business day. Reading and writing and doing laundry (see!!! We are independent!!) at a fancy laundromat in a strange part of town. And then, when we start to get hungry, we turn a long-standing runnin joke into a serious proposition. Should we, the question is, go to McDonalds. Now before you balk, reader, either reading now or in a future era where people consume only wheatgrass juice and okra, consider this. We are very hungry, traveling on a tight budget, we have been eating to well for our own health, and Goddammit we are American and we will eat American food. And if we were at all dubious about these various assertions, all doubt vanishes when we approach the building. Burgers may be an American invention, but this place is totally different. We walk into a tastfully appointed building with an attractve exterior and welcoming interior, devoid of plastic or chemicals save for the big yellow M. But even more shocking than the European decor is the people. We order our repulsive big macs and look around us, and we see the most incredibly attractive, thin, athletic crowd in all of Valencia. Apparently McDonald's is The place to be if you are young and hip and attractive in Valencia. We see only one or two slightly overweight people. The rest, are beautiful. This is not a joke. Go and see for yourself. However, the uniqueness of the crowd could not entirely undo the revolting nature of the food, and we were forced to return to our hostel and fall into a hamburger-hangover-coma. We wake some time later, devour our last dozen covetted Villalonga oranges, and feel slightly recovered. But it is not easy.

That evening we venture out into Carmen, the main nightlife district of Valencia. It is indeed a happenin place, and we find cool bars ranging from an American drinks bar playing Neil Young and paying homage to great old black and white movies with massive pictures on every wall, to an uninspriring Pirate bar, and an awesomely atmospheric dark Jazz bar. We witness the various nocturnal activities of the Valencians, and return to the hostel as the massive cathedral bells are announcing a very late hour.

The next morning we set out to see Valencia's pride and joy. We went down into the sunken park that surrounds the city and walk past it's dozens of soccer field, ranging from beautifully maintained grass to world-class turf and dirt fields that threw up clouds of dust at every kick. The fields were populated by kids in everything from ragged t-shirts to expensive uniforms, but they all played with style and grace and ferocity that reminded us why Spain is the current world champion of soccer. We wandered on through the endless orange grove, walking slowly down the winding, shady street as the city buzzed above and around us. The park was full of people bicycling and jogging and families on tandem bicycles and people picnicking. And even few feet was another strange wonder. Next we came to a playground, but one unlike any we had seen before. A vast mountain of colored concrete rose before us, a mountain of slides and stairs and ladders and ropes and ascents and descents. Hundreds of kids scurried over it, and as we walked around we began to notice a pattern, a specific shape and form that this thing took. It was we realized a man, a vast concrete model of a man lying on his back, with sword and hat thrown aside, tied to the ground with little ropes while little people scurried over him. It was, of course, Gulliver Travels. This was easily the most wonderful playground we had ever seen, and thousands of children ran and jumped around it joyfully while the parents waited patiently around. With the massive mountain of a playground, it was easy to imagine a child disappearing for hours at a time. Very different from the hypersensitive attitude of an American playground, where the mom's generally insist on near constant hand holding. We moved on through the park, and came out of the trees into the brilliant sunshine in front of a fountain, a wide fountain with dozens of spraying and swaying and firing spouts moving elegantly in time with a Mozart Piano Concerto that blazed merrily out of nearby speakers. We were in front of the Music Center, a vast sort of new-Grecian type building that was surrounded by swarms of merrily eating, biking, rollerblading, and soccer-playing Valencians. We listened and watched a few pieces (including the ultra-ominous Carmina Burana) We continued on and then came out into a geometric rose garden at the foot of the vast and awe-inspiring City of Arts and Sciences, at the heart of Valencia.

The buildings (not one or two, but 6 of them) rose up in the park like vast white futuristic alien spaceships. They are almost impossible to describe, but they looked like one might imagine future civilization. Huge white shapes imitating ocean waves or a whale, or a ship, or a jungle, or a harp, vast amounts of glass and tile, and surroundings of turquise pools and cyprus trees and cactus gardens. The buildings were utterly staggering and strangely beautiful, they looked not only like one might imagine future cities, but one might hope future cities to look like. We wandered among the buildings, which house various expensive planetariums and oceanography museums, in awe of their scale and scope. There was a vast moving, roaring dinosaur in one pool, and a jungle of exotic plants. We also wandered through a beautiful photography exhibit that showed images of the buildings and various events housed their, ranging from rock concerts and Ferrari exhibitions to Star Wars reenactments and a Tennis Open. Each stunning photograph was accompanied by a quote from a Spanish writer or poet or singer, and it made a brilliant display. The whole thing was staggering.We wandered back, exhausted, through the cactus gardens and roses, the orange groves, past the fountains and playground and soccer fields, and back into the center of town, where we collapsed momentarily into our beds.

And rose again, to view another, even more moving spectacle: Flamenco. Although the dance is Andalusian in origin, it is widely available in Valencia, so we found a little bar called La Claca, ordered a deliciously icy glass of sangria, and settled ourselves in a dark corner to watch the performance. The musicians started first, three dark men settled in the shadows one of whom played guitar beautifully, with characteristic speed and artistry, one of whom clapped rhythmically, supplying iconically Spanish percussion, and a singer who belted out long mournful, hoarse notes with heart-wrenching emotion. A woman, dressed in a long black dress with a white blouse and jet-black hair, stepped onto a platform in front of the musicians and, after waiting a few beats, proceeded to move. Her arms formed graceful arcs and arches while the folds of cloth swirled around her legs. She moved slowly at first, then faster, arms flowing dramatically with delicately twisting hands and rhythmically clicking heels. The dance was beautiful, and the fusion with the music even more so. Then she quit the stage and another dancer stepped on. But this one wore not beautiful garb, only a hoodie and loosely hanging pants. Long black hair and a delicate dark face led us at first to believe we were watching another girl dance, but then, through the grace and elegance of th movement began to emerge a sort of wild animal ferocity. He moved at such speed, and with such un-feminine contortion and clapping, that we realized we were watching a boy, who leapt and swung his arms in wild and breathtaking motions, with heel slamming down at insane speed. We were nearly as breathless as he when he left the stage. Now the girl returned, this time in a gown of red and white, and proceeded to spin and bow and rise with renewed passion and agitated drama, never for an instant loosing her cool grace. The heat of dance, of competition, of motion, of passion, and of Spain, filled the room. And then the boy returned, in all black, with a white silk scarf, and stared up into the lights as he moved faster and faster, dancing wildly around the stage in a feverish, gut-wrenching display of utterly masculine beauty. Soon the scarf was whirling around him, the shirt billowing out and his motions evermore dramatic as the girl joined him, and the two of them tore across the stage and the guitar strummed on and the rhythm pounded in every mind in the room and the voice belted out, high and mournful and cries of Ole! were torn from every mouth and they went faster and every moment more and more beautifully until at last with a final flourish and shout, they finished, standing erect, hands still poised, chests still proudly forward and neck gracefully curving up to an aggressive face. And in the split second of silence before more clapping and Ole's, there was, in the room, a perfect understanding of what art, sculpture, music, dance are, how the human body can realize such utterly simple and yet unatainably complex perfection, equally animal and poetic, and totally entrancing to dancers, musicians, and any lucky enough to see such passion.

We could barely fall asleep that night, nor could we speak more than a few words for hours after, so moved were we by what we had witnessed. When we at last slept, our dreams were full of wildly swinging limbs and rhythmic movement.

The next day we packed our tiny bags and headed to the Placa de la Reina for lunch. We found massive sandwiches and ate them sitting on a park bench looking up at the Cathedral, whose decadent curves and terracotta and lapis lazuli and gold were gloriously illuminated by the bright sun. We ate ice cream, massive cones of it, as we leaned back against the cool stone benches, in the shade of the orange trees, with pigeons hopping restlessly about, in utter peace and lazy siesta-induced contentment.

In the afternoon we wandered over to the botanical gardens and explored long avenues of palms and pines and every species of plant on the planet, bringing to mind forests as wide ranging as those of California, Costa Rica, and Thorpe-le-Soken. We explored a greenhouse packed with orchids, and another full of carnivorous plants. We sat for an hour on a sun drenched bench and soaked it all up, surrounded by dense greenery with the city and the traffic only barely audible.

And then we rose, shouldered back packs, and left Spain behind, becoming, once again, travelers.
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