Chapter 6:  Spain.  Valencia.  Landed.
 

An overnight blur of travel 35 000 feet above the Atlantic with no sleep and a six-hour time change awaiting me, us.  We landed in Paris and the rest You know.  An MD-80 flung us up and over the Pyrenees towards Spain, our first for real sounds of Spain Spanish: “¡Hola, señoras y caballeros!” said the pilot, “próxima parada Valencia.”  X was already sound asleep - left hand rubbing her eyebrow - as I looked around.  Next stop was Valencia, I was told by a sympathetic passenger of far more tongue - and it’d begun: the language, the confusion that I was supposed to have somewhat diminished through study beforehand.

At a certain point I definitely was not going.

But Spain.  Las Fallas.  Good friends and firsthand tour of this local festival.

But one morning I peered one-eye up from the couch and watched X stroll in from the bedroom wearing the white terrycloth robe that every boyfriend eventually buys his girlfriend.  I pulled the remote out of my crotch and rolled over for another attempt at sleep.  “You’ll regret not going; you will,” she said.  Huh what, I would phlegm.  This was a day-to-day thing with us by then.  And yet whether to resist this flavour, or, actually get on a plane and fly to Spain with my now very recent ex-girlfriend-slash-temporary roommate.  We were to meet up with two friends from Ottawa recently transported back to Spain: comfort with him the Eduardo, but she the Francesca had always struck me as wary, not quite into me. We would land and involve ourselves in this Las Fallas, a bacchanalia of disputed origins, but Spanish of festival still relatively unknown to foreigners.

From the sky we saw endless sandy beach and the eventual city of our aim; out my window, middle of city, a magnificent giant of a created man came into my view - he or it lying flat in some unknown park of palms below.  I turned, opened my mouth and almost waved X over, and then moment gone and we slowly landed in this Valencia, square centre of the Spanish East Coast, south of Barcelona.  This was a province, as well as vast capital metropolis we now inhabited.  People smoked casual in the airport.  X fired up a stick, and while I waited for the luggage to spin around my eye caught Eduardo peeking his head through the gate at Customs - mouthing an animated ¡Hola!  The reflective of his glasses an instant recognition.  A more loveable man in the world there is not; and so it was, with good reason, that I’d very quietly appointed him my mental lifesaver before this crucible I wished to be a dream even began.

¡Uno, dos besos para everyone!  The one, two European flare to the cheeks, but of course no lip-to-lip.  No Honey no Hun, just his way with my name: Onray. 

And the afternoon sky clear; it was technically still winter and yet had to have been in the mid 20’s.  I was a smiling example of chosen reality as we walked to Duardo’s tiny Toyota car in the parking lot.  The terra cotta that was the airport roof.  Splendid.  The visual and the inviting, the warmth that be the seducer of every lonely, pre-spring Canadian about to begin a blur of a day of off the cuff sightseeing.  By its end, we were to actually stay in Torrent, a suburb of the capital.  Eduardo hit the gas and gave us the tiny tour of old and new Valencia while driving at very top speed through and down the right side of streets.  Wonderful, I thought to myself, in the backseat marvelling to him sputter a this and that in broken English, me oblivious to spotting or even asking of my giant man of palm park.  He mentioned Fallas at varying intervals and I began to realize a very specific need for a glossary, a written-down to replace the error of memory, a reference to replace a lack of sleep.  But yes, beautiful and rested, X was extremely happy and riding shotgun to this in and out of a language Duardo increasingly lost the more time away from our Canada, his former stay.  He was born in Spain, grew up the traditional and happened to meet a girl who’d been raised by parents with the occasional interest to swim the Atlantic, to return, to swim again.  Francesca and he met over everyday tapas, and so began their eventual marriage I had before me.

At this time I would like to remind that Santa Claus does not actually exist per se.  The Tooth Fairy is one’s mother, is one’s stepfather.  Sorry. And so a brief of highway; visual pit stops of olive trees within almost reach of the highway, the various of potato farms - the Biggest potatoes, according to Duardo.  An Off ramp exited at a high rate of speed; his and Francesca’s apartment condo in Torrent.  Magnificent.  Top floor with open-air view out to sea and distant roll of hills and low mountain ranges.  Terrazzo floors, polished and buffed to a sheen; a light clay colour of fleck.  Pride, that’s what it was.

And the sun so hot then, in the summer to come, that the absolute need to building code for necessary steel window shutters on crank of roll.

But we dare not let them close.  We new Two took our brief heat shelter in the living room and stayed bathed in bright, and Duardo, having lived in Canada, quietly understood.  We unloaded the luggage and set off to meet Francesca at her job of translating the languages that she knew, in an office back near the airport.  Duardo screeched the tires to a halt on some side street and we flung open the doors, mock ran over to Francesca fanning herself in a pair of blue jeans, long-sleeved blouse. Evidently, she’d seen our plane approaching overhead but when asked about her frantic flailing of breast and wave I had to admit to being busy staring at a silly giant man in some unknown park.  “Yes yes, that’s Gulliver.”  From there the inevitable hugs, and Duardo and me taking in the swaying embrace of our two girls sharing the tear that males keep dry. 

I began a stare up at the palm trees on the street we stood; ‘tis perhaps a Canadian thing but myself always fascinated by them, whether L.A. of palms planted and not a single one native to its tinselled town, or this that Spain and everywhere its fat ones skinny ones, all herbaceous and not of a true wood - but sorry.  But endemic every one of them.  And I sincerely despise the gawk of a tourist so I was a constant pretend of a different leer, as if a-checking out the girls, the new ones.  And Duardo smacked me, more of a heads up than disciplinary.  “We go on now, my friend.”  Yes, we moved on.

Nearby Frances’ work there be the small mom-and-pop restaurant she siesta frequented, and, to undulating fling of Spanish hand, we proceeded on foot for drink and relax - Frances leading the way.  She’d been a bartender back in Ottawa and quite convivial at that; it’s where we, X and I, met her.  And regardless of what I have said, she is a wonderfully fun person to be around.  If ever to physically meet her one would not immediately pin her as Spanish, but I suppose that be a guess that this merely accounted for the variance of her upbringing: sometime Canada, sometime Spain.  I was jealous, really.  Until recent, I’d never even left the continent.  But she had all that, as well the flare of long black hair; she had the gift of a larger perspective. 

Of friends in many languages.  An older lady behind the counter, quite possibly Mom herself, tore herself from a magazine and strolled a talk towards Frances, a quick Spanish of exchange that reminded me of how tired I was; I’d been awake since way back in the New World.  The rest of us sat down on plain wooden chairs and shared the chit chat of an empty room filled with old photos of landscapes; sunlight and freshness and the smell of food, preparation of entice.

“Duardo, you’re so radiant.”  X wiggled butt in her seat.  “I just love, just Love seeing you back with your family.  I can see it in your face, in those big, brown eyes.  You’re happy.”  I cherished watching that stoic man squirm; it had a reaffirming feel to the senses, that X of mine bringing the child out of Duardo.

“This is fino, you two,” Frances one by one announcing, presenting then depositing small sherry glasses before each of us.  And the also: we were given home fries doused with a red pepper sauce, a seafood plate called sepia.  This was tapas; we ate with our fingers, licked the tips.  Tasty.  And yet still I was yawning, having to literally force my lips to poise and aid in the administration of any modicum of help amongst the new experience upon me; the rest of body decided to casually slump against my ex-girlfriend to my by the way immediate left as Duardo began a broken explain in my ear that ended with Frances telling us that fino was the dry, white version of typically red sherry produced in Jerez, south of our Then. 

This is what I remember, being bagged and all, nowhere near a tourist with video camera or tape recorder.  I again stared out at the exotic palms from my seat and tried to remember any of the useless bits of information that I was known for, bon mots to add to the conversation.  This is what I did while tasting their version of ketchup or mayo on fries, their also specific dish of deep-fried calamari.  Wonderful.  And me now thankful for the alcohol, that which I had chosen for comfort instead of dream while flying the friendly skies.  Duardo suggested a beer and I could find no real reason to disagree with his onward and upward.  A small draft, a quinto of local brew in a highball; everyone was smiling, mixing, double-fisting it, and with the growing buoyancy it slowly began to dawn on me that X probably most certainly hadn’t bothered to mention anything of our breakup to them.  There had been no uneasiness, no awkward stares from either of them.  I’d totally forgotten about all of the e-mails, the overseas phone calls: X had handled it all.  And for awhile I wasn’t even going to come.  Then I was.  And I never thought - until then: they did not know about us. 

I needled X and gave sly wince of a smile, shrug of the shoulders to our past conversations; she looked me in the cross eyes and shook her head.  I needled her again, stroked her thigh beneath the table.  She slapped.  I’d travelled thousands of miles and been awake some thirty-plus hours by the time I caressed and pawed and made the eyes of a lover for her, for the She that once knew what it was that was so alluring about Me.  Everything was beautiful.  Frances and Duardo ate it up; we were so loveable and fresh - and even if there had been any slight intimation of trouble in prior communiqués we were now there together, playing the games of lovers.  I swigged my fifth of Aquino lager and laughed so hard that drool ran my mouth.  I believe X rolled her eyes and took it.  I never looked but I believed, for nothing but mirth came from my shitty antics; I toed the line between smile and simper and led my Spanish hosts to believe that I was truly enjoying myself.  My eyes locked only to theirs, to an occasional desultory roam around this first sit in Spain.  All places but hers, that she who once was me and possibility of promise, of desire.

The others finished with the giggle and resumed the debriefing of home, of our mutual Knows.  A television, mounted on the wall, was now my short attention span.  I squinted and saw a gathered crowd, royalty waving from a balcony overlooking a grand plaza.  “¿Que pasa?”  That was me, my voice of limited Spanish.

It was the 14th of March, and what I was viewing was the now daily mascleta.  With the start of the month, every day brought forth the fireworks of sound.  Two p.m. sharp.  Frances walked over to the TV and cranked the volume, her big doe eyes smiling back at the maybe mom of the restaurant equation.  “Come here,” she ushered to the only people there.  Us.  We craned up and watched, listened to the sound of crowd, to Duardo and Frances continuing to explain the beginning of one of the reasons we planned on Spain.  “The girl in the fab dress - the bigger one smiling and waving - that’s the fallera major, the queen of the entire festival.”  This was the city hall of Valencia, the major queen and shorter child queen or princess - infantil - smiling and waving out to a vast crowd laid out in the plaza and surrounding area.  Dignitaries did abound.  The dresses supremely ornate, fuchsia and maybe’s of emerald with the gold of trim perching them above a very expensive wedding cake; stage make-up and the side cinnamon roll of locks to match.

But Valencia.  To say it as English.  To speak it with a French cedilla, or go ahead and fumble around in rudimentary Spanish.  To then listen to Francesca: Va-len-sthia, or there abouts.  Gracias, and the same manner: gra-sthias.  Prior to, I’d blamed the perceived lisp on a newness, on the sleep depravation, but at some juncture I had to ask.  “Yep, that’s Valenciano.”  A dialect.  “No, not really,” explained Frances, she of three and now maybe more languages.  I was tired, and I believe I mentioned that at some point.  I was fragile, the one being left when done with this Spain place.  Aside from dealing with a new language, I now had a lisp to learn.  Wonderful.

But upon said TV, nearing predetermined hour of day, arose most thunderous of roar.  Valencia, in all of 27-inch screen, erupted into a misnomer of fireworks.  As I close my eyes and listen for a train that finished a hundred perhaps years ago.  Hear the coal or steam, picture a choo-choo noise chug-a-chugging in first gear, confined to an area the size of a tennis court.  Recall the bags beneath my eyes, my ex beside to immediate left.  And all I saw was smoke and many a crackle of orange from various aerial view; it was daylight and all about the sound.  The string of pop boom pop; the mostly noise that worked itself into a fast moving locomotion.  What I had just witnessed there on a simple television set.  Splendid.  And why.

“You will see, my friend.  Cum.  Drink, and …we will think.  Talk.”  That was Duardo, in an accent most difficult to relay.  Three over and over times I asked him to say Valencia, and three times I attempted my best grasthias lisp.  Me to him.  My god, so wonderfully lame I was that upon a time.  For that very brief moment of playful happiness I gave a great personal thanks to the now more silent room of restaurant we sat in; us, we four.  Two men.  Two women.  And there were other things I now forget, not out of choice, but rather of simple, plain, cold-hearted swath of innocent little brain cells.

Duardo pulled up a chair and mentioned me a name, a word for the apparatus used to project the booming fireworks of sound most heard, but I don’t recall now; they’re made out of various hallow pipe and cut to length, welded together and lime stick lit by a pirotécnia to the tune of a one and a two and a thus, and way more than 110 decibels.  Fantastic.  This was the conductor inside a chainlink fenced court, a design of a line of firecrackers - petardos - forming a traca, or track over his head. He lights one - and domino be off, freeing him to screw with the boom boom pipes and symphonic marry of ear and eye.

This be the day-to-day of March month.  But the tomorrow was the real beginning; from the 15th to 19th no one was to sleep longer than it took to take a whiz.  Great.  Fun.  The more.  I excused myself to the Spanish washroom, a small one seater with a shotgun urinal.  I closed the door and kissed Spanish soil for the first time; I leaned forward and rested my head on the wall of total relax, to perhaps dream and forget the knock upon door that distracts the hearing of a tiny rock thrown at one’s maybe window.

To zip up, do the quick zit check in the mirror, give the hair a muss and be off.

But his hand felt very soft, an almost erotic tap on my head.  A near stroke.  I opened my eyes and looked down at the pecker within my grasp.  I gave it an instinctual shake as I pulled my head from the Spanish wall and surveyed the sink, the toilet seat that be up, the light bulb of overhead, the mirror, the expression of Duardo reflected back to me.  It was Ok.  He was doing the smile, as much as any guy would or should.  His hand moved slowly down my neck and wrapped my left shoulder, the trap specifically. We continued the stare for a brief, and then I led the both of us in prayer.  “I guess I could finish up now, huh?  Yeah, probably.”  Duardo stepped back and I proceeded to do what needed to be done.  “It’s alright, Duardo, we’re all God’s magnificent children - naked and all.”  Still struggling with the reality, I was.

The girls were happy and seemingly oblivious to our return, his retrieval of me.  Ten, maybe fifteen minutes of my life that I didn’t know to particularly care about in the long run had elapsed.  I felt marginally better.  Not at all scarred.  But I’m like that.  Oblivious.  The Perhaps, the Maybe my worst quality.

“Duardo’s gonna take us back into Valencia tomorrow to see that mascleta, aren’t ya, Duardo?”  Evidently some things had been discussed in our absence.  Frances had to work on Friday and Duardo, not having to start his new job until the following week, was deemed free to give us the firsthand of what we’d witnessed on the recent tube.  I sly-picked the sleep from my eyes and grabbed a seat beside Duardo, my friend.  And this which I also remember, that which I saw: X still wiggling her butt with the luxury of an Ignore that only I knew. Just another one of the colourful everydays meaningful only to her and me.

“Onray.  Onray, me and you will fix everything.  Si?  Yes?  Cum on.”  And the laughs of our male persuasion.  Adorable he was, this that friend of mine in the land of Spain. 

I leaned towards X and blew her a ‘th.’  “It’s Valen-sthia - not Valen-see-a, baby!”  I was dangerous drunk with the little knowledge I’d managed to keep crammed down safe and stored for the temporary duration of trip.

She smiled with the lips.  That’s it, that’s all.  She had the capacity to do so.  I had the fulfilling of another quick quinto of Aquino in my belly as Duardo and Frances watched our brief back and forth and believed in good, still not at all aware of the entirely sad truth before them.  X aimed me another oversmile and I smirked her right back, quickly swallowed yet another yawn.  I slumped and realized that I was way too tired to deem of her an absolute of anger or confusion, whether this oversight of hers was a slight at me or a grasp for a last of privacy.  It occurred to me the maybe hurt inside of her: ours had been a strange ending, not of grand noisy exit but of rather soft paces in opposite directions.  There had yet to be any turn and fire, just these style of fake smiles that fooled most every other.  Charming.  Nonetheless, although I couldn’t outright shit on her I was wont to have my moments, and yes perhaps this is the beginning of thee explanation of why I was in Spain and loving the hate, playing up the old for the current viewing audience before me.  I was at a certain point.