Why
Valencia?
As
far as where I chose to live when I moved to Spain, I have to say that my
selection process was a bit on the random side. I knew for a long time that I
wanted to live in Europe again, somewhere, anywhere. I was deciding between Paris
and Madrid when a trip I took with my younger brother to Spain ultimately
influenced my decision. We visited Madrid, Sevilla, and Toledo on what was one
of the best vacations I've ever had, thanks mostly to some friends who live in
Madrid who shaped our travel plans. When the time had finally arrived for me to
move to Europe, I knew I was going to Spain. However, as much as I loved Madrid
and the other places we visited on that trip, my past experience of living in
Greece tipped the scales towards living somewhere on the Spanish Mediterranean
coast.
I
knew that I wanted to live in a fairly large city as I was comfortable living
in a city the size of Seattle and anything smaller would have been like wearing
a too-small shoe. I must admit that I never considered Málaga, another rather
large Spanish Mediterranean city. I considered Barcelona but I was a bit
reluctant to move there because of the heavy Catalan influence—I was moving to
Spain to learn Spanish, after all. The truth is that before I started looking
seriously into moving to Spain (using "seriously" about any of my
plans seems comical), I wasn't even aware that people spoke Valenciano in this
part of the country. I didn’t know Valenciano was a language (it is very
similar to Catalan). I would say that it is merely a dialect of Catalan but I
might get beat up by some of the more chauvinistic locals for saying that. My
knowledge of Valenciano/Catalan is fairly scant, but I am still unable to tell
them apart whether spoken or written. I apologize for that.
With
a little research into the matter I determined that Valencianos were more apt
to speak Spanish—at least in the street—than their counterparts in Catalonia. I
had traveled to Barcelona twice before and I loved the city, as almost everyone
does. The language issue bothered me a bit and also its size, as I figured that
a big city like Barcelona would be more expensive and perhaps less
user-friendly for a recent immigrant. I had also traveled to Valencia once
before and stayed there for only a day or two on my first trip to Europe. I
couldn't remember anything about the city from that trip except the beautiful
train station and the huge central market.
I
wish that I could say that I spent hours and hours doing painstaking research
into my choice for where I was going to move in Europe. I mean, I didn't
exactly throw a dart at a map of Spain and then move there with nearly all my
remaining worldly possessions. In truth, this would be an insult to dart
throwers as there is a bit of skill in that game. No, my selection of my new
home was more like a behind the back, over the shoulder toss. I'm not a lucky
person by any means—I don't even believe in luck—but in hindsight I would have
to say that by choosing Valencia, I hit a bull’s-eye with my throw. I wouldn't
change my choice for anything. Once I arrived I thought about perhaps moving to
another Spanish city to get a fresh perspective on the country, but I could
never bring myself to leave Valencia. It's my home. I chose rather well as it
turned out. As random as my selection process may seem, I suppose that if I
examine it more thoroughly there is quite a bit of logic involved.
I
think that I would be very comfortable living just about anywhere on the
Mediterranean, my life in Greece taught me that much. I could have moved to
Marseilles, or Genoa, or Tunis for that matter, and I would have found much to
love about living in those places. The Mediterranean has its own climate with
which I was familiar. The weather is far from perfect but there are many months
of perfection throughout the year. Time had not erased those cold, wet winters
in Greece from my memory, but I could never forget the wonderfully sunny
summers. And of course there was the food.
There
is an indelible stamp on Mediterranean cooking that can be found in every
corner and cove on this inland sea. In our era of global trade, it's possible
to get just about any food product you want anywhere on the planet but there
were many things I had missed about Mediterranean food. It wasn't just the
basic ingredients, things you can probably buy in any good, upscale supermarket
in the United States, what was missing were all of the little things that when
taken together make up the essence of the Mediterranean diet. Things like the
wonderfully odd-shaped tomatoes that are impossible to beat when the season is
right. The different types of beans that are native to the basin. Olives of
every character, shape, and flavor, along with olive oils to match any dish.
But it wasn't so much the flavor of foods that I missed, it was something else.
A grilled sardine, some fried squid, roasted lamb or pork probably taste the
same anywhere they are prepared, to say otherwise would be dishonest or verging
on the overly-romantic. The element that was missing from Mediterranean cooking
when I lived in America was their reverence for food. It's difficult to
overstate the importance of food in the lives of the people who inhabit the
shores of this sea that has been called the “middle of the earth” by many of
the cultures that border it.
On
a clearly anecdotal basis, I have to say that everyone I have met from Spain,
France, Greece, and Italy all seem to have a much greater appreciation for food
than most of the Americans and Brits that I know, unless those Americans or
Brits have learned to revere food while living on the Mediterranean. This isn't
to say that Mediterranean people are superior to us, they just take their food
more seriously than we do. We all have different priorities and values. The
importance that these people place upon food is something that perhaps we
reserve for other things. I wouldn't care to say what these other things might
be, but I will say that I find American and British humor to be far superior to
the Spanish or French version. They have paella, coq au vin, and risotto. We
have Seinfeld and Monty Python's Flying Circus. The good news is that we can
share.
I
have met Italians, Greeks, French and Spanish people who admit that they can't
cook but who can whip up veritable miracles of simplicity in the kitchen using
ingredients common throughout the region. I've never met an Italian who
couldn't make some sort of memorable dish with only a bit of pasta, some olive
oil, and a vegetable or two—I've also never met an Italian who doesn't eat pasta
every day, if not with every meal. It never ceases to amaze me how the Spanish
will raise the lowliest of food items to an exalted level. A slice of tomato
and a single anchovy will be shaped into an elegant tapa to accompany a beer or
a glass of wine; a plate of olives will prime a first course at dinner; even a
bag of store-bought potato chips will be decanted into a dish before being
served. They have a great respect for food because it is their inheritance,
their solemn birthright handed down over centuries.
What
I first found to be close-mindedness on the part of Valencianos when it came to
modifying—in any way—their local dishes, I soon found was just a respect for
their own traditions. There are just certain dishes in their culture that they
feel cannot be improved. I feel the same way about a handful of things that I
prepare. Change just one ingredient every couple of years, or even every
generation and before long you will have lost sight of the original dish
entirely. Some of my first impressions of Valencianos regarding their cuisine
were of a people hog-tied and impaired by their own traditions. I quickly
realized how foolish I was for thinking this; it would be like mocking a person
for caring for the foundation of his house. Without embracing their culinary
past, every day in the kitchen would be like reinventing the wheel. It took me
a while to come around to their way of thinking. I was a decent cook when I
arrived in Spain, and inspired amateur at least. As my cooking experience with Valencian
food expanded, I came to base my own recipes firmly on the basics. I gradually
learned that to know your way around you have to know where you started.
Where
Are You From?
I
have had a sort of unwritten rule that I have adhered to in a life of many
moves. I rarely ask people where they are from. Besides the awkwardness of
trying to end that question on anything but a preposition (at least in
English), I just don’t think that it is a very interesting thing to ask of
someone you have only recently met. A person’s birthplace will usually become
apparent after a bit of conversation without having to inquire about it
directly, if you will only bother to listen to what they are saying.
I
think I came to this conclusion back when I was living in the dormitory at
Indiana University. Back then most of the dorms weren’t coed so we would
arrange mixer parties in the lounge of our floor and invite one of the female
floors in the same residence hall. At these parties you could hear the same
questions being asked over and over: “Where are you from?” and “What’s your
major?” My joke back then was that we should have made name tags for everyone
that gave your hometown and major and we could have eliminated about 90% of the
bothersome conversation going on. Students could just go around and read the
tags which would free up energy for drinking whatever hellish punch had been
prepared by the guy on the floor with the best fake ID (In this case that would
have been me. I had my old Hawaii driver’s license which was like a credit card
with raised numbers and letters. All I had to do was shave off a number and
move it over to my birth date.).
This
being the third time in my life that I have lived outside the U.S. for a good
length of time, I don’t get that question nearly as often as you would think.
Most people I talk to immediately realize that I am not Spanish and a guiri
(foreigner) is a guiri is a guiri to most folks. It is also easy
for me to tell where someone is from by their accent in Spanish, whether they
speak it as a second language or with a Latin American accent. As I said
before, I also don’t find a person’s nationality to be interesting in and of
itself.
When
people do ask me where I am from I have gotten into the habit of answering,
“Seattle” (mispronounced carefully as Sea-ahh-tell to help non-English speaking
people understand). Most Spanish people I have talked to have heard of Seattle
and have a very favorable opinion of that great American city. Young kids here
all associate Seattle with Grunge and Frasier, not the worst things to
be linked to if you are a large American city, as opposed to, say, crime and
violence. I think that saying that I am from Seattle defines me more accurately
than simply saying that I am American. I actually chose to live in Seattle; it
wasn’t just an accident of birth.
Despite
what is portrayed in America’s far-right media, I have never had a negative
reaction from anyone when I tell them I am from the U.S.A. I have never
experienced any incident that was even remotely anti-American. People who do
claim to have suffered insults for being American are probably misinterpreting
the event. What they are experiencing is most likely an anti-asshole incident
brought on by their own behavior. In fact, I would say that the exact opposite
is true; people have an extremely high opinion of America and Americans.
Europeans also seem delighted to meet an American who doesn't fit the usual
stereotype, whatever that may be. Believe it or not, the fact is that most
Europeans have never actually met an American. I'd like to think that I am not
a bad ambassador for my country, a position I feel honored to fill.
All
the History You Need to Know About Valencia
People
had been living in this area of the Mediterranean since before recorded
history. A city was founded here by the Romans in 138 B.C. which they called Valentia
Edetanorum. In the 6th century A.D., after centuries of Roman decline, the
city was taken over by the Visigoths. This is a part of their history that
locals here rarely discuss. Most Valencianos sort of see the Visigoths are
their hillbilly ancestors who ran things for a while until more civilized folks
moved in. In arguments at home when the insults are flying, the Visigoths are
always on the other side of family.
Valencia
was under Muslim rule for centuries beginning in 714 A.D. They brought with
them oranges, olives, silk, rice and ceramics which were to remain integral to
the local economy for centuries afterward, some are still vital today. They
also introduced irrigation to the area and because of this the region is one of
the most productive agricultural regions in Spain. Other than these things, and
the great architecture they introduced, and their relatively tolerant view of
other religions, the Moors didn’t do much for Valencia and the rest of Spain,
at least not if you believe the history written by the eventual victors.
In
1094 Rodrigo Díaz de Vivar, better known as El Cid from the Arabic meaning “The
Man” or “The Boss,” took back Valencia from the Moors. El Cid converted nine
mosques into Christian churches which went a long way in assuring his
popularity with the clergy which was the only literate class in this era. He
was rewarded for his deeds with the Lay of El Cid, the oldest preserved tale of
heroic deeds in all of Spain. He died five years later in 1099 and the city was
recaptured by the Moorish dynasty of the Almoravids in 1102. Writing a heroic
tale of El Cid’s very short-lived conquest of Valencia would be like someone
writing a song praising a bad car repair job. I would say that El Cid’s
conquering and Moor-evicting feats were way over-rated.
The
single most celebrated event and date in Valencia is October 9, 1238 when Jaume
I, king of the Crown of Aragon, entered Valencia and freed it, once and for
all, of Moorish occupation. You will notice that bats are everywhere in
Valencia, at least pictures of the little beasts. The Valencia Football Club
has a bat on their logo as does the Valencia coat of arms. The bat obsession
comes from a legend that on the eve of when Jaume I was to reconquer Valencia
from the Moors, he found a bat in his helmet. A bat was supposed to be a bad
omen. In order not to break the morale of his troops he quickly adopted the bat
as a favorable omen and led his men to victory on the following day. Now you
see likenesses of bats everywhere in Valencia.
The
people here are Spanish which means that they have a love for holidays, but
October 9th is the most important of the dozens of holidays throughout the
year. On second thought, the spring Fallas festival is a huge affair. They take
their holidays here pretty seriously so trying to rate them in terms of
importance is a dangerous business. Perhaps it would be safer if I were to
simply say that October 9th is an important day for Valencianos. I don't think
I am stepping on any toes when I put it that way.
This
date in history marks the beginning of Valencia as an independent kingdom and
has shaped the way Valencianos have thought about themselves from that day to
the present. Part of the national character of Spain involves the ways in which
the different regions of the country either try to emphasize how different they
are from the rest of Spain or how their region epitomizes the true essence of
what it means to be Spanish.
Posts
