Fox en France Ep.8: Seafood Paella (ella, ella, eh eh eh)

Thursday 20^th – Monday 24^th Oct

This might be a British thing, but stepping off a plane and wondering whether the heat is the plane engine or the actual climate is a beautiful moment. Getting to Valencia late at night, I was too giddy with joy to see the end of my ten-hour journey even to be annoyed when we got lost immediately on the way to the hostel. The air smelt of palm trees, sangria and the promise of trying to balance great nights out/actually sightseeing (it didn’t, it smelt of European cities, so bad sewage and cigarettes). I had that travel buzz – probably because I was constantly fretting about the fact that I am, while travelling, probably one of the easiest pickpocket targets in the world. Forgetful, easily-distracted and blessed with the attention span of a newt.

The stuff of nightmares

The first forty-eight hours, honestly, are a blur of food. I don’t know how many churros I inhaled on Friday morning but I’m ready for an official certificate of congratulations – and at some point we also tackled paella, tapas, sangria, more sangria, some more sangria, and then bookended more churros in at the end. Somewhere in amidst the ongoing feast I discovered that a Spanish exam in 2012 gets you 100% nowhere in actual Spain if you haven’t spoken it since, and so I was a helpless child in the midst of my Spanish-speaking friends (I planned to be slick while writing this and use the Spanish version of Anglophones. But all I can think of is “Spanglophones”. Spanielphones. Espagnaphonia? Just sounds like a fear of Spain). Luckily gin and tonic is almost the same in both languages, and gazing at big squares, high-ceiling markets and old buildings doesn’t require much Spanish GCSE vocabulary. The only time I actually struggled was when I headed out to the modern art gallery alone, trusted Google Maps way too much, and was too incompetent to realise I was in the wrong building. Yes, an entirely different building, no, I honestly didn’t realise, yes, I am that dense, no, I didn’t walk straight back out but instead endured a full forty minute tour because I didn’t want to be impolite. Classic. It was a large and seemingly never-ending food installation which featured everything from a mundane glass case of spatulas, to a surreal exhibit with a giant seven-eyed bull-creature and the word “tapas” everywhere. I am scarred and may be suing Google and their confusing maps.

Reunited with Millie

It didn’t take us long (two nights) to accidentally sniff out a huge group of Erasmus students from Leeds and we had one of those “such a small world” conversations that are much, much more boring

when you re-tell them, or even think about them the day after, so I’ll leave that gripping tale to the imagination. Spanish clubbing was the genuine Enrique-reggaeton-fest I’d originally imagined (but also originally berated myself for stereotyping). Cue more churros for morning-after recovery.

SO:

Clouds: I cannot in any way speak Spanish, and my stupid uni nickname came back to haunt me thanks to my travel pals.

Silver linings: My appalling lack of Spanish made me realise I actually really can speak French. And churros are absolute life.