On day nine the travel batteries began to run down a bit, literally and figuratively. We managed to be completely out of the local currency (Great Britain Pounds), my iPad was on 2%, the iPod just about dead. International travel in the age of technology has become a constant search for electricity. We were always needing to charge something. We thought we were prepared with three adapters from Eric's IT guy, but none of them worked. Most places had usable outlets in the bathroom for electric razors. We piled our electronics on the sink and tried not to spill water on them.
We were scheduled to be in Valencia, Spain for three nights after leaving England. I wasn't really sold on going there, and would have been happy to go back to France or Italy for the second week. Even more frustrating was missing the plane from London to Valencia. Having traveled a fair amount throughout my life, and frequently cutting it close, I was confident. We missed the flight, which was a first for me. The maddening part was that, having rushed all day from our perfect experience in the Cotswolds, we were at the airport in time. We just ended ip in the wrong terminal!
Flying Easy Jet Airline is anything but, and I think they've rigged the system to generate revenue. When we got off the train I asked an airport employee how to get to Easy Jet and followed his direction. After going through security, where they let us through with suitcases that obviously should have been checked, we couldn't see the flight listed on the departures monitor. When we asked at airport information, they told us it was too early for it to show up on the screen. Also, it was the wrong terminal, but they didn't mention that. We finally got a little panicky, found another airport official and he figured out the situation.
Lots of frantic maneuvering came to naught and we were screwed. The British bureaucracy kicked in and we ended up in a queue. Queue this. This is where the airline begins to make money. When we finally got to the front of the line, Ashley, the frumpy little Brit with dirty fingernails and ALL the power gave us our options. We could buy a new ticket at full fare (about three hundred pounds each) or pay the rescue fee of fifty pounds per ticket which was a total of 160 USD. The latter, thank you. Since there were no flights to Valencia until the next day, we were sent to the hotel desk to find accommodations near Gatwick Airport.
Of course, they are all in cahoots. There is a booking fee, the hotel shuttle costs three pounds each and we only had Euros at this point. We took a taxi which added the desperate passenger, they-don't-know-any-better-surcharge to the Crowne Plaza Hotel. The hotel charges for everything, including charging your phone. Ugh. We emailed the hotel in Valencia, explaining what happened and they replied that it was too late to get a refund on that room even though we wouldn't be there. Of course it was. The batteries were now dead.
The next morning we had a smooth flight to Valencia and were able to check into our hotel early. Since we had already paid for a room for the night before (which still irritated the heck out of me) it seemed only fair. The hotel was perfect and well located, in Old Town. The area where we stayed was "pedestrianised" with many streets that had no cars, just vehicles doing deliveries.
After lunch at a lovely outdoor cafe, I left Eric to go on an errand. I had no idea how labyrinthine the neighborhood was until I got lost - completely turned around. I had no map, no phone and no ability to speak intelligible Spanish. Valencia is NOT full of English speaking people. I kept trying to find my way back thinking Eric would be in a panic. Eventually I ducked into a hotel and, using advanced gestures, got a map from the front desk. Relaxing, Eric was not panicked when I returned. He was unaware that I was missing.
What a fabulous city. With a population of a million people, it was a surprise at every turn. Magnificent architecture, fountains, cathedrals and a phenomenal market in an exquisite building. We were near the bullfighting arena, Plaza de Torros, and the beautifully renovated train station, Estacio Nord. The locals were well dressed. Everyone actually put clothes and accessories on before they left home. No yoga pants (see Yoga Pants January 20l0) were seen in Valencia. The long, late lunches with Sangria and Paella must be healthy, because there appeared to be no obesity. Maybe because we didn't see any tourists.
The hotel wanted $25 a day for internet, but you could get WiFi for free at the cafe across the street. I became a regular there so I could keep in touch with my daughters and find out all the fascinating news on Facebook. It was great to be able to post photos right away. One night I even hacked into their Internet when the cafe was closed. I felt a little strange lurking on the street with the iPad, but it worked.
After our usual routine of taking the wrong subway, we finally made it to the beach. The Mediterranean Sea. The beach is as deep as I've ever seen. Perfect water temperature, gentle rolling waves and blazing sun - what more could you want? Swimming topless! I'd forgotten how great it felt. Also, there's nothing like being on a beach to remind one that people truly do come in all shapes and sizes and colors - many of us with huge scars. The Spaniards were very relaxed about their bodies while they cavorted in the sand.
All my hesitations about Spain were allayed and Valencia was such a fine experience we wanted to stay longer, but the hotel in Barcelona wasn't flexible. Even with two days notice, we couldn't change the reservation. When we got there, we found out why. Stand by, for part two of Vaencia, Si, Barcelona, No.
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