April 8

Valencia

So what  will we do today? How about evaluating the Spanish health care system?

Actually that is not exactly how we started the day. We started the day by planning a trip along the shore, stopping in little seaside towns and villages and exploring the coast in Juan’s car. And the day started off well enough. The GPS got us through town and onto the superhighway without incident, no small accomplishment on the narrow, bustling streets of downtown Valencia. It was not long before we were on the outskirts of Valencia where we took the first exit and found ourselves in an undeveloped and beautiful area that resembled one of our national parks. We parked the car at the entrance to an abandoned road and followed the road on foot for about a mile until it came to the water’s edge. The day could not have been more beautiful. There were no clouds in the sky, and the Mediterranean was deep green with whitecaps. The temperature was in the low 60s. The beach was deserted except for one other couple strolling just ahead of us.

Just as we were deciding which direction to take next, bam, down goes Embry, who tripped on a rock in the sand. This would normally have been no big deal, just dust the sand off and move on. But the Med beaches have lots of rocks, and Embry’s head landed directly on one large, jagged rock, almost knocking her unconscious, leaving a deep cut, dangerously close to her left eye.

The couple on the beach rushed over; and for a moment we all just stood there watching the blood spurt out and wondering what to do. The woman, probably in her forties, got out a package of Kleenex tissues and handed them to me; and I pressed one against the wound to reduce the bleeding as Embry gradually came to.

And that is how our exploration of the shore began. It ended in the emergency room of a large Valencia hospital not far from our apartment.

As I was frantically driving back to Valencia, Embry commented, “Well, look at it this way. It will give us a chance to see how the Spanish health care system works.” Well, it worked extremely well for us. There were a dozen or so people sitting in the waiting room; but after taking one look at Embry’s wound and confirming that we had insurance, the nurse took her immediately into one of the examination rooms. She was attended by a young woman, who was probably a nurse practitioner or physician’s assistant, who dressed the wound and carefully put in six stitches. And in less than 30 minutes it was all done. Embry was patched up, and we were headed home. We ended up paying the $275 bill but should get reimbursed by Kaiser when we return to the US.

What impressed us most was how efficient the process was and how nice and kind everyone was –the receptionist, nurses, and even the lady in the accounting office—

despite the fact that no one could speak very much English. I compare this to our limited experience with US emergency rooms. We have recently heard of long waits at hospitals like GW and even Sibley; and I remember when I was a student chaplain at Boston City Hospital (when I was at Union) and assigned to the emergency room on a Saturday night. The lines to get help were so long they almost stretched into the street; and one extremely large guy was standing in line patiently with a knife in his back.

So the ending was a happy one under the circumstances. But what is really scary is how close the rock came to hitting Embry’s eye. I have always said that life is a matter of inches—an inch here and an inch there and you have a totally different outcome. In Embry’s case we are not talking inches but a fraction of a centimeter. Her guardian angel stepped in again.

The photos are the scene of the accident and the patient.

April 7

Valencia

This is Embry again, writing my occasional blog contribution. I am happy to report that Joe’s blogs for the past week have been 100% accurate: no six-meals-a-day-exaggerations. As you can tell from his reports, we have continued to have an amazing time here in sunny southern Spain. We knew nothing at all about Valencia, and it has continued to surprise us with its charm day-after-day. It is hard to say what is most appealing, but here are a few things: (1) as with many European cities, each time you turn around (especially in the older part of town) you bump into some beautiful piece of old-to-ancient architecture; my favorites are the huge carved wooden doors–usually with equally beautiful hardware—each a unique work of art, of which there are hundreds; (2) people-watching over café con leche in some lovely square; (3) Semana Santa or Holy Week, of which you have a full report from Joe; and (4) the friendly atmosphere that is welcoming to strangers like us, and virtually devoid of tourists, which stimulates our use of broken Spanish.

Joe thought I might briefly recap some of the best “tourist attractions” we have visited, since he has been concentrating on other things. I don’t want to go into tedious, lengthy detail which you can get on-line or in a guide book. But I do want to stimulate your interest in this beautiful part of the world, which is not on many American “must see” lists (although I did notice that the next GW alumni tour is to Valencia!). I will list them in the order we have seen them.

1. Madeira: This is a lovely island off the coast of Africa, which is home to 250,000 people. It is an autonomous region of Portugal that, only in the 1970s, was “released” from the dictatorship of Salazar. Land was redistributed into smaller plots, and it is now rather prosperous with a thriving tourist industry (including receiving cruise ships like ours, which dropped us off for a day). Because the island was formed by a now-extinct volcano, the soil is rich, but the hills are so precipitous (with many beautiful waterfalls) that farming is by hand (no tractors). In spite of this, because of fertile soil and lots of sun and rainfall, they produce a lot of fruits, such as bananas and grapes. They produce a good sweet wine , and they are proud to say that the signing of the U.S. Declaration of Independence was toasted with “Madeira”. This is a good place to come for a winter vacation, but don’t expect sandy beaches. (You can go by ferry to a near-by island for one).

2. Seville: We had a second cruise-ship stop in Cadiz, where we took a bus to Seville. We had been there once before, when Andrew was three years old, so a long time ago! It is a lovely, walkable city (as we recalled), and the best thing we visited was the Alcazar, the old Moorish palace which is surprisingly well-preserved. It was taken over by the Christian king “Peter the Cruel” (and one can imagine what happened to the Moors under his watch if that is what he is called!). The whole history of this area of Spain is incredibly sad, since—with the “reconquering” of the area (actually quite a misnomer)—they expelled the Jews and then the Muslims—and with this destroyed the culture, knowledge, and artistic capabilities of a whole multi-cultural civilization.   (We were not as fond of the huge cathedral, which kept little of the beautiful Moorish architecture of the Alcazar.) Still, Seville is worth a visit and an overnight stay if you can.

3. Granada: The third cruise ship stop was at Malaga, where we took a tour to Granada to see the Alhambra. This is the most-visited tourist site in Spain, and you cannot get in without a pre-arranged tour. They have about 8,000 visitors a DAY, throughout the year. This was the palace of the last Muslim Caliph, Boabdil and was miraculously saved from total destruction several times. Built in the 13^th century, when this final Muslim kingdom was conquered by Ferdinand and Isabella, they knocked down 7 of the 8 palaces, but left this one. Our guide speculated that they could not bear to destroy something so beautiful, so that “gave it to their friends,” who kept it more or less intact for a couple of centuries until it began to fall into ruin. Then in the Napoleonic wars it was occupied and used as stables by Napoleon’s army, until they quickly evacuated and failed to destroy it as they usually did when they left (according to the guide!). Again it was abandoned and fell into ruin until it was discovered by American Ambasador, Washington Irving–who wrote the Tales of the Alhambra and made the place famous. This led to tourists and a subsequent renovation by the Spanish government.

4. Valencia area: Aside from trying to “live like locals,” we have also spent some of our time “being tourists.” Our top recommendations so far for tourists include: (1) the lovely late-Gothic Cathedral (15^th century), with added decoration from the 17^th and 18^th centuries (but not at all an “overdone hodgepodge” as in Seville); (2) the beautiful central market that is another architectural gem; and (3) Xativa Castle, which is about an hour out of town where we took our only car trip. This amazing place is at the top of an apparently-impenetrable precipice, but in reality it has been conquered and re-conquered several times, through various siege-warfare techniques from starvation to cannons. The large building is where we are staying (seventh floor on the right); and though it may not win any design awards, the apartment is quite nice as are the views.

The photo below is a typical sunset as viewed from our window.

April 5

Valencia

Today is Easter Sunday, and we have pretty much done it up right. In fact it all started about four days ago on what Episcopalians call Maundy Thursday, the day of the Last Supper. Embry read somewhere that Valencia was famous for its Holy Week festivals, which took place in the Maritime District, only a few blocks from where we are staying. The first big event was to be a parade of some sort; and around 8:00 pm as we walked over we soon heard the beat of drums—two loud, slow beats followed by three fast softer ones. Boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. Crowds five or six deep were gathered along the sidewalks of one of the narrow streets in this medieval part of town; and we squeezed in to witness a solemn procession of 25-30 people—mainly men but some women and a surprising number of teenagers and children– all dressed in black robes, followed by a band of drummers, constantly performing the same beat—boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. In front of them similar groups had already passed, and behind them were many others. The various groups in the procession were organized the same way—a leader in front, four or five in a second row, usually men, then a row or two of women, many carrying infants and then the teenagers and younger children. All the participants looked very serious, just like in a Sunday processional you might see at All Souls Church. And the people crowded along the sidewalks looked like church goers as well, with serious faces and very little talking. The only thing distinguishing one group from another was the color of their vestments, which included just about every color and combination of colors you could imagine. At the time we could not tell how large the parade was; but it went on for about an hour, and we figured we joined it somewhere in the middle of the parade route.

As the last marcher passed, we fell in with the crowd and followed the parade for several blocks until we came to a small plaza situated in front of a Catholic Church where the action had paused and hundreds of marchers and drummers were standing around talking casually. Something was going on in front of the church—we could not tell what—but fortunately there was a bar next door. While I was taking photos, Embry grabbed one of the few free sidewalk tables and quickly ordered two beers.

Then things began to take a strange twist. After remarks made at the church, all the adults in the parade put on large pointed hoods covering their faces, exactly like the Ku Klux Klan wear, reassembled in full hooded regalia and then continued the solemn march—boom, boom, rat-a-tat-tat. We finished our beers and headed home. It was close to 11:00 pm.

What was THAT all about? Klansmen? The Inquisition? Executioners?

The parade the next day, Good Friday, started earlier, at 6:00 pm instead of 8:00; and by this time we had done enough research on the internet to learn that the pointed hoods were for those who were “penitent” and that this ritual had been going on since the Middle Ages. There were 30 different groups participating and 30 different bands, each one representing a kind of brotherhood or fraternity associated with one of the churches in Valencia . The most interesting thing for us was how many children of all ages, from infants and toddlers up, were involved.

We did not know what to expect for the Good Friday parade. Having a little better idea of what was involved, we got to the parade route early and were strategically positioned at a plaza, near where the march got underway. This time the crowd seemed to be much larger and we could see various floats lining up depicting various scenes from the Passion. This march was like the first march in some ways—the vestments and robes seemed to be the same, and this time the hoods were worn from the start—but it was also very different in other ways. There were many more women and children; and everyone was dressed either in vestments or in costumes representing various Biblical characters—Jesus, Mary, Salome, Pontius Pilate, Caiaphas, Roman soldiers, various disciples, and so on (38 characters in all we later read in one of the pamphlets we picked up). Also this march moved very slowly with participants taking hesitation steps. Heads were bowed, faces glum and everyone, even the smallest children, in character. No one smiled. Ever. The bands had added brass instruments, and the music was one funeral dirge after another. The crowds were somber as well with few people talking and many showing expressions of awe. People were not crying, but they certainly could have been. The closest thing that I can think of is the mood associated with the funeral procession following the death of President Kennedy. And it went on and on and on. We left after a couple of hours, drained and exhausted. I was basically speechless.

The final parade was today, Easter Sunday. We got there early again and this time wandered through the staging area before finding the parade route. The somber robes and vestments had been replaced by dazzling whites and the hoods were off. The atmosphere was totally different—upbeat, joyous, high energy and all kinds of colorful costumes worn by the women and children. And this time, again, everyone, even the smallest kids, was in character, grinning and smiling and tossing flowers into the crowd. The funeral dirges were replaced by upbeat marches and show tunes, woodwinds were added, and the pace was brisk. The crowd was the largest yet, well into the tens of thousands. We calculated that there were over 2,500 participants just in the parade!

And along the route, there was hugging and embracing, laughter and joy. Everywhere. This time we waited out the entire parade and filed in with the crowd after the last marcher passed, returning to the apartment exhausted but smiling.

I felt as if—perhaps for the first time—I had just experienced the passion, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.

And we also managed to get in a “real” church service as well, attending the ten o’clock mass at the cathedral downtown. It turned out that the big mass was at eleven; and the one we attended was in one of the chapels, the one with the guaranteed, real, authentic Holy Grail, a huge solid gold cup behind bullet proof glass. There was no music, and the service was low key and intimate. The chapel held about 100 people and was full. Even though we could not understand a word, the service was meaningful; and Embry was particularly impressed with the elderly priest, who had a kind smile and appeared friendly. I would argue that not understanding a word might actually be a blessing in some respects, but that is a subject for another time.

The big service had already started when we came out of the chapel, and the huge nave of the Cathedral was mostly full by the time we eased out just after the Gospel reading. All of the service was chanted; and there were all the bells and whistles—incense, candles and clergy all decked out, an All Souls service you might say—on steroids.

Quite a Holy Week here in Valencia.

April 2

Valencia

Yesterday was my birthday. To celebrate, Embry found a promising restaurant, called “Richard Camarena” in one of the guide books. We asked Anais to make a reservation and showed up promptly at nine via cab at what we thought was the proper address, hoping that we would not be too early. The cab stopped in front of what was the address, but there was no restaurant or anything else for that matter—only a large, black imposing door. By the time we concluded that we were obviously at the wrong location, the large black door suddenly opened, and a fashionably dressed young couple dashed in, greeted by a guy wearing a tux and no tie. We followed.

We were at the right place after all. We were greeted warmly by another guy in a similar outfit and quickly escorted to one of the dozen or so tables, most of which were surprisingly already occupied (at such an early hour) by what appeared to be a pretty young, hip crowd—mostly in their thirties, guys wearing levis, designer tee shirts and blazers or sport coats, women also in jeans and high heels. The décor was understated and Spartan with concrete floors and simple wood tables with no tablecloths. The dim lighting, however, created a cozy atmosphere; and excellent black and white photographs–mostly of nude women– decorated the walls. The most surprising thing was how few tables there were and how much space there was between them. You could have—and in the US would have—easily doubled the number. At the end of the room was an open kitchen with at least a half dozen guys in chef hats feverishly working away.

Within a couple of minutes, the first of our three waiters came over and greeted us in English. In English! First of all, how could he have known we weren’t Spanish since we are not tourists but are living the Authentic Life of locals? And second, how did he pick up English? In Australia, it turns out, where he spent a year; and his co-waiter, who also spoke good English, spent time in London but was actually Italian.

And so the evening began.

We were provided a simple, one page menu (in English!), which was titled “Our Proposal for Today” and listed 16 dishes, the last three being desserts. We only had to make one decision, however, how many of these dishes to order—six or nine or eleven. Richard, the owner and executive chef, would determine which dishes we got. I decided to go with nine and Embry six. And the prices were not exactly what you would call cheap, especially here in Valencia where we have been eating lunches for two, including beer, for under 12 euros—75 euros for the six dish option and 90 euros for the nine dish option.

It turned out to be a bargain.

There is no way I can do justice to what came next. The waiter first unwrapped a bundle tied with a gold ribbon, which contained the bread. Then the first dish came—and this one was not even on the menu but courtesy of Richard—a “drink” though really more like a soup, which contained wild ranch chicken juice, wine and radishes, followed by a second “gift” from Richard, a dish of spring onions, cream butter and black garlic. The other nine dishes followed. The first was “Courgette peel, steak tartar, fresh strawberries, cottage chease [sic] and capers emulsion,” –and that is just one dish! Then oysters from Valencia, avocado and “horchata” of galanga (no, I do not know what any of this is); and on it went finishing up with two desserts “slightly spicy orange salad and peanuts” and “sweet carrots, yogurt and roasted coconut,” which was one of the best deserts I have ever eaten even though I hate carrots and yogurt and coconuts.

And when Embry mentioned that this was a birthday celebration, another dessert, a small cake with a candle and ice cream, appeared.

And as good as the food was—and I believe I can say it was the most delicious I have ever had—the service and the presentation of the food were even more impressive. We got a change of silverware between each of the 11 dishes and three napkin changes. (Beats me why there were three.) The time between dish changes was usually only a couple of minutes, and all three waiters were friendly and attentive. The third waiter, by the way, was a drop-dead gorgeous blond, also thirty-something. And each dish came in museum quality bowls and pottery of all shapes and sizes. And did I mention the wine? Incomparable.

At 11:30 we had finally finished and were ready to head home. The other tables were still mostly occupied, and no one showed any sign of leaving.

Now I know that by my telling this story you may think that combined with my cruise ship stories I am hopelessly obsessed with food and am a total dissolute, which, of course, would not be far from the truth. In my defense, however, I hasten to point out that the dishes were tasting portions and therefore rather small. So it is not as excessive as you might think. And, of course, to truly understand a country you must taste its food. One way to look at this over-the-top behavior is to think of it as research. Can there be any doubt based on this research where Spain stands?