Lend Me Your Hand

Last night we planned to have drinks with SB’s friend MD and her sister, CD. MD and SB have been close friends during their months in Valencia and were emotional about our departure to Lisbon. We agreed to meet after supper for goodbyes.

My sister and I spent the afternoon recovering from La Tomatina in the Ciudad de Artes y Ciencias, a beautiful section of Valencia. It takes up a good portion of the river – did I mention that they drained the river a long time ago because it was flooding the city, and then decided to turn the riverbed into a park? – and was designed by a modern architect. The buildings are pristine whites surrounded by light blue reflecting pools and long bridges or terraces. To relax we walked around the shaded half and sipped tiny lemon slushies before retreating to the bar, located in the center of the white buildings and marked by white tables and chairs, and drank claras (half beer, half lemon Fanta).

CB sent us a message while we were at the bar to inform us that he had crazy stories about his time at the Tomatina, so we told him where we planned to eat supper and he joined us shortly before we met up with MD and CD. The five of us stood in the Plaza de la Reina while CB described his experience watching men try to climb to the top of a greased pole to retrieve a pig, which is actually how La Tomatina begins – no one can throw tomatoes until the pig is off the pole. When he started giving us a demonstration of how the men were trying to climb the pole, including his attempt to show us how one man tried to vertically leapfrog another on the pole, MD turned to us and asked, “How do you know this guy again?”

“He started talking to us at a tapas bar,” SB answered offhandedly.

MD laughed, but I nodded. “No, really,” I affirmed. She blinked and laughed again.

On Sunday night my sister and I were eating tapas at La Taberna de la Reina – actually, we were studying the tapas at La Taberna de la Reina and sipping white wine – when a guy beside us at the counter leaned over and said, “You take the tapas that you want, and then you leave the toothpicks on the plate and they count them when you’re done so they know how much to charge you.”

SB affected a surprised look and said, “Oh, that’s helpful!”

Since she’d been in Valencia for two months at that point, I was pretty sure she already knew how tapas worked. Having read the signs on the bar and menus, I, too, knew how tapas worked. I turned my back on the strange tapas informer, as I am of the opinion that people must earn my interest or respect in order to deserve my time, but SB eagerly asked, “Where are you from?”

I guess she missed hearing English.

“Canada,” he answered, and I knew we were in for trouble.

He introduced himself as CB and led us to ST, an Asian doctor in Australia who he met on the train to Valencia. “And now I’m sleeping on his floor Tuesday and Wednesday nights!” CB announced. ST laughed nervously.

Though I was wary of our new friends at first, I soon came to find them wildly entertaining – as did MD and CD after a few minutes. In fact, last night CB walked with SB and me to our cab, one sister on each arm, singing duets of “Ain’t No Mountain High Enough” and “Ain’t No Sunshine When She’s Gone”.

We had an early night and planned to rise early for a quick final tour of the historic parts of the city I had not yet examined in detail. I dragged myself out of bed to run on the treadmill in the gym, which is cool enough to run in until about 8am on a cloudy day, and only came close to falling off once when I ran faster than the pace I’d set and ended up nearly impaling myself on the front handlebar. We made it around the Silk Exchange and the Central Market and ended up at the Cathedral, which boasts the Holy Grail.

This surprised me, as I had never been told that the Holy Grail was a) discovered or b) located in Valencia. However, we were intrigued enough to pay for an audio tour (unfortunately we forgot to get someone to take a picture of us looking ubertouristy) and walk around the inside of the Cathedral trying to avoid the other tourists staring at the ceiling and wandering in tune to their own audio guides.

The grail itself was a bit boring, but boy did we find something better: the Cathedral also houses the preserved arm of a saint. It’s behind bars and glass, which seems reasonable because I could picture myself trying to steal a saint’s preserved arm, and if I would do it you can bet others would too. When I first saw it I exclaimed, “Oh, cool!” loudly enough for several people to glare at me (this means they heard me over their audio guides, too, which does mean I may have been over-exclaiming a bit). I couldn’t help but wonder where the rest of him was. I know he was a martyr, but I don’t think he was dismembered, and if they had the arm preserved why not the rest of him? Why just the arm? Did he do something special with the arm? The audio guide was wildly lacking in information on this topic. They spent seventeen minutes talking about the two different pulpits and fewer than four on the SEVERED ARM OF A SAINT. Who made that decision?

Eventually we left the Cathedral and embarked on our embarking errands – returning Black Beauty, packing, laundry, etc – before jumping on the tram to the train station and catching our train to Madrid. Now begins Epic European Journey of the Sisters 2010 Part II: Portugal.