Bicycle Diaries

(I know, I know, how much did she want to write? Shall condense it next time.)

This week's confession: I've been ripping pages from books. One book, actually, and it is mine and, well, only a guide book but a book nonetheless.

My first Valencian night wasn't parade worthy but things picked up the next day. One of my liberated pages pronounced Valencia a true walking city so I decided to test this and see how far and wide my backpack and I could go. Before the true adventure began I ducked to the bus station to change my return to Barcelona to Thursday rather than Saturday and hurried of an email to Alessia begging a bed for two extra nights.

I decided to visit the Valencian food market and see how it compared to Barcelona's offerings. The markets are housed in an architectural marvel with dome-shaped ceilings and stained-glass windows that draw the sun in. Not as large as Barcelona's but the fare was comparable. I found Spanish pasties for 90 cents, which were so good I went back everyday for lunch. I walked through the centre of the historical district to the bull fighting arena and though it was free admission, I viewed the stadium from the outside as bull fighting disgusts me, no matter what tradition says.

Choosing streets at random I zagged and zigged my way until I found myself at Jardines Del Turia, a boulevard of gardens that stretch its way to the sea. Here I met Iddriss (693683561) expert mobile phone repairer, newly arrived from Africa, who, like me, knew no Spanish. Unfortunately Iddriss didn't know much English either so our conversation was brief. Also as nice as Iddriss probably was, I was too busy worrying about the location of my wallet.

I kept walking and came across a pool of water fountains framed at one end by a series of columns; I picked one and spent the next hour reading in the sun. Dinner back in the empty hostel kitchen, wishing futilely that someone would materialise and be my friend - was my lowest point.

Tuesday was reserved for Monasterio de san Miguel de Los Reyes, a monastery that was being used as the national library. To my dismay, it was only open for school children visitors and nether I nor the girl at the hostel desk thought I could pass. Instead I caught the bus out of Valencia, through Albufera National Park, to El Palmar, a tiny village that until the 14th century was an island. Apparently this central meeting place for all the world's wind currents, served as the inspiration for some of our great writers. If I seem skeptical it's because, frankly, I am. It's pretty, to be sure, and I dutifully spent forty-five minutes strolling around admiring the architecture, which was nice enough but nothing screamed, or even yelled, inspiration for great works of genius. Back at the fountain (bus stop) I encountered the petite old lady who had travelled out with me and after learning I didn't speak Spanish, she took my arm and walked me over to stand between the two orange cones, which was very nice of her but really, was the bus driver going to refuse me entry because I'd chosen the shade of the fountain to rest by?

I visited the free Museu de Bellas Artes (museum of fine arts) that afternoon and after two floors of religious works discovered the true Spanish gems on the top level. By this time I was hungry so decided to walk in the general direction of Plaza de la Reina (of which my hostel is located). I spied a small cafe with tables offering the perfect street viewing of a busy junction and to my delight discovered their Menu del Dia had paella as the second dish; I'd been meaning to try it as Valencia is the birthplace of this famed Spanish meal. I think I shall have to try it again in Barcelona as am afraid, while I enjoyed it, I wasn't about to open every conversation with 'gosh, isn't paella the best thing you've ever had?'.

Wednesday was my favourite day; I love bikes. Not the most common sentence combination, I know, but exploring a foreign city by bike is possibly the most fun I've had. Especially when bike riders are practically lawless. The guy whom I hired my wheels from put it best: how do you say when a car is travelling one direction and you are travelling the other? Me: in opposite directions? Guy: Yes, exactly, that is allowed; everything is allowed.

The sensible part of me knows that helmets were invented for a reason, and a darn good one, but there's something liberating about being hatless with the wind dancing your hair like streamers. My bike and I went to Museo Valenciano de la Ilustracion y la Modernidad (museum of enlightenment and modernity) not for scholarly purposes but because I was curious about what you displayed to represent enlightenment and modernity - bike riders with helmets, perhaps? Unfortunately the sole exhibition, a session on modern thought, was in Spanish and my curiosity only extended so far. Never daunted I rode on to IVAM, the institute of Modern Art, which lauded itself as presenting the most avant-guard artistic proposals. I viewed the three exhibitions and came out feeling puzzled and every time I think back that puzzlement returns.

I took my bike through the Turio gardens; the sea was my ultimate destination. Discovered eating lunch on a bike is like putting shin guards on while driving a manual car: achievable but not recommended. Owing to construction my path came to a stop so I wasn't able to follow the gardens all the way to the waterfront. Instead I zoomed along the streets (true use of zoomed; the wind was so powerful I didn't need to peddle or do anything except hold on as I was propelled forward) driven by the scent of sea in the air. I passed the Royal Marina, home of the 32nd America's Cup, and then made my way along Malvarrosa, the seafront promenade for some reading in the sun.

On my way back I decided to visit the monastery I'd hoped to see the day before. It is the perfect home for a library; a Renaissance formation with a domed church rising from the centre. I parked my bike and was leaning over the railing with my camera when a guard materialised next to me and questioned me in Spanish. Hastily explained I didn't speak Spanish (in Spanish) and then followed with my English explanation that I was just looking. He disappeared and returned a few moments later with a brochure. He would prefer I look in the book.

Turning my bike around I found a side lane and rode down in hope of peeking in the grounds. No luck but to my surprise I came across open fields and people working, hoeing crops. In my intent to find the library I hadn't noticed the landscape changing - and realised that I was seeing how the poor Spanish lived. Back on the street, near the monastery, ribbons tied to the balcony of dilapidated abandoned buildings caught me eye and it struck me as odd that someone would bother decorating such worn-down empty dwellings and then I realised that it was washing and that people actually live here, and my tourist feelings of enchantment dimmed a little. I'm staying less than ten minutes away in the nicest area you could imagine and it's sad to think that such niceness can't extend for ever.

I ended my Valencian adventure with a dinner of churros, Spanish donuts that are long stick-like mouth-joys, which you dip in a cup of thick hot chocolate, at Horchateria Chocolatina cafe just near my hostel. I also finished at roughly the same time Scarlett Thomas' The End of Mr Y - I haven't mentioned books since I arrived in Spain, purely because I've been too busy to fit reading it. Shall have to rectify this as still carting small library around and getting sick of this extra weight.

Am back in Barcelona at my favourite hostel - travel to Austria this Sunday, hooray!