Story: Coexisting in Valencia

“Do you smoke?” asks the man who has been lounging with friends next to us on the marble stairs of La Plaza de la Virgen for quite some time. Now, this may very well be the first thing asked of you by a variety of folk one will encounter between the hours of 10 p.m. and 9 a.m. at La Plaza de la Virgen in Valencia, Spain, but more about that later.

“Hashish. Do you smoke hashish?” he corrects himself, noticing the indicative cigarette I am holding in one hand. He has risen from his seat and is now standing directly in our field of vision. My travel pals Illy, Lexie and I cautiously nod yes; although we have steadily grown more at ease with the locals’ forward nature, it is still always rather unnerving at first and, more importantly, we have not had anything to drink that night. Alcohol consumption most assuredly helps one prepare for late-night interactions at La Plaza de la Virgen.

“Well,” he continues earnestly in praisable English, “I wanted to invite you to join us for a smoke. We have been sitting next to each other for quite some time, and your friend is talking to my friend.” He points up a few steps, where our friend Jesse is attempting a political conversation in broken Spanish with one of our fellow’s comrades. Well, comrades for the night, at least. When you encounter a nighttime group at La Virgen, you can never really be sure if they have known one another their whole lives or made each other’s acquaintance five minutes ago.

“You have been sitting here this whole time, just looking, not talking,” our fellow points out with a hint of derision in his voice, masked by a smile. “In La Plaza de la Virgen you come to meet, to talk, to make friends. You are just sitting here watching.”

We all look at each other awkwardly and I try to explain that we do like to meet people but also enjoy watching. There are so many entertaining things to look at as well, Lexie adds. It was true; at 2 a.m., a relatively early hour in Valencian time, there were probably at least two hundred people throughout the plaza: packs of skateboarders coasting across the marble expanse in turn; musicians seated Indian-style slapping on bongos and strumming guitars; unfortunate-looking folk peddling beer, water, fedoras and cheap sunglasses; groups seated on the stairs drinking, smoking, partaking in the spectacle or simply coexisting.

Our fellow nods submissively and repeats that if we would like to smoke, they are rolling up a few joints and will pass them our way.

He had gotten us. Determined not to be pigeonholed, I move a few feet to perch closer to him and proceed to have an interesting cultural conversation about La Plaza and its array of inhabitants. He tells me that probably half the people in front of us are actually locals, explaining that in the summertime La Plaza de la Virgen becomes an international party of sorts. Most notably, he told me that his favorite pastime was to shove coins deep into the cracks of the marble plaza floor, smoke a joint and laugh as tourists tried to pull them up.

Many a character similar to our fellow- I regretfully cannot recall his name- can be found at La Plaza de la Virgen during the early morning hours. From the moment the sun goes down until its first rays emerge over the horizon, the plaza is bustling with activity. And usually the degenerate kind.

The plaza, centrally located in the historic district of Valencia, is a hub of sorts; a meeting place and relaxing point for locals and a voyeuristic attraction for tourists. It covers about one block in length and half a block in width, and, being as historically rich as it is socially intriguing, is really quite beautiful. It is largely surrounded by La Basilica de Virgen de Los Desamparados and the Apostles’ Door of La Catedral; in the center lies the stunning Turia fountain, where people will gather to take photos or sit on the edge and dip their feet in its refreshingly cool flow of water.

Stepping foot inside the adjacent La Basilica is akin to teleporting to a different planet in comparison to La Plaza de la Virgen. The setting within the relatively small, circular main sanctuary is instantly serene; it is a wonder to me that one can’t hear the boisterousness of La Virgen from inside. Indeed, La Basilica is relatively quiet, outside of a low murmuring from tourists and regulars and soft, harmonic music emitting from concealed speakers. I spent quite a while one afternoon sitting inside the sanctuary, merely taking in the scenery and watching the benches fill with locals. It is exquisite inside- aged red marble walls are broken up by symmetrical stone columns reaching to the domed ceiling, which can easily be spotted outside by its blue tile roofing. The gold ornamentation on the walls and pulpit are plentiful, giving the room an antique-store ambiance.

I thought the plethora of people sitting around me were also merely admiring the view; however, I quickly realized that they were not watching, but waiting. At precisely 6:30, an elderly priest, adorned in white, entered and everyone stood up and began to sing a lovely hymn in Spanish. I had unknowingly sat down for a mass.

The service was lovely- not for the content (seeing as I couldn’t understand but a few words), but for the setting. I have visited places of worship across the globe on the premise of tourism, but never before have I experienced the magic of participating, of being a part of what all these beautiful places were painstakingly constructed and preserved for.

Just next door, La Catedral seems quite impersonal compared to the intimacy of La Basilica. It most likely has to do with the utter monstrosity of it, and the fact that it is packed with tourists rather than pious locals. The obvious draw to La Catedral is its long-withstanding Roman architecture. The towering, cross-shaped building has been left in its original, simple stone-walled state, allowing the age-old craftsmanship to be truly admired.

However, sitting inside I couldn’t help but be anxious to return to the nearby Plaza de La Virgen, sit at an outdoor table and check out the action. One stretch of the plaza terrace, opposite of La Basilica, usually consists of a large cluster of tables and chairs, belonging to the corner café, in which people will sit, eat, drink, people watch, or all of the above as late as 2 a.m. and as early as 9 a.m.; only in between those hours will the seating area be cleared by the café, presumably to allow Valencia’s sanitation staff ample space for cleaning, and more likely to prevent stealing. The closing of the corner café and heladeria is no indication of La Plaza’s closing hours, however; during these magic, early-morning hours is when the most excitement takes place.

It has been around since Roman times, and served as the main square in Valencia until the rise of Plaza del Ayuntamiento. Just a short walk south and a bit west of La Plaza de la Virgen, this plaza boasts the Ayuntamiento, or Town Hall, as one can hopefully deduce from its name. It boasts a variety of other impressive architecture, including Valencia’s main post office.

For the most part, the heart of the expansive Plaza del Ayuntamiento (46002, Valencia, Spain) is largely empty. Encircled by intersecting strings of major Valencian roads bustling with cars, buses, pedestrians, cafes and newsstands, the dull gray stone-tiled diameter is conversely bare. This is presumably the mandatory space left open before any Town Hall, inviting the city’s inhabitants to gather and “put in their two cents”, so to speak, but the extent of exclamatory activity I saw in the Plaza del Ayuntamiento on the many occasions I passed through were gaggles of women ogling each other’s latest purchases from the plethora of nearby boutiques.

You see, this plaza is located just outside Valencia’s shopping district and within a moment’s walking distance of the train station, so the Plaza del Ayuntamiento is constantly laced with tourists, heads buried in map, or female shoppers, ankles buried in credit card debt.

There is one other defining feature of the Plaza del Ayuntamiento: flower stands. Oddly enough, the entire perimeter is lined with flower stands, 13 of them to be precise, lined up neatly in rows. Rosa Mart, Vincenta Martinez Flores, Montaña, Suviflor! But don’t let the variety of names fool you; each stand is meticulously identical in appearance: a small, light-wood rectangular structure, trimmed in brown and roofed in dark green. Curiously, the blank rear walls face the interior of the plaza, and glass windows and open awnings face the busy street outside. Sunflowers, roses, orchids, mixed bouquets, you name it, burst forth through open doors, spilling out into the busy street so that a pedestrian might call their path a garden rather than a sidewalk. It is as though the flower vendors are unquestionably aware of the inner plaza’s barrenness, so that they place their enticing displays facing outwards. If you are looking for flora whilst traversing the streets of Valencia, please look no further than the Plaza del Ayuntamiento.

What struck me is that, despite the surplus and array of flowers for sale throughout the plaza, the ones that catch my eye instantly are the only which are free. On each corner of the gray expanse lies a patch of red flowers, splashes of bloom so brilliant it appears as though the grass has suffered a fresh, gaping wound.

On the patches of grassy knoll that aren’t blood-red with flora, people can be found sprawled out beneath the shade, the only exemplaries of relaxation in the otherwise operative area. However, it is usually teenagers making out and not the interesting folk that frequent La Plaza de La Virgen. Overall, the Plaza del Ayuntamiento lacks the cultural flavor of La Plaza de la Virgen; the hobos of Valencian society don’t seem very welcome there. I laid on a knoll one day to take in the sights, and after “checking out” the other knoll inhabitants for a few minutes, one snotty teenage boy (passionately making out, obviously, with a girl I estimated to be about 14) asked if I wanted to join. Although he spoke in Spanish and it was hard to tell, I am pretty sure his question was entirely sarcastic.

I had to wonder where the homeless might go for some peace and quiet in the shade when La Plaza de la Virgen is operating under its much more tourist-oriented daytime hours, and is also bathed in suffocating, inescapable sunlight. My question was somewhat answered during a casual jaunt through Los Viveros, a large park and recreation area a quick trek east over the riverbed from the faithful La Virgen. In one of the park’s many tree-lined alcoves, three homeless men were sprawled out on benches, snoozing to the gentle stream of a small fountain. On a bench directly across the alcove, an elderly couple sat serenely, hand-in-hand, reading a magazine. I have never seen citizens with a home coexist so calmly with those who do not.

Indeed, Los Viveros (Plaza de la Legión Española 13, 46010 Valencia, Spain) is home to a variety of people and settings: a quaint, peaceful garden laid out with an Alice in Wonderland-esque maze of bushes; a large grassy area boasting a ridiculous variety of trees, greenery, and dogs; a large road of soft ground used for jogging, biking, or strolling; a scenic pond by which toddlers sit with their parents, tossing bits of bread to the swans and ducks putting about. There is also an amphitheatre, which has been used extensively for live concerts during Valencia’s “Feria de Julio”, or July Festival.

Just east of Los Viveros lies a spot in Valencia where people also come to meet and relax- but not to talk. In fact, you had better not talk or it is more than likely you will spoil someone else’s special moment. Jardines de Monforte (Plaza de la Legión Española, 46010 Valencia, Spain), a sprawling, 18th century garden, is the most tranquil setting I found myself in during the six weeks I explored Valencia. Concealed to the outside world by a high stone wall, the gardens are much more expansive than one might think upon first appraisal. They are more or less divided into three sections; the first zone is a geometrical, Neoclassical garden displaying more of the groomed, Alice in Wonderland shrubbery, marble statues, ornamental alcoves and fountains, and a long tunnel of vegetation and flora obviously meant for couples seeking the utmost privacy. A “Tunnel of Love” so to speak. The second section is more open, featuring a small palace surrounded by terraces, and the third section is a denser, more natural garden. This area offers plenty of shade, and a small hill with a winding upward path allows one to get an expansive view of the garden’s different features. Within each zone of Jardines de Monforte is still more variety; a host of different flowers abound, and each alcove or resting space boasts a diverse layout and aura. Its disparate nature gave me the impression that any person could find a special place there, or any one person a variety of special places to suit their current mood. This garden aims to please.

Jardines de Monforte is unbelievably serene; upon entrance you can almost feel the silence in the air; it commands such a level of respect that I understood at once that there were unspoken rules of conduct whilst wandering its paths. It also feels rich with history; although the shrubbery may be impeccably groomed and the flora lovingly tended to, the garden’s man-made objects reveal its age. As I sat in one alcove, I observed that the fountain in the center was rusted; one side of the outer railing was broken and sat in cracked, weathered cement. It could not have been more beautiful. The rustic appearance of this and many other features of Jardines de Monforte reveal its longevity, assuring one that people have been enjoying it thoroughly for centuries.

In fact, nearly every architectural aspect of Valencia shares this feature, appearing lovingly worn in, utilized and admired over time, meant for all its inhabitants’ to enjoy together. Even the ones who can’t necessarily give anything back.

There is a man who always stands in a small passageway leading southwest out of La Plaza de la Virgen, parallel to La Catedral. Rather, he kneels; he kneels on his knees smack dab in the center of the road on a rectangular piece of cardboard. Cup of change in front, he stretches both arms out to each side, wide as they will go, and prays loudly in Spanish for money. He will remain in this position for God knows how long; I have passed him on the way to dinner, on the way to a museum, on the way to a bullfight, and he will be in the same spot when I make my return trip.

Praying Man would seem rather ordinary, as ordinary as beggars kneeled in the middle of street with their arms outstretched might be for that matter, if it weren’t for his face. His expression is blank, sedated; his eyes stare lifelessly ahead, focusing on nothing. It is quite unnerving to look into his face as one passes him, and I have grown to avoid walking in his vicinity whenever I pass.

I assumed that everyone else shared my sentiment towards Praying Man: that he was a creep, a beggar to be avoided. But in Valencia such reservations are just not the norm. One of the last nights I spent out and about in Valencia, I was performing a routine prowl through La Plaza de la Virgen in search of cigarettes and entertainment when I spotted Praying Man- only he wasn’t praying this time. He wasn’t in the passageway either; he wasn’t kneeling on his piece of cardboard; his arms weren’t outstretched towards some unreachable object. He was seated on the steps of the plaza, the same steps upon which I so often sat, petting a dog and chatting with a group of men. He looked at once at home with them; welcome; coexisting; one with the rest of the exuberant late-night Plazaians.

Only in Valencia.