Accustomed as I am to Oxford’s severe Gothic, the Baroque of continental Europe never fails to floor me. The cathedral of Valencia combines both: a Gothic bell tower rubs shoulders with its sweeping facade, renovated in the latest style of the eighteenth century.
My first day in port, I had joined an excursion into city center. The guide highlighted the Colosseum-style bullfighting arena, the massive gates of the historic city walls, and the bizarrely futuristic aquarium complex as we rolled towards Valencia.
We alighted at last for a stop at the Plaça de la Mare de Déu.
Flowers offered to Mary filled the square – a practice that inspires mixed feelings for me, to put it mildly. The arrangements were undeniably lovely.
The guide turned us loose at the central market. I wandered the aisles open-mouthed, overwhelmed at the abundance: towers of fruit, mountains of vegetables, ham legs hanging overhead, and frozen fields of fishes – an expansive flounder and spiky sea urchins prominent among them. Conscious that we would depart for lunch in minutes, I restricted my purchases to a honey-drenched, chocolate-dipped “lazo de miel” and my bucket item for this stop: a cup of horchata, from its own hometown.
For lunch, our hosts displayed a paella grilled in a pan so large, two men carried it to the table.
The tour ended tranquilly, drifting along L’Albufera Lagoon outside the city.
