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LET ME ENTERTAIN YOU …
My favourite diversion during February was the Paris-based ‘l’ensemble des machines á laver musicales’ - or musical washing machines. Created by the visual artist Jacques Rémus, it was fun, innovative and utterly captivating. The daily showings in the Plaza de la Almoina between 13-24th gave interested crowds the spectacle of roughly 30 washing machines, pulled apart and put back together with wheels, cogs, buckets, cymbals, drums, you-name-it, all precisely configured to produce the syncopated ‘mecamusique’ that was quite extraordinary. The troupe had some great sponsors and was organised by FVEO (fundació Valencia escena oberta) a foundation set up to promote the theatre, music and dance of Valencia. The same company also performed daily in the Plaza de la Reina and the broom-juggling act was phenomenal, bringing huge crowds of delighted onlookers. I do hope you caught at least some of it. What a great city this is for entertainment.
SEE YOU LATER … BURBERRY
I don’t buy magazines but like any woman I like to see what’s happening in the leisure industry - and I use that term very loosely. How could I go on living without knowing about Nicole Kidman’s Botox blunders or Victoria Beckham’s obsession with – well, her obsessions, really. But my absolute favourite is the idiocy that is ‘fashion’. And now I see that ‘the mother’ of all alligator handbags can be bought here in Valencia for the modest sum of 10,000 euros. Now we all know I’m still smarting from Anita Darling’s refusal to give up her handbag (yes, I do know how cheap that sounds) nevertheless, questions must be asked: were any alligators harmed in the making of this must-have handbag? OR do we believe they are made from alligators specially bred in captivity, tended by kindly but eccentric English women of a certain age who spend their time between these appealing reptiles and a donkey sanctuary somewhere to the north of Khatmandu? OR were they dragged grunting and thrashing from some alluvial swamp by modern-day Amazonian warriors screaming ‘Oooohhh I can get shoes AND a handbag from this one!’ I think we all know the answer to this. I can almost hear those copywriters: ‘Hmmm, let’s see, dragged from swamp by Amazons, beaten to death with the jawbone of an ass or er, hairbrushes – hey guys, let’s call it ‘The Warrior’! And so it came to pass that ‘The Burberry Warrior’ was born. A word to the wise: if you already own a ‘Warrior’ and the word mentioned was ‘rehab’ then I advise you to ‘go, go, go’.
FAMOUS? WELL I’VE NEVER HEARD OF IT …
… which just goes to show that I don’t know everything. Last Sunday himself and I were taken by some Valencian friends to La Casa Famós, a charming restaurant in the Algirós region of ‘La Huerta’, the green belt that almost surrounds Valencia city. Situated in an old farmhouse opposite the newly renovated Ermita de Vera, the restaurant has an interesting history (see the full review in the Eat/Drink section) and serves traditional Valencian dishes cooked over orange wood fires. The puddings, all home cooked, are delicious. Excellent wines, too. Sadly, with the capital moving ever closer it seems doubtful that this fertile region, capable of four harvests a year, can survive, which would be a huge loss. Greedy developers take note.
Well, that’s it until next month.
11
LEVANTE EL DEDO
Whenever I buy an English newspaper, perhaps once a month, I see that the old country is in a more than depressing state. What does the rest of Europe think of us for bowing to Brussels, accepting political correctness, allowing immigrants carte blanche, even to changing my old village’s street signs to Russian and Polish (perfectly true) and … well, I could rant on and on but what’s the point? I now live in Spain where, like the French, they raise a finger to it all and do exactly as they please. Quite right.
DRIVE LIKE A VALENCIAN (to the tune of The Bangles’ hit ‘Walk like an Egyptian)
Actually, come to think of it the list is almost endless: live like… die like.. move like.. smoke like …
Having resolved (under threat) not to talk about driving standards I shall progress to pedestrian light incidents. Walking from Media Markt to Hipercor the other day I was struck by the number of people who simply couldn’t wait for the lights but charged lemming-like over the kerbs, dicing with death as drivers accelerated, in the hope (possibly), of gaining further points in the impatience stakes. And now that Fernando Alonso has bought himself a flat in the city - where I’m sure he’ll fit in very well indeed - I can hear the residents observing: ‘Nando a skilful driver? Nah, he just drives like a Valencian.’ I shudder to think what effect the arrival of Formula 1 will have on the city’s driving fraternity.
THE COLOUR OF PAINT
On a whim, I decided to paint our bedroom. At the last make-over I was obliged to doctor the warm, sunny yellow I’d bought until it became reminiscent of The Solent during the racing season (effluent green). Has anyone else noticed that what Spanish colour charts show isn’t necessarily what you get? I chose a pale tangerine but the reality was a disgusting pink that even Barbie would have blenched at. On seeking Himself’s opinion he muttered something (darkly) that had the word ‘brothel’ in the middle. However, it was more than made up for by my charming paint supplier who, on my purchasing said paint, refused my identity card, saying that he wouldn’t dream of taking it as I was a valued customer and he trusted me implicitly. He knew, didn’t he ….?
APRENDE INGLÉS
In the spirit of embracing the culture and language of our chosen country, we bought a television and decided to watch only those channels in Spanish. This would help us with our battle to speak and understand Spanish more easily. Each evening we sit dutifully before the screen, blinking in unison as we struggle to unravel the stream of rapid speech. Sub-titles are good, even though ‘Gente’ on TVE1 seems to be mostly about assassinations, wife-beating and burglary. Sad to say, we have been known to switch to ‘Aprende Inglés’ just to hear something we can readily understand. Although, I’m not sure the teaching techniques are quite the thing. A Spanish friend has been taking lessons for almost a year now and doesn’t actually understand ‘How are you?’ but he can say: ‘I’m pointing at you, are you pointing at me?’ Eh?
SOROLLA EXHIBITION
I queued with 3 friends (not for very long), and went on to enjoy one of the finest exhibitions I’ve seen in a long time. See my review in the arts section – coming soon. In the meantime, go. You won’t be disappointed.
THE HOUSE OF BENLLIURE
On the day following the Sorolla Exhibition I took some friends visiting from England to the Benlliure House on Blanquerias. I went before Christmas but the second visit seemed even more enchanting. This time I took along the tiv photographer and got some great shots. Keep an eye on the arts section during March for a full write-up. If it doesn’t inspire you to see it for yourself then I’ve failed but don’t let my lack of ability dissuade you - go anyway. It gives a wondrous insight into a family of artists at the turn of the 20th century. The furniture and artefacts are stunning and the garden is delightful. A museum that you could go to time and again and still find something you missed on previous visits.
10
HOW WAS IT FOR YOU?
The Jolly Season of Christmas, New Year and Tres Reyes have come and gone and I find myself wrapped in a miasma of January gloom, with only my memories to cheer me. But oh what fun we had. There was Christmas Day with friends in the city – a bacchanalian feast in the tradition of the true Anglo Saxon. Intoxicated, joyous, loud and singing along to the carols we’d grown up with - and several pounds heavier by Boxing Day. Actually, we were all extremely well-behaved – apart from the chocolate episode. Somebody (and you know who you are) gobbled, nay, gorged themselves with the last few chocolates in the box, depriving those of us who had only had one. You may think this trivial (and we all know I’m as shallow as a puddle when it comes to precious things) but chocolate is special. I had to say that. It was important to me. So that it doesn’t happen again. Ever.
On Boxing Day we decided to take a walk, partly to see the Belen just off the Plaza de la Reina. In case you are unaware of these representational scenes of the Nativity of Jesus of Nazareth, you’ll find them in churches all over the city during the Christmas holidays. The construction and display of nativity scenes is part of the Christmas liturgy in many parts of the world, especially those of the Catholic tradition. Some of them are truly amazing and not far short of works of art.
On New Year’s Day we wandered into the Octubre Gallery in the Calle San Fernando to see the beguiling Marilyn Monroe Exhibition, organised in collaboration with the collector Maite Minguez. Lots of frocks, postcards, missives and photos. On screen they also have the famous scene on the sidewalk in that white dress (and, no, it’s not part of the exhibition, sadly) and a re-play of ‘Happy Birthday Mr President’ showing JFK looking less than pleased. A vaguely prurient gaze into the life of an enigmatic woman whose death remains endlessly fascinating. It runs until 10 February and is well worth a visit. It’s also a good opportunity to look at the building that houses the gallery, a centre dedicated to the Valencian culture and language.
RESOLUTIONS
1. Actually read the books I got for Christmas. The ones I usually lie about: ‘Thank you so much, I love it. I’ve always wanted to know how to make piped cushions and pleated skirts.’ Everyone knows I failed my GCE in needlework.
2. Stop going to Zara Home under any pretext whatsoever.
3. Be kind to those less fortunate than myself – this doesn’t include street accordionists who play ‘Guantanamera’ and German drinking songs outside my window in the dead of night. Or English tourists who seem to spot me from two miles away and want to know where to have lunch, where they can buy cheap ceramics, gloves and fans and which bus goes to where and what’s the phrase needed to order said lunch that doesn’t involve olive oil, raw ham and tinned tuna.
4. Stop eating …. the list is endless.
5. Paint the studio (actually, I think that was on last year’s list as well…)
6. Do the ironing before I’m placed in the position of having to wear something straight from the washing line in the vain hope that body heat will straighten out the creases before I get to my destination.
7. Answer my emails within a two-month period.
8. Remember to write a shopping list before I go shopping – and, when I remember to do so, stop writing it in Spanish because I think it will help with the language, when all that happens is I have to ask people in the supermarket what it is I want.
9. Stop buying interesting looking things in Central Market and bringing them home and cooking them and making both me and himself ill for days on end.
10. Finish the novel I started in 2003 (actually, I think that was on last year’s list and the one before …)
So there you have it. Happy New Year. See you in February.
9
MAKE MINE AN ESPRESO DOBLÉ
It’s probably true to say that it’s impossible to get a bad cup of coffee in Valencia. It has been said that Spain is a nation that smokes for the World, one could also say the same is true of their coffee consumption. Even the smallest village has a caféteria. Why then, does every supermarket have a section devoted to the instant variety? And ‘de-caf’, what’s that all about? Coffee should be rich and strong, hot and steamy, like the man you always thought you’d marry, before you grew up (whenever that was/will be) and reality kicked-in. So who drinks this stuff, it doesn’t make sense? The other day, too lazy to switch on the coffee machine, I went for a cup of instant, followed by an increasing sense of panic when I had to decide whether the bathroom or the kitchen sink was nearer for a spit-out. Water from the Turia is more potable. I expect.
WHATEVER LOLA WANTS …
In the apartment directly above mine lives a very charming man called Jesús. He’s divorced and I dread it when it’s his turn to have the children. Two sets of twin boys and Lola who, at 6 years old, has clearly been here in a former life. When you look into those wide brown eyes you can see the woman within, the person she’s going to be – and you recoil. This child-woman can wrap her brothers, her father and her grandparents around her little finger. Even Jesús’ new girlfriend seems captivated, or is she smarter than she looks? But not the dog. Luna, a dachshund puppy. Inexperienced in the ways of assertive (and I’m being restrained here) small children, Luna has found the sense to run when she sees Lola coming. What a smart dog to recognise that the persuasive ‘Ven aqui, Lunita’ means something bad will happen if she obeys. Like being dressed in dolls’ clothes. Last week a tightly-buttoned jacket had to be surgically removed by Jesús and I with my scalpel (I use it for removing pastel crayon when my pictures take a turn for the worse, a frequent occurrence, just in case you were wondering if I had a sideline as a mobile surgeon) which was extremely harrowing. However, worse than Lola are the bongos that said girlfriend has given Jesús for his birthday. Why? Himself and I go out when Jesús plays ‘his music’ which may be described as ‘retro-ambient-digital-discordant-vibic-ethno-garbage’. Arnold Schoenberg (the very father of negative music) sounds kinda-fun-and-groovy compared to this. The problem is that Jesús doesn’t understand rhythm. Syncopation is just a word. When Jesús plays his bongos I get a strange and unpleasant feeling in my water and a tightness across my chest. In short, it does my head in …. Luna, on the other hand (unless she’s deeply musical), views them much as she might a doggy chew. So, if I can only get my hands on them I may just take a leaf out of Lola’s book: ‘Oh Lunita, mire lo qué tengo...
SPEAKING IN TONGUES – OR ARE THEY JUST BARKING?
Still on the subject of things canine, what is this fascination the Spanish have with dog-ownership? Surely it’s a British pastime? But wherever you go, city or country, there is always, somewhere, a dog barking. Is this a communication thing? And, if so, what the hell are they talking about? What do dogs have to talk about? Something to ponder upon, perhaps? In the UK they are disciplined. In Spain, it seems, they are treated like children and allowed to do as they please. They will bark at anything – or nothing – the moon, a shadow, a piece of paper blowing in the wind… You note that all these things are noiseless, that’s because Spanish dogs are almost deaf from being subjected to daily masclétas throughout their sorry lives. It’s like that book you can never remember the title to: ‘And somewhere in the distance a dog barked … and then another… and another… and suddenly they were legion’. Translated from the Spanish is my guess.
ART FOR ART’S SAKE
Have you seen the Sorolla exhibition? (See Home Page under ‘Culture’.) Not only is it free but some friends of mine, out for a walk, passed by the Bancaixa Gallery and were able to get in with hardly any wait, despite rumours that it’s fully-booked until January. Worth a try. Whilst on-the-run from Jesús’ bongos, we went to the Casa-Museo José Benlliuré. Near the IVAM, it’s the house of the Benlliuré family and, whilst not the most famous sons of Valencia (they were all artists), it gives a fascinating insight into life at the turn of the twentieth century. The house (similar to Gaudi’s ‘La Pedrera’ in Barcelona) and its charming gardens are a delight. It also has a room dedicated to current Valencian artists on a rotating basis. Go.
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