We made an acquaintance with another real estate agent, Rafa, who managed to get us a viewing of a rooftop terraced apartment in Plaza del Negrito. This was another apartment on our top ten list that remained elusive until we met patient and kind Rafa. Even though it is a bohemian location now, with readings at vegan restaurants and trendy bars, it still has the feel of the past with ornate 18th Century Palaces and fragrant lemon trees that ring the fountained plaza. This barrio in el Carmen is know colloquially as “El Negrito” from a little cherub perched on top on the fountain. In 1850, when drinking water finally arrived in Valencia, this fountain was one of the first to offer fresh clean water. A Spanish cocktail called Agua de Valencia is a nod to this Valencian fountain water.

Our previous real estate agent told us the owner of this elusive apartment was flipping the beautiful rooftop apartment to an Airbnb and was taking it off the apartment rental market. It took Rafa only a few days to convince the owner to let us see the apartment and consider renting it for a year. 

We wandered down a narrow feeder street but could not find the apartment. We texted Rafa who responded he was en route and to wait for him. We walked back to the fountain and listened as a tour guide explained to his group that the fountain water had been blessed and while it hadn’t turned to wine yet, the bars around them could fix that problem.

Steve checked on line and the bars in the plaza stayed open and played music until 3 am. It also said was a favorite stop for tourists and locals alike during the Fallas- a two week street party with fireworks.

Airbnb reviewers in the area didn’t complain of the noise. Of course, if the people staying at these rentals were participating in the festivals and frequenting the bars, they would be part of the crush of people up until 3 am making the noise.

Rafa appeared and led us to a door but the key he picked up didn’t work. He called his office and got a code, and that worked to open the outside door. We took the elevator up but strangely the apartment wasn’t there. Rafa spoke to a man getting off the elevator who said we were in the wrong building and to go next door. We went back down and found a small door hidden behind a restaurant umbrella that proved to be the right place. The ornate staircase and exposed brick inside the wooden door made a great first impression. We squished in the tiny elevator and went up to the loft and climbed a few steps to the rooftop terrace. The panorama view of church towers, cupolas and terra-cotta roofs was dazzling in the sunlight even with neighboring building’s pipes, power lines and mismatched laundry drying on the line. Lit up at night it would be spectacular. The apartment layout with three bedrooms, two of them with en suite bathrooms, would be comfortable when guests came to visit. The church bell in the distance made a pleasant sound, so our only concern was noise at night.

Rafa said to walk the plaza that night to see if the noise at the street cafes and bars was unbearable. He also said the Fallas were cancelled this year due to the virus and with the recent uptick, they would probably we cancelled again, and that the people in the bars at night were still at a record low. He said to let him know if we wanted to proceed. We walked back at 10 pm, and the plaza had a golden glow and there was minimal hubbub and noise. We decided this was our place.

The next day we messaged Rafa that it was a go and we went to AProperties to sign the lease and put down a deposit. We should hear next week if the owner approves the lease and a few minor repairs. FInger’s crossed we sign the final paperwork on the 5th and get the keys the 7th to move in. Perfect timing as our Airbnb rental ends on the 8th. Getting closer to being settled feels like an accomplishment. Thomas Carlyle said it well: “Nothing stops the man who desires to achieve. Every obstacle is simply a course to develop his achievement muscle.”

We stopped at the bank and finally were approved to open a bank account and transfer money in order to make security deposits for the apartment.

Now it’s time to celebrate successful apartment hunting adventures and take the metro to the beach. It’s only a fifteen minute metro ride to the Mediterranean Sea to enjoy the cool water. See you at the beach!

“I see you looking for the ocean. There’s a river in you. It’s deep in your eyes.” J. Foreman

My eyes betray me during the second or third week of every international move. The glint of enthusiasm gives way to a dull disenchantment as roadblocks inevitably crop up when we try to settle into a home. Termites, dead mice, no power, the usual culprits build until a sinking sensation drags me down. In my drowning phase, the ocean beckons and just standing in the surf reignites the spark that has extinguished in me. 

Water has always been my element. I remember the exact moment, as a six year-old, when I first floated on the Great Salt Lake. The stinging cuts on my legs, my burning eyes, the crushing heartache because a friend relocated… all washed away when I lay on the salty water and heard my heartbeat in my ears. In that moment, I learned of water’s power to heal. The power was confirmed when my mom, on a whim, decided to drive five hundred miles to the Oregon coast to see her Aunts. I could smell the ocean just before I felt its power in my chest. The crashing surf smoothed the sand and my soul from anxieties I couldn’t articulate. I was revived and reassembled anew.

Growing up landlocked, I looked for “the ocean” in tattered National Geographic while biting my nails before piano lessons, in the swift canal where river otters floated by while we sweated in the fields bucking hay, in the library’s engaging classic’s section when a math test was on the horizon, in the corn field’s rustling leaves when my feelings were hurt again… whenever I felt lonely, overwhelmed, or starved for something or somewhere that I couldn’t place, I looked for my ocean. It wasn’t until I was “fishing” on the Snake River with my dad, when the makeshift pole I was using was ripped from my hand by a strong current, and he said, “It will be in the Pacific Ocean soon,” that I understood at an elemental that I too had a river deep in me, a strong current that was always rushing to the ocean to be uplifted and buoyed.

It wasn’t surprising that I married someone whose career meant we’d relocate every three to four years somewhere over the sea. Two of those moves plopped us on the tiny island of Guam in the middle of the Pacific surrounded by sapphire waters. It was a fairy tale place where sea turtles, enormous humphead wrasse and ethereal manta rays kept us company while scuba diving. I loved the sound of breathing underwater and how fish nibbled the bubbles that formed when I exhaled underwater. But even there I hit the disillusionment period after a few weeks until I got in the water and felt the tide untether my stress and carry it away. Only then could I return to my stable core.

Which brings us to this last move to Spain. We have been here twelve days and it’s time for a meltdown, a drought, a headache that can be seen in my eyes. The bank account we tried to open, couldn’t be initiated as Steve’s retirement paperwork, showing his monthly pension, is still sitting on a case agent’s desk. Without a bank account we cannot enter into a year long apartment rental. No amount of phone calls or messages to the case agent can get her on the line to fix this stalemate. 

And our real estate agent Jorgen finally got the keys to the apartment at the top of our list, a penthouse with Northeast orientation, with lots of natural light, wrap around balconies with city views of Valencia in coveted Plaza Ayuntamiento; but, the offer we put in was brushed aside as the property owner decided to take it off the market. She offered us another apartment located in Ciutat Vella, in the el Carmen neighborhood. While located in a lovely 19th century building, the apartment was one long room and didn’t have natural light. The white marble floor was a plus as well as the beautiful hardwoods in the bedrooms; however, the cupboard doors were barely hanging, water stains marred the ceiling, the sofa was covered in mold and dog hair and worst of all– two industrial power cables converged right over the terrace from two neighboring palazzo. An abrupt recoil was my immediate response, but I wondered if this was as good as we could get. No other real estate agents had responded to our emails about viewing apartments. And if I did throw out our wish list and took this apartment by default, was I ignoring my intuition and just delaying the inevitable meltdown that would happen in a few weeks when the dreariness of sitting in a dark apartment, looking at two power cables while eating dinner, drowned me in a river distaste?

Still indecisive, we switched gears and started working on getting a ‘cita previa,” an appointment, to register at the Spanish police office in Bailen with our NIE (Numero de identical de extranjero) which is a residence number and tax identifier that we were assigned when we applied for our retirement Visas. The NIE is needed to open a bank account or get a driver’s license. Additionally we made an appointment at the end of July to register for “el Padron,” a population registration at city hall, but then cancelled it as we didn’t have an apartment address or receipt of first months rent. We crossed our fingers that with the NIE and hopefully an apartment rental contract by the end of July, and el Padron appointment by mid August, that we could then pursue a TIE (Tarjeta de Indentidad de Extranjero) a foreigner identity and residency card by Fall. 

Steve tried a dozen times to make the cita previa appointment but could never get through. Looking on Google maps for the hours of the Spanish Police department, he saw that someone had written you can only make appointments online on Fridays at 9:30. He waited until Friday at 9:30 and was able to make an appointment for himself. It would not let him use the same IP address for an appointment for me. He tried using his phone with a SIM chip to make me an appointment to no avail. We figured we would ask when we got there if I needed my own appointment or could combine with Steve.

On Monday morning we stopped and copied our passport pages before heading to the Cita Previa appointment. We walked about thirty minutes to the police station located behind the train station. Even though we had an 11 am appointment, they said to be there thirty minutes early. But at 10:30 the guard told us to get out of line and come back at 11. We found a street cafe, got drinks and waited until the required time. 

At 11 we were let in the gate and left standing in the waiting room inside. After ten minutes we were called into another room and asked to stand on a line, a foot away from four desks pushed together where masked police employees shouted to be heard from behind glass. The man we stood in front of shouted something… Steve and I blinked and then just looked at each other with concern. The man repeated himself twice but with all the noise interference from eight other people talking at the same time, we could not understand what the man was asking us in Spanish. After seeing our confusion, he motioned for us to stand further back, and he took off his mask. He asked our nationality, and this time we understood. Steve answered and turned over our passports. The man typed in Steve’s NIE, and then started shaking his head. Again we couldn’t understand what he was saying. Another man walked over and said that we were in the wrong place. We needed to go to another place to get fingerprints taken. EU citizens were assigned to the Bailen office but not Americans. Our next step was to get fingerprinted and apply for a TIE. None of what he was saying was written anywhere online. We realized the blogs we had been reading were written by British citizens who were applying for residency in Spain. We were in uncharted waters as Americans. We could see at this point why people pay immigration attorneys to wade through this crazy maze. 

I looked around and confirmed that only Brits were in line at the Cita Previa Office in Bailen– there were no South Americans, and definitely no one from North America. I could feel the painful edges of migraine gather behind my eyes. To stave it off I imagined standing in the cool ocean, a ten minute metro ride away.

The man behind the glass told us to wait, and he tried to call someone to make us new appointments. He tried five people, and no one answered. We were told to wait outside the office while he tried to get someone on the line. We waited thirty minutes, and the man left for his lunch. Another 15 minutes passed and another man came to tell us that there were no appointments available until September. He handed us a piece of paper and told us to go back online and make another Cita Previa appointment, and this time click the box for “Expedicion Tarjeta” to get fingerprinted for a TIE. The man was very nice and even though we waited for two hours, we felt like it wasn’t a complete disaster as we gleaned some new information. Steve got online and found appointments available on Fridays in August. We left the station.

We passed Santander Bank on the way home and stopped to talk to Mr. Palomo again to see if a letter Steve found, listing his interim retirement payments, would suffice to open an account. Mr. Palomo xeroxed the paper and said he would talk to a colleague and asked us to come back tomorrow. We headed home, and I waited for the migraine and unsettling disillusionment feeling to kick in…but neither came. We would have more success mañana, the Spanish word for tomorrow. Our American need to get things done “now” was already shifting to more relaxed Spanish rhythms after only two weeks in Valencia. The deep river in me tapped into patient reserves I didn’t know I possessed. Mañana we will go back to the bank, look at another apartment and head to the beach to shore up our courage and fortitude as foreigners. The river inside me is guiding me to the ocean and stability of soul. 

Once we decided we were moving to Spain, we had several hurdles to clear, including a new virus ravaging the world, before we could relocate. An old Ronald Reagan quote “there are no barriers to our progress except those we ourselves erect,” kept us pressing forward.

The first challenge was getting Steve retired and through his final procedures to confirm remission. His retirement party, also a “Bon Voyage,” went smoothly with friends from Guam and Italy gathering to celebrate his nearly 25 year career; however, he hit a speed bump when all his doctor appointments and procedures were cancelled for March and pushed back to an indefinite time in May, as everything was reallocated to take care of COVID-19 patients. Our apartment lease was up the end of May which left a minuscule window to get all his tests run and sent to his oncologist.

Not one to take “no” for an answer or sit idle, I got on the phone and found a sympathetic nurse. She called around and found a surgery center to do one of Steve’s procedures. But then two days later she called and said the surgery center had cancelled. I sent up a prayer and waited. Three weeks later, the same nurse called and said she had found another surgery center, and she scheduled an appointment for late April. I called the radiology department and got his CT scan scheduled as well. It was going to be just under the wire.

While this was underway, I set about selling and packing our belongings. In our six plus previous international moves, a professional moving company was hired to do all the heavy lifting. This time with Steve retired, we were on our own in a three level townhome with over fifty stairs and tight bends. To make matters more challenging, both of us had major surgery over the previous six months, and we were not at our peak strength, but we pressed on. 

Facebook Marketplace and a coworker and her friend worked miracles. I took photos of all our furniture, and listed it on Marketplace. Offers flew in immediately. When buyers were on their way, we put the furniture they wanted on our driveway so they had contactless pickup, and they made payments instantly with PayPal and Venmo. It was ridiculously easy. Steve was sure I’d have a meltdown selling the antiques and furniture we had collected over the years from Asia and Europe. I waited but no melancholy crept up on me. I asked our children what pieces they wanted, and reserved those, but the rest we sold. It felt good knowing the kids wouldn’t be tasked with purging our belongings once we passed on.

I listed my Korean tansu chest on Marketplace and a Korean man purchased it for his elderly father, who wept when he saw it, as he took nothing with him when he fled North Korea. Our bedroom suites, armoires, lamps and paintings, Steve’s coworker’s children and her friend, who was sleeping on the floor as she let her elderly mother use her bed, gratefully took it all. Everything we amassed in thirty years of marriage was disassembled and lugged away in a handful of hours. I looked around the empty house and, like a kid touching the spot where a tooth used to be, expected to feel a dull ache, but only elation and not pain was the resounding response. I felt joy that our belongings were being repurposed. We slept on an air-mattress on the floor and by lamplight read books, ate the chocolate and stayed buoyed by the pep talks written on cards by a dear friend named Janet who cheered us on day after day.

My circa 1910 French provencal table and buffet had been a sticky point. We bought it from an almost 100 year-old Italian man in Rome, Italy, named Aielo who had purchased it from a British Diplomat in the 1920s. I desperately loved this table, its ornately carved feet, hidden drawers and delicate chairs. Daily meals with our growing family were spent around this table. When the kids grew up and left home, the one constant was them returning for holidays and eating pasta and Panetone and talking around the antique table. I had this romantic notion of the array of loving meals and lively conversations that were centered around this table over the decades. I told myself, I could not part with the table. But…. one day while selling my sofa tables, a lady from Peru, of Italian descent, came by, and she started telling me about her extended family who had just come to the US with nothing but a suitcase. I was moved to give them my dishes, appliances, tablecloths, clothing, curtains, and…. my antique table for next to nothing. She sent me several photos of her family eating Easter dinner around the table, with my dishes and tablecloth. My heart was content knowing the tradition of food, family and conversation around the table continued.

The hardest thing to deal with was the numerous bins of photos from my grandmother, parents who had passed on and my children. Over the years, I had become the unofficial family historian for my maternal line as well as for my husband’s family. I started scanning slides, negatives and photos and uploaded everything to FamilySearch. It was a labor of love to label and preserve these family artifacts. I turned old family 8 mm movies from the 1960s and VHS-C from the 90s into digital movies. I knew I couldn’t leave this to my millennial, minimalist children. Whenever I came upon a barrier on our move to Spain– Goodwill being closed to donations, consulate closures, cancelled appointments– I started scanning photos to alleviate worry. This massive project I had put off for twenty years took shape in the cloud and in archival page protectors placed in organized photo albums, while we packed for Spain.

In the meantime, Steve contacted moving companies and storage units, and got quotes for moving our sentimental items, and the few pieces of furniture our son and daughter-in-law wanted to use in their first home. Steve carried heavy book boxes and bins down four flights of stairs to the garage without complaint. Daily he monitored and tried to contact the Spanish Embassy and Consulate to get an appointment to secure visas for Spain. 

Steve began corresponding with a consular officer, even though the embassy was closed. Thankfully he had the foresight to get us fingerprinted and submitted the paperwork to confirm we had no criminal history pre virus shutdown. He had also made two trips to Main State get our documents Apostille’d. We had a hiccup with needing our marriage license Apostille’d by Sec State in Idaho, but a few phone calls later, and trips to the post office, it was in the mail to us before everything shut down. He got us an appointment at the Spanish consulate in D.C. the first day it opened in May and arranged to have our visas overnighted to us in Texas while we visited family. If all that wasn’t enough, he prepped for his procedures and waited for health results with grace. By May 20th when the moving truck pulled up, it was confirmed he was cancer free. 

When the moving van left, we cleaned our townhome and in 90 degree humid heat Steve loaded the Jeep with suitcases, a freestanding globe, my Kitchen-Aid, rugs and a marble column we were taking to our daughter in UT. He couldn’t see out the rear view mirror and barely had enough elbow room to drive but we set off for a 4,500 mile journey from VA to FL, LA to TX, OK to CO and UT to ID in order to say goodbye to family. 

All through the move, we looked online at furnished apartments using Fotocasa and Idealista.com. We found several apartments with terraces that we liked, but the updated and newly renovated units with outdoor terrazzas seemed to go off the market quickly. Not deterred, we figured there would still be great apartments that local real estate agents knew about when we arrived in Spain.

Despite all this forward momentum of the previous months, the wind suddenly left our sails and things started to stall out. We visited family in Destin FL and Lake Charles LA, and thought our passports with the visa inside would meet us in San Antonio. Five weeks later though, our visas still weren’t approved yet. On top of it all, Steve could not get ahold of the moving company in Baltimore. They told us they would only hold our boxes for 4 weeks. We were at the four week mark, and they weren’t returning any emails or phone calls. We were backed into a corner with no home or belongings and no way to move forward.

We have seen a pattern our whole married life. At the very last second, when our imminent destruction is upon us, that is when the miracles happen. The moving van suddenly called, and they were en route to our storage unit. We threw suitcases back in the Jeep and drove to Dallas to meet them at a climate controlled unit. In was pouring when we pulled up and our boxes were getting drenched from the deluge and a piece furniture was damaged but all in all we felt relief to be moving forward again. While we were leaving the storage unit, we got a call from the Spanish consulate. The consular officer shared the good news that our visas were finally approved! However, the catch was we would only be allowed into Spain on a direct flight from the US. The plane could not touch down in any other European country due to EU travel bans against Americans. With many airlines no longer flying from the US to Europe, this was our next barrier to get over. 

After hours of searching, Steve found one direct flight with American Airlines from SLC to Dallas to Madrid on July 7. With the increase of corona virus cases and EU travel restrictions flooding the news, our families started emailing us about a plan B– staying in the US. We talked about this contingency plan but we still felt we should press forward. After a couple days Steve got ahold of the Spanish consulate, and they confirmed that with the retirement visa and our direct flight, that we could still fly to Spain.

At the SLC airport, the American Airlines employee behind the counter shook his head when we checked in for Spain. He wished us luck but said “don’t be surprised if they send you back.” We wore masks for over 24 hours straight with the flight to Dallas, to the nine hour flight across the Atlantic to Madrid and then during the ten hour layover and flight to Valencia. We felt a bit lightheaded from the exertion, stress, time change and lack of sleep but euphoria was the overriding emotion. The plane passengers consisted of Spaniards who had been stranded in the U.S.. Three hours in Steve stretched out across three seats and got some rest. I watched Ford vs Ferrari for the third time and told myself only those who dream big get the pay off. 

At passport control in Madrid, we wondered if the gig was up. I held my breath as the Immigration Officer looked confused when I handed him my US passport. He flipped through a few pages and then looked at me quizzically as he didn’t see the visa. I said: “there is a visa in a few more pages.” He flipped through a few more pages and saw the retirement visa. He looked at it closely, looked at me, back at the visa and…. then nodded and stamped my passport. Huge exhalation. Health Officials met us and took our temperatures and looked over our health forms. The nurses stepped back after confirming we didn’t have a fever, and we were granted entrance to Spain. We took our first real breaths and smiled. We did it!

There were so many moving parts and barriers to prevent our progress. A mix of stubbornness and stamina in the DNA kept us going but more than anything we know that heaven moved earth so we could relocate to Spain. The amount of blessing showered on us has felt monumental and our gratitude is immense. Our friends, family, children and coworkers cheered us on, and we are thankful to the core for their love. President Reagan had it right, there are “there are no barriers to our progress” if we keep moving forward. 

Torres de Serranos- the gate to Valencia. Te vemos en Espana. Get your visa and we will see you in Spain!

2019  was a never-ending year of surgeries, scars and chemo. In the midst of nausea, insomnia and neuropathy, vivid daydreams of moving to sunny coastal Valencia, Spain, kept the darkness and negativity from capsizing us. During one particularly long infusion, Steve found several furnished apartments in Ciutat Vella, the old historic center of Valencia. While looking at the exposed brick and wood beams in a completely renovated 18th century apartment, we both felt this was going to be our new home.

“Why Valencia?” we were asked repeatedly by concerned doctors, nurses, coworkers and family who thought the Oxaliplatin had fried both our brains.

When cancer becomes a millstone pulling you under and every waking moment becomes an obsession with CEA numbers and liver enzyme functions, the drowning grasp at anything floating past to keep from going under. Valencia was the buoyant branch in swirling murky water that stopped our rapid descent.

It all started with a 23andMe search on the map of where ancestors lived in Barcelona, and moved South to Tarragona and stopped at Valencia. We have traveled to Spain a handful of times over the last ten years, Barcelona, Madrid, Sevilla, Cordoba, Granada, Segovia, Toledo,  but had never been to Valencia.  We rolled Valencia around on our tongues like a Spanish R’s alveolar trill and it sounded lovely.

The first “Valencia” nod from heaven came a day later from a free book on Amazon called “Valencia and Valentine” in my inbox.  We chuckled at the coincidence and set it aside and let the current carry it away.   The second nod came a few weeks later while wandering aimlessly through the grocery store in search of some sort of solace and strength to endure two more months of chemo treatments, and my eyes landed on mint filled chocolate squares. I grasped them to my chest, a life preserver to prevent drowning. Upon arriving home, I noticed where they were made…. Valencia, Spain.  This synchronicity perked us both up.  The third nod came from delivered oranges all decorated with stickers that read “Valencia.”

Now a cynic would say, the oranges came from Valencia, California, and the chocolate was just a coincidence and the book title just a fluke.  But to those who get churned and flipped in the surf and can’t find up, it was a tiny push to the surface…a sign reading: “This way up.”

On the very last chemo infusion, we decided it was time to fly to Valencia before we sold everything we owned and moved overseas.

We didn’t make it easy on ourselves to get to Valencia.  We took a three hour train from DC to Newark with commuters who yacked nonstop on their cellphones for the full three hours. The Quiet Car was completely full so we gritted our teeth and endured the commuter chatter.  I blame these loud  phone conversations, and not chemo brain, as the reason why we fumbled the pass at the exiting the train station.  We saw a sign saying ticket prices to Newark Airport had increased.  I should have listened to myself and asked someone, anyone, if we needed to buy another ticket to get on the short tram to the airport.  But we gritted our teeth again and paid the $28 to take the short tram from the Amtrak station to Newark airport.  Later we learned all we needed was our Amtrak train ticket to scan at the glass turnstile to get on the tram to the airport.

After the nine hour overnight flight, we bumbled our way again at the Barcelona airport and bought train tickets to the main train station Barcelona Sants twenty minutes away, only to find out our Renfri tickets we had purchased from Barcelona to Valencia would again have magically opened the glass turnstiles on the tram from the airport to the train station.  We sensed a pattern and would not be obtuse on the return trips. At the BS station we stopped and got breakfast while waiting a few hours to board our train.  The three hour train ride from Barcelona to Valencia was a beautiful coastal ride with mountains on one side and white sand and turquoise ocean on the other.  Passengers talked in muted tones to other riders around them, and we dozed the whole ride, heavy with jet lag.

There was only one taxi at the train station and we snagged it immediately and were at out VRBO in Ciutat Vella (Old Town) within ten minutes. The owner was still mopping the kitchen floor when we arrived. We dropped our suitcases and ventured out to find a grocery store to get food for the next couple days. A Carre Four Express a few blocks away had fresh milk, bread and produce. We secured bright orange clementines with the stems and green leaves still clinging to them and weighed and affixed a sticker before heading to the register. The cashier was helpful when the bread we had selected would not scan. Steve joked in Spanish that it must be free, and the clerk laughed soundly. Steve’s language skills have always helped us navigate foreign climes. We left triumphant with fixings for a Spanish “Bocadillo” or sandwich with Iberian ham called “jamon,” baguettes, Gouda cheese and salami…

 We crashed back at the apartment and slept until 3 am. The  six hour time change crossing the Atlantic always gives us a run for our money for a good week. We ate breakfast while neighbors were just lowering blinds and going to bed for the night.

At 9 am we ventured out and were surprised by the heavy crush of people. We found dancers in traditional costumes on stage at Plaza de la Virgen under the main cathedral. It suddenly dawned on us that it was December sixth and Immaculate Conception Day.   Colorful swishes of full skirts and lively music made the crowd press closer. The side of the cathedral was reminiscent of the colosseum in Rome— not surprising as Valencia has Roman origins.

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We tried to find the central market but were so disoriented we ended up at the train station. In a cloud of fatigue we decided to go back to the flat and sleep off the jet lag.

Post nap, with the winter sun lowering on the horizon, we passed through the 14th century Torres de Serranos, one of the twelve gates that formed an ancient city wall around Valencia. From the tower we crossed the street and entered the Jardi del Turia. The gardens and running trails were once the riverbed of the Turia River that flooded in 1957. The diverted river was turned into a long urban park. We walked six miles past oleander, fragrant orange trees, wild green parrots, and the stirrings of hope bumbled up, and we knew we could sell everything we own and start a new life in the Mediterranean.

At the week’s end, we knew Valencia was to be our new home.