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.
The Unhurried Traveler 
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