Kings of the Beats: Part Two

 The town of El Palmar was like an old Hollywood western town. Very sleepy and insular, used to tourists in the summer months, but in winter? Only us.

 We strode down the main, and seemingly only, street jubilant at having arrived. So far, our luck had held out. 

So, we’d heard there was the best paella in the region in El Palmar, and decided to find it. Seeking out a Falles volunteer, we asked her where to find the best paella. Roughly, the conversation was like this:  

“Hola! Where can we find the best paella in El Palmar?” I asked. 

“Hola! The best paella? My mother’s restaurant! But it’s shut right now.” We looked disappointed. 

“De nada, de nada. Where else can we get some?” 

“Wait one minute…” 

At this, the woman dialled on her phone to a number. Me and Hamish waited awkwardly. She had a brief conversation and then came back to us. 

“The restaurant is closed, but say you saw Teresa and the chef will make you a paella Valenciana. It’s at a restaurant there,” she pointed down a sidestreet, “called La Casota. Say I sent you!”  

We thanked Teresa and started on down towards La Casota. What followed was a warm welcome by the head chef and our own, freshly made paella Valenciana with chicken, rabbit and snails. Whilst eating, we worked out our plans for seeing the lake, but with difficult bus times from the town back to Valencia (which we didn’t know before setting off on foot from a random town), we decided to instead see the town and grab the next bus back. Finishing off a paella made for four and emptying the bottles of beer we’d be given, we thanked them for their hospitality and went out into the Spanish afternoon. 

We explored the town a little, grabbed a quick beer for a euro and then headed towards the bus stop, hoping to be back in Valencia in time for Falles celebrations. We stood waiting when a car pulled up beside the bus stop and a man stepped out. In Spanish he spoke to us, and luckily we knew just enough. 

“Are you guys waiting for the bus to Valencia?” He asked. 

“Yeah man, why?” I asked. 

“It’s a Falles party tonight, no buses in the town. You must go to the stop just outside of town.” We checked with him about what the next stop was called and thanked him. 

Three strangers, three times we were lucky enough for them to help us. 

Okay - 15 minute walk to the next bus stop, 10 minutes until the next bus. We ran - legged it through that town like we knew the place. We arrived at the bus stop and it was sat there, waiting. We found the driver stood beside it, munching down a bocadillo. Something was on our side. 

On the bus, we were excited about our day but slightly annoyed we hadn’t seen the lake.  We could always come back, I said. But this did seem like the perfect chance. Maybe we just weren’t meant to. 

And then, as the bus hurtled along the road lined with trees, there was a break in the greenery. Behind it, the lake. Cool blue and vast, it stretched from right beside us to another town all the way over on the other side, it’s evening light reflected off the cool water. Behind it, the mountains sat purple as the sun drifted down behind them. In our awe, no photos were taken. It was beautiful and we must’ve had to see it that way, like it was the lake’s plan all along. We sat the rest of the bus journey back to Valencia in awe of the day. 

                                 ***

Later that night, a few of us head out to El Carmen, the old town of Valencia, for Falles drinks. Sat in a square, surrounded by bars and people and the noises of a city at night, I was silent almost the whole time. After our day, I didn’t feel the need to speak. The stars had aligned for all of our plans and we’d been lucky with the company we had met. I was deep in thought about Spanish hospitality and how damn lucky we were. 

The day had been long and the night ended late.