She looked so reasonable, so calm, so knowing drawing the map, with its specialized landmarks and notes of where street names changed that I too felt confident. I too felt like I knew exactly what she was talking about. Of course I knew where Calle Barcas was. Of course I'd have to cross the Plaza del Ayuntamiento,obviously, clearly. And I bet it would be a pleasant stroll, just like the woman in the Yoigo shop said.
So like the dumbass I am, I promptly split off from the group to follow my map (why did I think I could follow a map. I am terrible at reading maps. I'm terrible at reading Google map directions. I even managed to get myself and a friend halfway from Charlottesville to Virginia Tech once before realizing that our destination was in fact 20 minutes away from where we'd left, and that was with a smartphone telling me what to do). And I think I must have taken a wrong turn right at the start, because for the next two hours I unwittingly circled Calle Barcas like a decrepit, memory-addled vulture who is trying to remember how to zero in on his unmoving target.
Except for one 10 minute period wandering up and down Avendia de Germaine (this may or may not be a real sreet) after a payphone call to mi madre ("You're where? Oh, that is far away") when my eyes started watering and I just wished there was a damn fountain somewhere nearby because that zumo de naranja from 8:00 AM wasn't cutting it, I honestly did not despair. It was terrifying and wonderful to be suddenly spun out into the city on my own, like the end of a thread pulling away from the spool.
And when I finally, FINALLY found Calle Barcas, which is Calle Barcas on the map but not on the signs which are in Valenciano, which resembles French-influenced Spanish, and followed it, and then it really did turn into Calle Juan de Austria and then Calle de Sorni and then the traffic circle and then this wonderful, welcome sight...I just. Not sure if I have the skill to find the right words to describe what I felt. Like a strange combination of weariness and gratitude and the definite sense of something won -- not like a triumph over the city but something it ended up revealing, or sharing. I don't know exactly.
There was nothing sweeter than turning onto Avenida del Puerto and recognizing things, really knowing where I was. I rejoiced at the graffiti on the walls of the private garden, and the Donor Kebap store and the smallish grove of orange trees clustered, oddly, in the middle of the sidewalk. I practically started skipping when I saw the neon Boston Videoteca sign, with its gigantic arrow pointing to my block on Islas Canarias. I thought it was tacky before. Now it was like a neon lighthouse calling me home. And then there was the awkward thing where out of sheer overexcitment I tried to fit my key into the apartment building next to mine for a good five minutes but that doesn't count because at least I was there, mostly.
Every Valenciano I asked for help -- and there were at least 20 of them -- took pity and helped me as much as they could, the vast majority of shopkeepers even leaving their stores to point me in the right direction on the street. Maps were drawn. Routes were highlighted. Kind words and judgmental but well-deserved looks were given (you, lady in the Rufasa beauty shop). So muchisimas, muchisimas gracias for helping out a broken Spanish-speaking, overconfident americana. I will find a way to pay you back.
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