Last Postcard from Spain

It is always a pleasure to arrive – anywhere – in Havana or Reykjavik, or Rome. It’s a special joy to arrive in Valencia, on the Mediterranean coast of Spain. The city has welcomed me for more than 30 years. Of course, the opposite is also true; leaving is invariably sad. Especially when you say goodbye to friends.

What makes Valencia feel so open to foreigners like me? Diversity: every day in the streets and stores, you hear the languages of immigrants from China, Venezuela, Germany, Pakistan, Lithuania, Japan, Romania. And every day you encounter those immigrants while you are doing the most mundane things., like sharpening knives. For the past few days I have been saying goodbye to such friends, old and new, with the added sadness that these goodbyes might be the last. So farewell to:

Paco and Maye, my hosts for the last two months,
Álvaro, knife-sharpener without equal,
Chelo, expert herbalist, who also sells incense,
Jorge y Gustavo, brothers, in whose store I buy most of my brushes and colors,
Alen, who sells books, all in English,
Ibrahim, a clerk in my favorite bakery,
Elena, fellow artist, who owns the Black Light Gallery,
Soledad, another artist, and a kind, kind woman,
Esther, who makes photocopies when I need them, and
Victoria, the lady who plays her accordion on a windy corner in front of a bank.

There are more friends, but here space is short. I did not embrace and say goodbye to the person I most wanted to, Viviana. She’s an immigrant too, from Italy; Valencia is her new home. She and I never say goodbye.