Anyway, all was forgiven and after work on Wednesday I was on my way to Spain with my colleague, Hervé.
We landed in Valencia late in the evening and drove to our hotel, which turned out to be a 4 star accommodation in a 1 star location. Flat panel tv, black leather chairs, granite bathroom, view of an alley and a parking garage. Anyway, I wasn't there for a holiday.
Upon checking in, we mentioned to the desk clerk that we were hungry. She recommended the hotel's restaurant, which was "one of the best restaurants in Valencia for rice". This made both Hervé and I burst into giggles because who goes to a restaurant for their rice? Well, it was our first trip to Valencia and we both had a lot to learn.
We walked over to restaurant and were musing over the menu in Spanish when the waitress informed us that we couldn't order rice, it took 35 minutes to cook and the kitchen was closing in 20. 35 minutes to cook rice? Whatever, we ordered other things and vowed to try the famous rice later.
The next day at work was really productive and quite educational for me because everyone spoke English to us. We were working with a really colorful guy named Rolando who spoke 4 languages.
The bummer about Faurecia Valencia is the lousy location. It's in an industrial area in the outskirts of town, with dirt roads, massive potholes, and numerous prostitutes. It was weird for me to see prostitutes so close to work, but I've been told that's Valencia.
After work, Rolando invited us for a tour of
Valencia. He sat in the back seat of the car giving rapid driving instructions in 3 different languages, and amazingly, Hervé understood everything. We did a small walking tour past some really impressive buildings--an opera house, science museum, and aquarium--that were all built in the past ten years.Based on the incredible architecture, massive size, and undoubtedly outrageous cost of those structures, I'd say Valencia is doing quite well for itself.
After the tour we met about 30 other people from the office for dinner.
I guess people from the Faurecia Valencia office get together for dinner every few weeks. We all shared a traditional Spanish meal (although no rice):
Salad with goat cheese, raisins, and honey dressing
Fried dumplings of ham and cheese
Plates of dried meat and cheese
Skillets of fried eggs over potatoes and ham
Plates of chocolate and flan
Not to mention the sangria, which is now officially my favorite drink. As I was offered a glass, the girl sitting across from me smiled and said “Sangria is wonderful, but be careful, it’s still very strong”. Which I found to be quite true, but I’ve been damaged by regular wine much worse.
I met a lot of really friendly people that night. Everyone wanted to know how I liked Méru, which is a loaded question because shoot, they live on the Mediterranean and have an opera house with a 26-million dollar roof.
I was surprised to hear the young Spanish people talk so knowledgeably about the French elections. I realized that I didn’t even know who the prime minister of Canada is. Then the conversation turned (as it inevitably does when I happen to be around a political discussion) to American politics. And I received the inevitable question “Who do you think will win the Democratic primary?” I delivered my usual non-committal speech about whether America is ready for an African-American or woman president, the risks involved, etc. They all nodded in agreement and began discussing the pros and cons of Obama and Sen. Clinton. I can say with complete humility that they knew these two candidates better than I did.
Later in the evening I met another guy who turned out to be French. He asked me how I liked living in France. I hesitated, and he said “The problem isn’t with France. The problem is with the French.” Which, after visiting Valencia, I realized was completely true.
French people in general are very nice, but they’re not particularly friendly. They are very good friends, but it takes a long time to get to that point. In Spain I was warmly invited by a near stranger to a dinner with 30 other strangers who had no problem sharing a drink and a laugh with me. I met more people that night then I have met during my entire stay in Méru. And in fact, my only friend in Méru is Spanish.
Someone told me, “In Spain, you go out with 20 people and 4 or 5 might remember you the next day. In France, you might go out with 20 people and the next day have one or two friends”. Of course, you have to get invited first, and I haven’t quite reached that point with anyone French.
I guess people from the Faurecia Valencia office get together for dinner every few weeks. We all shared a traditional Spanish meal (although no rice):
Salad with goat cheese, raisins, and honey dressing
Fried dumplings of ham and cheese
Plates of dried meat and cheese
Skillets of fried eggs over potatoes and ham
Plates of chocolate and flan
Not to mention the sangria, which is now officially my favorite drink. As I was offered a glass, the girl sitting across from me smiled and said “Sangria is wonderful, but be careful, it’s still very strong”. Which I found to be quite true, but I’ve been damaged by regular wine much worse.
I met a lot of really friendly people that night. Everyone wanted to know how I liked Méru, which is a loaded question because shoot, they live on the Mediterranean and have an opera house with a 26-million dollar roof.
I was surprised to hear the young Spanish people talk so knowledgeably about the French elections. I realized that I didn’t even know who the prime minister of Canada is. Then the conversation turned (as it inevitably does when I happen to be around a political discussion) to American politics. And I received the inevitable question “Who do you think will win the Democratic primary?” I delivered my usual non-committal speech about whether America is ready for an African-American or woman president, the risks involved, etc. They all nodded in agreement and began discussing the pros and cons of Obama and Sen. Clinton. I can say with complete humility that they knew these two candidates better than I did.
Later in the evening I met another guy who turned out to be French. He asked me how I liked living in France. I hesitated, and he said “The problem isn’t with France. The problem is with the French.” Which, after visiting Valencia, I realized was completely true.
French people in general are very nice, but they’re not particularly friendly. They are very good friends, but it takes a long time to get to that point. In Spain I was warmly invited by a near stranger to a dinner with 30 other strangers who had no problem sharing a drink and a laugh with me. I met more people that night then I have met during my entire stay in Méru. And in fact, my only friend in Méru is Spanish.
Someone told me, “In Spain, you go out with 20 people and 4 or 5 might remember you the next day. In France, you might go out with 20 people and the next day have one or two friends”. Of course, you have to get invited first, and I haven’t quite reached that point with anyone French.
It was past midnight before I realized how tired I was and walked to the other end of the table to visit Hervé. He was also tired and irritable because he didn’t understand Spanish. The foreign language didn’t bother me at all because I’ve spent the past 4 months not having a clue what people are saying. It kind of pleased me to see that he had to experience a bit of the discomfort I’ve had living in France.
Most everyone was headed to a bar afterward, but I used grumpy Hervé as my excuse to escape.
The next day we all came into work a little groggy, especially those who had gone to the bar. Work passed by smoothly, we completed our goal for the trip and I had my first Spanish paella in the company cafeteria. For cafeteria food it was good, but not good enough for me to count it as my official first paella.
During lunch Hervé asked the ominous “Do you know what you’re eating?”
Rolando said, “Oh, just let her finish,” which of course wasn’t going to work for me. What I had thought was chicken was in fact rabbit. Definitely my first rabbit. And I know it’s cliché, but it tasted like chicken.
I’ve crossed a lot of meat frontiers since I’ve moved to Europe.
We left for the airport just after lunch and flew into a thunderstorm in Paris. It was the first good rain we’ve had after at least a month long drought, but the timing was lousy because I had to get myself home. Hervé dropped me off in Levallois-Perret on his way home to Versailles, but I had to hike 4 blocks to the apartment in a downpour.
Didn’t matter, I had warm dry clothes and a hot dinner waiting for me. My mom made rice.
I’ve crossed a lot of meat frontiers since I’ve moved to Europe.
We left for the airport just after lunch and flew into a thunderstorm in Paris. It was the first good rain we’ve had after at least a month long drought, but the timing was lousy because I had to get myself home. Hervé dropped me off in Levallois-Perret on his way home to Versailles, but I had to hike 4 blocks to the apartment in a downpour.
Didn’t matter, I had warm dry clothes and a hot dinner waiting for me. My mom made rice.
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