Don't Tell France: I'm in Secretly in Love with Spain

I'm just back from a 30 hour-long business trip to Valencia, with the usual reflections:

1. The weather in Spain is great. Obviously. With temperatures hovering around 70 and the sky cloudless, I tossed my jacket onto the backseat of my rental VW and drove with the windows down. Ah, breeze!

2. The people are nice. Not just nice, but friendly and courteous and warm. My Spanish colleagues broke into smiles when they saw me, they helped me find internet cables, they bought me coffee, they offered me seats in the cafeteria. I know what you're thinking, but it was both men and women. If my colleagues in Meru treated me half as kindly as these near strangers in Valencia, I know I wouldn't be so uncomfortable at work.

Furthermore, even the French people in Spain are nice. Maybe they've adapted to the local attitude, or maybe they were just nice people to begin with who decided to vacate their uptight country.

3. Valencia is cheap. Compared to Paris (and certainly London), anyway. Last night I had dinner with some friends (people I've only met a few times but who still warmly invite me to dinner) at a cozy Italian restaurant downtown. It was a unique place because you order your drinks, but nothing else. The waiters drop off plates of food for your table to share, and if you don't want it you send it back. Of course, I was there with a couple of boys, and they rejected nothing.

I love a good food adventure. We had cheeses and sausage and carpaccio (my first raw beef experience) and pasta and I don't remember everything else but mentally, I was wondering how much Faurecia was going to end up paying for this elaborate meal. In the end, my share was less than 20 euros. I was shocked and delighted.

During my last trip to Valencia, there were fireworks in the city every night and I was convinced that the city was magical. This time there were no fireworks, but walking home from the restaurant I noticed something else unusual. For an entire city block I was overpowered with the scent of roses. There were no rose bushes around, no perfume stores, not even anyone else on the street. But it smelled beautiful. I stopped on the corner and said aloud to no one: "What is it with this place?"

Alas, the worst part about Valencia is leaving. Now I'm going to be cold, lonely, and depressed for three days until the memories fade.

At least I have the company of the warm boy in my bed. And that's the best part about France.