We joined a group from the school to walk to La Crida, the official opening of the month long festival of La Fallas. Our guide/teacher warned us it would be crowded. “If you get lost, well…you’ll be lost. But you are independent, so I won’t worry. Have fun.”

As a group we joined the thickening hoards moving towards the big road on the edge of the old city that leads to the city gate where the ceremony would take place. We joined the road, and about 50,000 people, squeezing into the larger crowd straining to see the tv screen broadcasting the events at the gate some 6 blocks away.

After spending 20 minutes mushed against a parked police car – in a fog of cigarette smoke – R and I split off. We pushed and shoved our way through the crowd and climbed the barricade on the other side of the road to reach the space on the sidewalk above the river park. From there we had some breathing room and a somewhat better view. 

We still couldn’t see the gate and stage where the ceremony was taking place, but we had a better view of the screen and fireworks. And what a show. It started with the orchestra, which played for the acrobat riding a gigantic illuminated dove that flew over the crowds.

Dance performances and a round of fireworks introduced the fallera mayor and the fallera infantil (the adult and child “princesses” of the Fallas) (princess isn’t quite the right word, but close) who would (in their best Valenciano) declare Las Fallas open. Everyone sang the Valenican anthem – which, unsurprisingly, is about how Valencia is the best city in the world and how wonderful it is to be Valencian – and another round of fireworks closed things up.

Our guide from the school, Victor, had explained that the symbolic reopening of the gates recalled the era when they were used for real every day. If you got in before nightfall you had the protection of the city; if not, you were left out in the flat, treeless, featureless campo and had “only the protection of the moon.”

Valencia is home to a centuries old festival called Las Fallas.

We are going shortly to La Crida, the official opening of the 4 week long event, but in the run up, the city has been getting gradually noisier all day, with periodic loud (LOUD!) fireworks and groups of falleros and their families and friends (and musicians) making their way towards the festival.

Falla is a Valencian word for torch; the essence of the festival is that many elaborate statues are created out of wood, fiber etc., and the best voted on. The best go into a permanent museum collection and the rest are burned in enormous bonfires, and amid huge fireworks displays, at the culminating “Crèma” in mid- March.

Captured a small bit of video of one of the groups :

This is just one of about 10 groups we’ve heard/seen today.

R deemed his bowl of muesli insufficient for attentive museum going.

We crawled out of bed quite late (not used to shutting down bars on Saturday nights!) and made our way outside. Since we’re here for 3 weeks, and spending the first 2 of those in language classes, we decided today would be a non-tourism day to rest and recharge. Started with a traditional Spanish breakfast of tomato, ham, toast and cortado, the top local coffee choice served in a glass.

Walked up to the school building (about 10 minutes from where we’re staying) so we can find it tomorrow when we have to be there early. Then began meandering aimlessly, drifting down alleys, crossing big boulevards, and eventually eating lunch in a small cafeteria. Not brilliant, not terrible, just plain  “milanese” (fried fish / cutlets) served with friendly smiles and patience with our faulty Spanish. Made less serviceable because our waiter spoke Valenciano – “yo soy” sounds something like “shgo jhoy.”

More wandering, this time through the long curving park made from an old river bed that defines the northern edge of the old city. (The river was rerouted decades ago to minimize flooding. A series of huge stone bridges span what are now pools, lawns and bike paths).

Back into the old town, a few grocery stops so that we can manage dinner and breakfast a la casa, and home for naps.

Thursday: an eclectic day, combining visits to the Vagina Museum (yes really), the Mithraeum (the ruin of a Roman temple), and the Silver Vaults.

The first stop involved taking a long Tube ride to Whitechapel, in the heart of old working class East London. There are now large, relatively recent immigrant communities here and it’s immediately striking how many women are wearing hijabs or niqabs compared to other areas of the city. The street markets are also full of delicious fruits and vegetables that we couldn’t identify. Definitely still a relatively poor area but with hints of “bougie-fication” – cafes, hipster clothes shops etc. Down a grotty looking alley under a railway line –

there’s a row of businesses built in under the railway arches, including –

We always try to visit unusual museums and this definitely fit the bill. Its origin is especially amusing for us – see text below –

because we only discovered it after discovering that in Iceland a month from now we’ll be staying near, yes, the Penis Museum that started it all.

The museum is smaller and less robust than we’d expected (it is relatively new, just a few hundred square feet, and relies upon crowdsourced funding), but occupies a place between activism and art. The name itself is activism– as they point out, nearly half of all parents only use euphemisms when talking to their daughters about their genetalia.

Features include an exhibit on menopause and one about how different cultures talk (or don’t) about women’s health. My favorite image was a reproduction of a woodcut illustrating a 17th century poem about a woman ridding their island of a demon by showing him the “wound” her oh so strong and threatening husband could inflict upon the demon. Struck with horror, the demon flees, never to return.

From the activism side, there was a copy of a modern tampon book from Germany. These “books,”  containing 15 tampons, were published to reduce the tax burden of buying period products: until recently, menstrual products were taxed at 19% while books were taxed at 7%.

From here we refueled at an exceedingly hipster sandwich shop (Rogue Sarnies would be completely at home in Portland) and then walked several miles down to the Mithraeum. I (K) really need a bright orange t-shirt that says “tourist” in large letters–I was so busy looking around that I was a complete menace to car and bike traffic.

The Mithraeum, a Roman temple to Mithras, was uncovered during construction of Bloomberg’s headquarter building. It apparently sat uncovered in the car park for years, until they decided to move it into the basement of the building for conservation. Now, partially reconstructed and housed in a darkened room, you partake of the temple “experience” through the judicious use of light shined through haze to create the impression of ghostly walls.

Upstairs there is a wall covered in artifacts uncovered during the construction of the building. It is remarkable to see a nearly perfect shoe worn by a Roman soldier in the first century AD.

Outside the building we admired the art installation evoking the Walbrook River which ran through London during Roman times.

We walked on, through increasing rain, past the Duke of Wellington outside the Bank of England –

to the Silver Vaults. Originally built in the 1880s as a non-bank safe depository for rich people’s prized possessions, it morphed over time into a secure space for silver dealers, especially during WWII as space potentially protected from bombing.

Now it is an Aladin’s cave of all things gloriously silver, from spoons, to tea sets, to menorahs, to elaborate sailing ships. One favorite: special tongs for eating asparagus one spear at a time.

Back out to discover the rain really coming down and decided we should take the bus home rather than the tube so we could appreciate the city views. It was a nice idea that failed – an hour at near walking pace in a not-warm sauna.

After a long night’s sleep then multiple cups of tea, we set out on the river tow path, walking north towards Putney Bridge and Fulham Palace. Along the way we admired the Egyptian geese.

Fulham Palace became the home of the Bishops of London starting in 704 when the Bishop of Hereford granted the manor of Fulham to Bishop Waldhere. The last Bishop to reside there left in 1973, and in 1975 the building was leased by the Burroughs of London and Fulham. Two restorations have been undertaken, and now the palace houses numerous exhibit rooms and a lovely café looking out into the large walled garden.

We enjoyed standing in a room where Elizabeth I had dinner in 1601, admired the bones of one of the first turkeys eaten in the UK, and contemplated the Anglican Church’s long ties to slavery. Its hard to understand how Bishop Bielby Porteus could be such a strong figure in the movement to abolish transatlantic trade in slaves without being against slavery itself. Kudos to the museum for openly tackling this complicated history.

We walked out through the garden into All Saints Putney, where three Elizabethan memorials caught our eyes.

Margaret’s plaque explains that she was married for 17 years, had 7 sons and 2 daughters (3 of whom died as infants), and then “yielded her soul” at the age of 33.

Another grave stone from about the same time memorialized a beloved son and father, listed his many civic accomplishments, and, after noting he died at just age 33, exhorted the reader to reflect upon his generous life and “contemplate that tonight you may be called upon to yield your soul.”

We exited the church at the other end and stopped to admire the lovely almshouses just outside of the church yard.

One of the residents helpfully explained they’re still running as a charity. She noted that when she moved in (20 years ago) you had to be over 60 to apply. Now its only over 50 and the young people just aren’t as community minded–they’re too busy going out at night.

Easy flights, though we were unfortunately unable to watch the Superbowl. Did enjoy the Icelandair announcement on arrival that “some of you on the plane will be pleased to know the Seattle Seahawks won the Super Championship Game.”

Everything had been going so smoothly until we went to enter the Underground station at Heathrow. Whooping sirens accompanied an announcement that they were investigating an alarm situation and they might need to evacuate the building. We paused, but decided to take our cue from the Londoners who pushed through anyway. Glad we did, as it meant we arrived at Clarissa’s moments before Isobel and new baby Hero.

Lovely lunch with them plus Adam, then a long river walk to stave off jet lag. Now 8pm and we’re knackered.

Less than 48 hours till departure.

It’s been a week of working through our to-do list. We have booked all the hotels (yea!) and even made one restaurant reservation, but we haven’t yet figured out packing (hmm, will our carry-ons fit on RyanAir?) nor sorted out mobile data plans (do we need one?). The Amazon fairy is making regular deliveries and our meals are getting progressively odder as we try to clean out the fridge of perishables.