K & L's Travel Blog

Shabby, but with a sense of justice

Wednesday 2/13/2019

We had long anticipated this day trip to this nearby region that balances rice fields, a fresh water lake, salt water estuary and bird habitats. We were especially intrigued by the possibility of sighting flamingos. The Albufera is protected environmentally, and what tourism there is revolves around eating paella in the village of El Palmar and taking slow motion boat tours through the wetlands.

The bus ride takes about 40 minutes from our neighborhood. It’s a dismal landscape, only saved for me by the extensive woodland near the shore. There are occasional modest condos: yellow, ochre and clustered in the pines. The bus winds from place to place. Apart from a few early riders, nobody gets on or off. The topography recalls the coast of South Carolina. We reach the town of El Palmar where the bulk of passengers disembark. Our fellow riders quickly disperse as we check out the expansive swamp around us. We follow the small herd and find our way into the village.

The day is sunny but with a light, cool, breeze. The town itself is a bit sad. We walk along algae-filled canals lined with little paella joints with plastic chairs set outside in the brilliant sun. The waiters implore our patronage as we pass. They gesture to pans of paella displayed in hopes of luring us inside.

We head for the recommended Restaurante Bon Aire for our required paella. Thus far we have avoided paella in our trips to Spain. Last year we had rice and lobster in BCN and then this year I had some amazing black rice at Valencia’s Café Abalan. Paella has just never been a favorite. Here the local, hallmark version has rabbit and chicken instead of the expected seafood. And wonderful saffron.

Our table is next to one of the town’s foetid canals where little gnats/mosquitoes swarm. At first, we are the only diners. Skinny, feral cats cluster around our feet begging. The sun is searingly bright but the wind is brisk. White birds and seagulls flock on the nearby mudflats.

We are just getting going with the bread when a small fisherman dressed in yellow chest waders pulls up in a boat right next to Kitty and proceeds to crawl with considerable effort out of the boat, up the stone steps and onto the pavement, basically into our meal.

Clearly he does this every day, but he was old and it was brutal to watch him struggle.  Our role here was to ignore him, but that felt weird given his laborious effort. He slowly stood and went on his way. We returned, discomforted, to our feast. One cat drags a dead fish out of the canal at Kitty’s feet.

I’m flipped out. Kitty notes I’ve started my meal with my plate still turned upside down. Funny thing is that later the same fisherman comes back out onto the street. He lives just across from the Bel Aire. Now he’s got a drink and he’s all cleaned up with a woman I took to be his wife and other neighbors. He jokes with us as we leave the restaurant. It’s as though he’s saying “Look, I clean up good!” We all laugh together.

I manage to relax, right my dish, and we complete the over-the-top multiple course extravaganza. We are not converted to paella, even by this truly authentic Valencian version. I think the ritual itself embarrasses me. Why bring such a big pan of unnaturally colored food and create a spectacle centered on excess? The cats wait expectantly and the other diners gape as the waiter puts down the oversized pan and namastes. I want to slip into the canal and disappear but think better of it.

Yet there’s still charm to be had. The wine, of course, helps. And the sun is warming as the wind dies down. As it turns out, the mosquitoes don’t bite like the ones at home. And the cats are sort of cute once I toss them a taste of tuna. We note the next bus to leave goes at 5:30 and there’s not another one slated until 7:25. I start pushing for the early departure, but Kitty encourages us to take time for a boat tour, a standard part of the area outing and the only way to really get a sense of the habitat and lake. It turns out to be a great choice.

Juame is our captain and there are 8 in our group. We sputter along the coast line and spook ducks and other birds. Ducks, cormorants, seagulls, herons, hawks (?), and egrets, but alas, no flamingos. At one point Juame stops the engine and sits to tells us about the lake. It’s quiet and super peaceful. His spiel is in Spanish and though I don’t understand everything, I follow the main strands on the natural history and the more contemporary politics of fresh (dulçe) water.

The sun is setting as the paseo ends and we are charmed by the experience. A horse-drawn cart passes. The town is quiet with most everthing closed, and we still have an hour to wait on the bus. There’s only a bar and a pharmacy open and we choose the bar. It’s a bit scary with a little illuminated Heineken sign. Kitty hangs back while I check it out. There are about 4 men at the bar and they are watching Columbo. Perhaps these men are like the character: shabby, but with a sense of justice? I figure it’s OK for us to enter. Ends up they are quite welcoming and we have a fine time with our Heinekens and peanuts. The bus arrives as promised and the driver smiles at our obvious relief as she takes our tickets and rounds the dark corner towards Valencia.