Poco a poco.

I did something stupid last Saturday.

Check that. I did something totally worth it but culminating the experience may have been a little more, shall we say, painful, than I thought it would be.

My adventure on October 8 began when I was in search of Artesania Yuste, a small store run by a Spaniards that creates the art one sees while strolling the streets of Valencia. The shop has been in existence for awhile and has art for sale from many, many different centuries so, naturally, I thought it would be worth a looksee. So on this splendid and, well, yet again sunny Saturday, I found myself walking to the Plaza de la Reina to find said store. Going off the directions I had, I was to search for the archway before the McDonalds, walk through it, and the store would be located in a little plaza, Plaza de Miracle de Mercadonet) off the main one. Well, after searching all around the McDonalds (which I’m sorry to say did not look anything remotely like the grandiose McDonalds on Gran Via in Madrid and instead more like the McDonalds across from South of the Border in South Carolina), I realized that the archway is in fact a block South of the McDonalds, right in between the Reina Sofia Souvenir Store and the Ice Cream place that’s most popular flavor is “Donut.” (Note: I’m highly embarrassed that this paragraph mentioned McDonalds five times. Oops...make it six now. I swear on my life that I DO NOT eat there. No really, I’m a vegetarian. I don’t.) The archway turned out to be more like a long tunnel, and did take me into Plaza de Miracle de Mercadonet which was literally no bigger than the area of my parents’ house. I was so excited to have made it there only to realize that the store closes at 2:00. It was 2:02. 

Donut Ice Cream.

But why allow that little let down to ruin my day? With a whole myriad of things to do in the Plaza de la Reina, I turned my attention to the nearby Cathedral of Valencia which IS conveniently situated right next to the McDonalds. (Count now up to seven.) I meandered in, right past the incredibly large tour group of people from Asia, and walked up to the desk where I planned on shelling out 4.50 euros for a tour where I could check out the church...complete with earphones and bilingual digital guide! However, as I was explaining, in Spanish, that I would like to go on the tour, the overly enthusiastic receptionist misheard me and thought I wanted to tour the tower of the cathedral and directed me across the church where I was greeted by her less than happy co-worker who demanded I hand over two euros. “Why not?” I thought, “I have no idea what’s going to happen at the top of this tower, but sure. Let’s do this.” 

The infamous tower.

Giddily, and stupidly, I walked towards another archway that led to the tower entrance and saw the lovely staircase that would lead me to the top of the church. I climbed it. I got up there. I was a bit startled when the bell rang, but whatever, the steps were big and I wasn’t going to fall. Then, as I started climbing higher and higher, the steps started getting smaller and smaller. “That’s okay,” I thought, “I’m almost to the top.” Finally, I reached the summit where I was pleasantly surprised by this:

I could see the WHOLE city. Everything was visible and the views were beautiful. I stayed up there and took it all in for a good fifteen minutes, getting my two euros worth. 

And then comes the stupid part: I realized I had to get down, and the only way down was on these: 

Dreaded stairs built circa 1238. Clearly the best time I've ever had in my life.

So we meet again. 

As I was standing at the top of them, I recalled a comment my mother made while we were on a lifeboat drill on a cruise last summer. The lovely cruise staff was explaining that in the event the boat sinks and we cannot make it to our lifeboats in time, we are to find an edge of the boat and simply just act as though we are walking off the boat until we safely make it into the water (while wearing a life jacket, of course). My mother, being both afraid of heights and unable to swim very well (which is the reason my sister and I were on a swim team for years), told us that if that happened, my sister and I were to be right behind her and push her off the boat. Well, same story, different situation: Maybe I should just turn around and find someone to kindly push me off the top of the tower safely to the ground below. 

No such luck. As I stated before, the stairs were smaller towards the top. Moreover, they were made completely of concrete and were a bit wet, guaranteeing me a nice bloody mess should I fall. I gripped that handle tightly and started me descent. 

I don’t know if any of you have ever walked down spiral, concrete staircases in Cathedrals that were built in, oh I don’t know, 1238, but it is not a fun experience. And naturally, as I was going down, it seemed everyone else wanted to come up. Too bad. I was not letting go of that railing. Furthermore, I had half a mind to turn around and tell the two overweight men bounding down the steps behind me that 1) Yes, I understand English so I know that you’re cursing me under your breath for walking so slow, and 2) Do not touch me again to try and get me to move faster. That plan was thwarted when I realized that turning around to angrily deal with two frustrated, rotund men who were in their mid-forties and walking significantly faster than me on extremely thin stairs would only cause my impending death by spiral staircase to come a bit sooner than I initially thought. I resorted to simply wonder why they didn’t  just walk around me. 

I’m proud to say, while I almost slipped once, I made it down relatively safely, yet with a little less piece of mind. I’ve never been so happy to see solid ground. My legs were shaking for hours afterwards. 

Our more recent adventures have not involved nine stories of spiral staircases. Instead, they’ve involved the usual: teaching children that no, American Pie is not a real representation of American high schools and neither is Glee for that matter, wondering why nobody in Spain eats anything remotely similar to pumpkins (especially when I know for a fact that friends back home indulged in a pumpkin cheesecake the other night), carefully calculating every step on the streets since Spaniards don’t understand that both people are supposed to move to the right when walking towards each other, learning how to stay energized while working twelve to fourteen hour days and working out upon arriving home, and handling simple differences in opinions with some people. I've also been hanging around the lovely Rio Turia more often as seen here:

 And in two weekends, on October 29, our adventures will include navigating RyanAir, surviving in Munich, Germany, a country where the only vocabulary I know is a few school objects, body parts, how to count to ten, and say Happy Birthday! And the worst part? Only packing enough to fit in a backpack since checking a bag on RyanAir will cost more than the return flight. 

Should be a good time, but suffice to say, if anything that remotely resembles a steep, spiral staircase built in 1238 is involved, I will be the one staying on the ground who obnoxiously waves up at my counterparts above.