When I was a boy, younger than twelve-year-old Connor is now, I believed all the stories my dear Pop told me. He sailed across oceans, traveled down the Nile, jumped out of planes in the 82nd Airborne, drank with Hemingway, conspired with Castro, along with many other misdeeds and adventures. While my kids are constant skeptics of any tales I tell, even the true ones, I didn’t question the stories I was told. Pop was a great story teller. He would get this gleam in his eye while he drew you in and threw in such vivid details of the surroundings and the things that happened to him that you couldn’t help but believe.
One of Pop’s favorite tales was about his time in Valencia, Spain. I don’t recall why he was there. Maybe the army? It didn’t matter. All I knew is he loved Valencia. Its beaches, women, wine and music. Its history and machismo and bullfighting. This was captivating stuff for a ten year old. He liked to whistle and sing the Valencia song, originally done by Jose Padilla in the 1920s, but made popular again in 1950 by crooner Tony Martin when my Pop was himself a young man. He whistled this song most every morning as he started his day. I would find myself whistling and singing it too through my early teens until our tastes in music diverged for thirty or so years. I smile as I see this happening with Connor now as he sings Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds when he’s in the shower or making himself a sandwich. Or finding old Bruce Springsteen songs on Mallory’s iTunes playlists.
So, when we were planning our trip to Spain, I knew we had to visit Valencia.
In the car as we approached the city, I found myself whistling the song, just like Pop did so many years ago, to the dismay of the kids. “What’s up with Dad? Why is he grinning like that? And what is that horrible song he’s trying to whistle?!” Even Lisa grew concerned, and she knows the back story.
We spent two days here in Valencia and Pop was right to admire the city. In contrast to the crowds of Barcelona, this place is tranquil, even languid. The charm and authenticity of the old quarter is refreshing compared to the more tourist-minded areas of some of the other parts of Spain we’ve visited.
And it’s warmer here. Today it was nearly 90 degrees. The wine is good and the women are indeed very beautiful. Lisa and Mallory have hinted that the men here aren’t bad looking either. Connor is non-committal, though he turned beet red when I asked him what he thought of seeing so many topless sunbathers at the beach.
We rented bicycles and explored the old part of town, the many tree-lined parks, the new science and technology center, the port with its Americas Cup headquarters, and the beach. The water is warm and the sand is perfect. I’m writing this while the rest of the family dozes on beach chairs under an umbrella. The sea beckons with a half-dozen white sails dotting the blue horizon, making me wish I were out there sailing on a broad reach, feeling the angle of the warm wind on my cheek.
And as I take in the beauty of this place, I wonder if Pop ever came here himself, or if his Valencia was just another of his tall tales. I could ask him, but most of me doesn’t really want to know. I’d like to believe he walked these streets as I did today and breathed in this orange-scented air; that he left some part of himself here long ago, a strand or two woven into the fabric of this beautiful place.
I wonder if any of my own tales have found purchase with my kids, strong enough that they might some day go out and experience it for themselves, to see what their crazy old Pop was always going on about …. maybe sailing off to a remote Caribbean island, singing three little birds with big dreamy grins, every sight and sound and smell unlocking childhood memories long tucked away, relishing the swell of the sea under their feet.
A nice thought. Maybe this is how dreams are meant to pass down the line after all.
