Goodbye, ol' Broughton Road

Just over a year ago, we decided to leave Kensington and venture off west to Ealing, just a few minutes away from Ealing Broadway station.  The plan was simple: I finish off my Ph.D. and, come early 2013, we head back to Malta, while living away from Zone 1 would pay off in terms of rent savings.  Fast forward a year on and things had changed drastically: we were both at Imperial again and, what more, we were 'stuck' there for at least another 2 years.  Only one option made sense: move back close to Imperial.

Initially, I had thought that living like a true Londoner - commuting daily, reading the paper on the way, working in the city centre but living away from it - would work out handsomely.  Alas, I was wrong: being used to living on a rock where anything in excess of 20 minutes' worth of travel time is considered "too far away", the 50 minute door-to-door commute proved to be too much.  Ealing had its pluses: lots of very good restaurants - particularly Persian - and a self-contained shopping centre which meant not needing to visit the dreaded Oxford Street at all.  But getting the 207/427/83 bus every morning to the station, then the Central Line to Notting Hill and then 52/70/452 to Uni (and all the way back in the evening) meant that I was wasting more than 8 hours a week just travelling.  Life is too short for that.

And then another blessing crossed our way: my wife was offered a position of subwarden in one of the Imperial halls, literally across the road from the campus meant that we were to start living in very close proximity to Uni...and for free...in exchange for organising activities for hall residents, taking care of students and being on-call once a week or so.  Not bad, at all.

Moving is always a bit of a nightmare, especially if you have more than 200kg worth of stuff, but somehow it was all done in 7 trips to and fro from Ealing to Gloucester Road, with relative ease and with no hiccups.  Except that that particular Saturday was the first day of London 2012.  Ah yes, that event going on in Stratford.

And now?  I write this post whilst facing the peaceful Evelyn Gardens from our living room in Fisher Hall, enjoying a sunny afternoon and a nice cup of tea.

Venetian clichés and more

I daresay that ECCM15 was the last conference I shall attend during my Ph.D.  I am fast approaching the final months of this long journey, with all its ups and downs, but conferences certainly were positive outcomes of it all.  This latest one was held in Venice and it was quite a memorable one, for so many reasons.


It was not my first time in Venice; 1990 was my first and 2002 was my second, but whilst I was too young (though fully capable of independent navigation, as my parents well know) and still an architectural student in the latter visit, this time round I was almost a totally different person: a fully-fledged architect/structural engineer in my late 20s, with a keener eye for observation, with a (digital) camera in hand and, of course, with the acquired capability of reflecting on "alien" cultures outside my native Maltese one.  And, naturally, I was there primarily for 'business'...


I was lodged on the Lido rather than on Venice proper, which was already a novelty.  The commute was by boat (I did not have much of a choice really) and once docked, I headed to the hotel and then for a quick tour of the Lido.  It did not feel much like Venice: cars adorned the streets, and there were actually streets rather than canals!  But the unmistakable Italian (even Venetian) qualities were so distinctive from what I am accustomed to in London and yet so much closer to what I find in the Maltese homeland.  Perhaps the best illustration is that first evening.


The Euro 2012 was at quarter final stage and, that evening, Italy had to face England.  I could not miss that game and after a quick (yet tasty) pizza for dinner, I found a bar with a big screen and settled there for the night.  Customers downed Spritz (not beer); the barmen did not refrain anyone from smoking but they themselves smoked behind the counter; no drink measures were used but all was simply done "by eye"; euphoric shouts at all the attempts of Pirlo and/or Balotelli and colourful offensive tags to Rooney's and Gerard's counterparts.  Strangers engaging in conversation without any prejudice or discomfort.  And all with the added pleasure of a sea-induced breeze and live music being played from a nearby open-air concert.  The Mediterranean lifestyle.  Or rather the Adriatic one in this case...P.S. Italy won 4-2, with penalties after a 0-0 result even after the 120th minute; Italy-Germany was the next match in the semi final.


Monday to Thursday were the conference days in the fascist-style Casino and equally scary Palazzo del Cinema, though still marked by extra-curricular activities: the daily lunches (a manifestation of organised chaos, with typical southern disorganisation in the handling of the 1500 strong crowd) with generous helpings of tasty pasta, carpaccio, mozzarrella and Italian cold meats; the dinners at a local restaurant (spaghetti with lobster on the first occassion and a feast of seafood on the second, i.e., baby octopus as an antipasto, spaghetti con vongole as a 1st course and mixed grilled fish as a main course, all washed down with wine and topped off with a tiramisu, an espresso lungo and, of course, a limoncello); the conference dinner (yet again a massive logistical miscalculation which prolonged the feasting till almost midnight!  And, by the way, my 2 presentations on the Tuesday were all delivered smoothly, to my great relief.

On Thursday afternoon, I headed to Venice proper (I was about to say "the mainland" but there is no mainland in Venice!) and began the cultural activities.  Being accustomed to the generally accepted view that London's tube is very expensive (£4 for a single cash fare), I found the traghetto fares appalling: €7 for a single trip!  But I had no choice, unless I had decided to swim across the lagoon.  Once berthed off San Marco, I started my venture in 30 something degrees, with 2 litre water bottle in one hand and camera in the other.  Once the obvious sights were done, I headed off the tourist-beaten track and into the hidden Venice, the unknown maze of calle this and ria that and fondamente so-and-so.  The uniqueness of its character and the fascination it entails are too overwhelming and I almost confidently can say that Venice is my favourite place in the world.  After an exhaustive tour of the sestieri of San Marco and Dorsoduro, I headed back to the Lido for Italy-Germany, yet another magnificent display of football, which took the Italians to the final against Spain.


Friday morning was an early start: I took the boat to the train station and headed to the real mainland, to the city of Padova.  The irony was that a return ticket cost as much as a single ferry fare!  Once at the (fascist) station, I met my 'Paduan' colleague from uni and he showed me around a city so familiar to him that for a minute I thought he was not really a biomechanical engineer but rather a tourist guide!  Only one problem: it was boiling and we had to catch up on the fluid loss thanks to a Spritz and plenty of water (I ended up drinking some 4 litres that day and only a cupful came out the normal way, just to give an idea of the heat level; sorry for the detail). Padova is much a student city: an endless parade of students, posters glued to facades, concerts, coffee shops for philosophical debates; not sights you would encounter in London, unfortunately.  Padova was equally enchanting: the (much-appreciated) shaded arched loggias, the cobbled streets, the ad hoc urban fabric which developed organically rather than strictly planned and laid out, the omnipresent Catholic spirit and the endless references to St. Anthony, whose presence and dominance was escalating as one approached to the basilica.


The basilica: what an eclectic place!  A unique superposition of all architectural styles known to me: Byzantine, Gothic, Renaissance, Baroque.  Every single corner has its own story, its own conceptual creation, material, colour.  It was like visiting a 100 places in 1.  And of course the quasi superstitious qualities associated with strong Catholic tradition: petitions, photos, candles, figures, relics and all the rest.  I probably found this basilica much more splendid than Venice's own San Marco, but this is subjective.  


By mid afternoon, my guide had ventured back to his home town of Este and I wandered again through the now-deserted Piazza delle Erbe and Piazza della Frutta and the precincts of the Palazzo Bo' and the centre.  It was then time to return to Venice and conclude my tour there: Cannarreggio awaited me.  I lingered there till well after dinner (in the Rialto's shadow) and sunset and then back to the hotel, thoroughly exhausted yet satisfied. 

Saturday was my final day there, which meant I was soon to return back to London, from the scorching sun and mid-high 30s to mid 20s and the constant grey (as I write this, it is pouring out there and it almost a re-enactment of the Great Flood).  After such a long time in London, I cannot help but note such differences between 'us and them'.  I think I am more convinced than ever that I ought to return back to the homeland.  But before then, I have got a thesis to finish!

Jubil(ee)ation

Although London has 33% of its inhabitants who are pure British citizens, I have managed to make quite a few British friends during my time here.  Of these, I would say half are either royalists or do not really care much about the Royals and the other half are sheer republicans.  In my case, I do not have much of an opinion, since Malta ceased being part of the Empire a long time ago, although I must say my host country has generally been quite kind to me and, as a sign of respect, I do respect HM and her entire entourage.

This weekend, I would daresay that the entire U.K. is suddenly enthusiastic about the Queen, in the light of her 60th Jubilee celebrations and, even more so, because of the 4 day weekend we are enjoying...

It is surprising to note that, while back home all public buildings and schools would invariably sport a huge photo of the President in the building's foyer, I have not yet encountered this practice here.  However, in London, wherever you go, you can see the Queen's presence in one way or another: my own workplace is called Imperial College, the Royal Albert Hall, so-and-so Palace, Queen's Gate or Palace Gate, Kew Royal Botanic Gardens, Royal this and that, Jubilee Line, Royal Mail,  Royal Opera House, Royal Academy, Royal Festival Hall, Royal College of Music...the list is endless.  Deep down, they all love the Royals.  And, Queen or no Queen, the Brits do love their pomp and ceremony and the Jubilee was no exception trying to make the best of this once in a life time event.

My interest in the British monarchy was rather limited to the Tudor period until a few months ago, but I kicked off my personal tribute to the Windsor house last week when I read "The King's Speech", entirely devoted to HM's father.  I managed to start it and finish it in the same day.  Not that I am suddenly such a big fan of the Queen or her family, but (a) it is a good book and (b) I travelled some 300km on the train that day (up to Coventry and back) and, naturally, had plenty of time to kill.  But the big thing happened this weekend, precisely coinciding with the early summer bank holiday...

Summer 2012, which had supposedly started last week with temperatures surpassing those back home, is now suspended but the Diamond Jubilee festivities proceeded nonetheless.  From our experience of the NYE events in Central London, we decided to head off to the River 3 or 4 hours earlier than the scheduled time, to ensuire getting a good spot.  Our efforts were rewarded, at the cost of standing in the same location from 11.30 till 4.30, but we did get a (distant) glimpse of HM...more on that later.

The weather did not disappoint us: it was London at its best with grey clouds, mist and the light drizzle.  Of course, had it been sunny and bright, people would have thought the pictures are a forgery.  From our vintage point beside the Millennium Bridge on the North Bank and facing the Globe and Tate on the right and the cloud-covered Shard on the Right, we waited and waited for the 1000 piece flotilla escorting the Royal Barge.  It was a sight simply seeing the Brits, most of them having come a long way from the North, dressed up in white, red and blue, wearing such coloured wigs, Union Jack outfits, waving flags and, of course, eating.  People had been there since 8am or even camped overnight, though they only were ahead of us by 50cm.

Thanks to the joys of smartphones, we knew exactly when the Queen left Battersea via BBC live and waited and waited till the first boats appeared.  And then they reached us: colours and energetic rowers, bells and flags and then sea cadets and scores of Commonwealth flags (Malta included) and finally the Queen and the Royal Family.

It was impressive to see that the 86 year old monarch was still waving incessantly and had not sat down yet (and indeed did not sit till the very end).  From our enviable viewpoint, we only saw the Queen having the size of my thumb - I had always thought the Thames was quite narrow but I was wrong - but it was worth the wait. It was one of those "I was there" moments.

And the organisation?  Impeccable, British style event handling: some 1,000,000 turned out along the Thames' banks on the day and there was not even one moment of confusion.  Amazing people.  No wonder these guys had 25% of the whole world's territory and population in their control.

Of course, the pageant was not all: a huge concert is scheduled tonight featuring Sir Macca, Sir Elton, Sir Cliff, Kylie, Steve Wonder and much more.  I can't wait for it to start, though unfortunately my name was not amongst the lucky 10000 randomly picked ones.  Nonetheless, I will join the Brits and shout, "God save the Queen!"

Vic-Tory

I have been here since September 2007, save for a 5 month interruption, and every time there is an election here, I am amazed at the way the Brits handle politics.  This week rekindled my amazement, on the occasion of the Mayoral elections in London.

I am not quite sure whether my qualification to vote in British elections (local and national) are due to Malta being part of the E.U. or the Commonwealth, but every time there is some sort of electoral activity, I always get the vote in the post.  This time, it was time to elect a new Mayor.  I recall the last Mayoral election, in which I had voted.  This time round, I did get the chance to vote, but of all days, I left the office at 9pm on the ballot day and got home too late to pick up my ballot card and head off to the polling station and cast my vote.  In any case, Boris was re-elected on the Tory ticket, but it was only by a whisker, at least by British standards.  And Labour gained massive votes throughout the rest of the country, apparently; I still have to adjourn myself with what was happening over the past 3 days...

What is extraordinary, particularly for someone who comes from Malta, where partisan politics are almost as important (if not in equal measures) to religion, that the Brits do not really care much on politics.  Not that they are not voting or anything, but there is none of the month-long drama which unfolds back home, with bill boards, tons of leaflets in the mail, hotly debated issues, controversies and what not.  The country (or the city in this case) proceeds as usual; there is no unnecessary tension in the air.  So much so, that I had almost completely forgotten about the election, until I was on the Tube en route home and there was one result forecast on the front page of the Evening Standard.

Well, I suppose life for all Londoners will go on, be it with Boris or with Ken, though the latter had the much-appealing promise of cutting down the Tube fares, though it seems that the Left and Right are in a delicate state of balance in Europe and beyond: a new Conservative Greek prime minister (though alarming Greek voters preferred to give their preferences to Neo Nazi candidates), Putin is back in power in Russia, French premiere Sarkozy who is now replaced by Socialist Hollande and Merkel's coalition in Germany is hanging off a thin string.  And Malta?  Maybe an election is due much sooner than we thought...

A meeting with a master

Amidst the unpleasant circumstances of the Malta visit, one particular hour stood out as a noteworthy (positive) event: a meeting with Professor Richard England.

A few weeks back, I managed to purchase one of the monographs which celebrate his contribution to the Maltese architectural scene. It occurred to me to attempt contacting England with the hope of getting an appointment and get it signed in some hasty meeting amidst his busy schedule. I did send an email to the usual "Contact us" address off the website and, to my great surprise, I received an email from his personal email account a few days later, inviting me to call him on his mobile phone and arrange to meet him during my Malta visit.

Once on the island, I did call him and he asked me to visit him at home on the Monday evening. And so we did, drove up to that familiar street off Paceville where I sometimes used to park during busy weekends. As soon as I opened the gate, Richard himself opened the door and ushered us into his home and to his studio.

Wow, is the unavoidable cliché that one will say upon setting eyes on the immense, ordered collection of books, figures, drawings and CDs. Richard broke the ice by asking our opinion on the current architectural status in the world and I urged him to stick to tiny Malta for the time being. With a sense of nostalgia, he confessed that there is no longer a Maltese architecture to talk about, only a "building industry".

It was a relief to hear that England still believes there are a "handful" of good architects in their early or late 30s, the foremost of which is, in his opinion, my own cousin Chris. We discussed Valletta, Piano's proposal, the prospect of highrises in Malta, our Ph.D. research in London, his view of the superstar architects and of sustainability and structural engineering. And of course, signed my book. Not only that, but he presented us with a marvellous collection of his architectural-artistic sketches and drawings. Also with a dedication and signed, of course.

A good one hour later, Richard warmly wished us well in our research and asked us to keep in touch and pay him other visits whenever we are in Malta. On the way out, he showed us a pencil drawing on tracing paper from Basil Spence's hand - one of the original proposals for Coventry Cathedral. England re-iterated the importance of architects using the pencil (or, in his case, the pen) and not the computer, for the latter "does not think" and only the hand can transfer ideas from the mind to paper.

A meeting which I initially envisaged as being intimidating, hurried and impersonal turned out to be warm, leisurely and of a kind which would almost be even beyond one between two acquaintances. Meeting Richard England, who is (almost) definitely the best living Maltese architect and (most) probably a very significant architect of the Mediterranean region, truly exceeded all expectations.

Farewell, nanna

There are few things in life which, despite all possible levels of education, I know I will always fail to understand; some things might be beyond my personal interest, say astrophysics or quantum mechanics, but when it comes to the metaphysical world, one issue stands out: death.

Until a few days ago, I have had the misfortune of enduring 4 family deaths and, sadly enough, this number has now risen to 5 with the passing away of my last remaining grandparent, Nanna Connie.

I was very eager to flying back to Malta for the Maltese long weekend; we had booked tickets way back in December probably and by Wednesday, I guess I already was in holiday-mode. Alas, on Thursday morning, my wife greeted me with a sad SMS from mum, which informed me that nanna had moved on to a better life in the early hours of the day.

I am not a man who easily expresses emotion, which is probably not a good thing, and will not do much of an effort to do so here, but as the last of my roots is now gone, I cannot not put paper to pen (so to speak) and share a few words.

Despite the 6 decade age difference, I can very much relate to nanna and trace some elements in me which make up the 25% I inherited from her: I am a man of few words, soft-spoken most of the times, love food and photos, probably will have high cholesterol levels in the future, and, of course, sport the omnipresent red cheeks channelled over to me via dad.

The trip to Malta which was supposedly a break turned out to be a sort of Micallef family re union (albeit in the most unfavourable of circumstances) and, in the most beautiful weather conditions, we all gathered for (probably) the last time at Marsa church - nanna's 2nd home for so many years - to pay our last respects.

Farewell, nanna. Give my best to nannu, and if you see any of the Grechs too, give them a hug on my behalf. I am doing my best to make you all proud, as you have always been of me.

Two years...

...since our wedding!

Almost unbelievable!

731* days!

Happy anniversary, Marianna!

* 2012 is a leap year

A triumphal performance

I hate labels, but probably more than anything else, I consider myself to be a musician. My interests are not solely limited to the piano and classical music, but range from classic rock to indie, from musicals to jazz. One genre has been a sort of mystery: opera. Probably because Malta lacks a proper opera house or perhaps I have only been to one opera in my life, Orff's Carmina Burana, which, despite its vocal beauty, lacked the theatricality of stage performance which one would expect in, say, a Mozart or Verdi opera. This all changed last Sunday when we went to see the Aida at the wonderful Royal Albert Hall.

It was a lovely day - spring seems to be making an appearance here in London - and we ventured off to South Ken on a Sunday late morning, for a very different reason from our usual Monday-Friday trip there. Tickets in hand and up to the topmost level, an usher asked us if we would like to get an upgrade to one of the (£65 worth) seats just off the 'stage' (which was really in the round). What sort of question is that? Surely a rhetoric one! We exchanged tickets and 1 minute later we were seated just 5m away from the edge of the performance area. And soon the show began.

A three-hour-long delight, a celebration of live music, powerful singing and a contemporary twist to the otherwise late 19th century masterpiece. In my operatic ignorance, I was only vaguely aware of the plot, except that it was set in ancient Egypt and even more unfamiliar with the music, except for the cliché that is the Triumphal march, but in its Shakespearean-tragedy quality, the plot was simple enough to follow, even if with the help of the English translation, and the outing proved to be a brilliant start to my interest in opera.

The next appointment by the same company at the same venue is in a year's time, almost to the day, with nothing else but Bizet's Carmen. You know what I am going to do next? I think I am going to book tickets...

(Old) York

Until a few days ago, the furthest north I had ever been in the U.K. (and in the world, for that matter) was to Crewe in Chesire. This was superseded last Friday, when we travelled up to York for the weekend...

It was probably the worst time of the year ever to go to North Yorkshire. It was quasi freezing in London and did not expect the situation to be any more pleasant 300 km up. We took the 7.15pm (non stop) train and as soon as the train doors opened in York station, it was like stepping out in the Arctic; it was some -3 degrees and I thought my ears were about to fall off. Outside the station, all was a monochromatic scene of white: snow everywhere! We headed to our cosy hotel literally down the road, checked in and settled for a nice warming glass of Southern Comfort before retiring.

The next day, it was somewhat warmer, just above freezing point. Nice. The usual English breakfast awaited downstairs and then out into the cold with our first exploration of the medieval city. It was initially extremely confusing to see that the many city gates were actually called "Bars" and the streets in the older parts were called "Gates". Taking note of that, we made our way through the city walls (unfortunately closed off due to the snow) and across the Ouse, we headed to the well-known Shambles. And then the main star of York, the Minster.

Gothic architecture has always impressed me and the cathedral at York proved to be equally fascinating as other noteworthy examples here in U.K., say Westminster, Canterbury and Salisbury. It was terribly cold inside, probably more than outside, despite the continuous line of heaters along the building's perimeter, but then again I did not expect these to heat up such an immense volume. A British tour guide showed us around for a good 1.25 hours, explaining every little detail until it was time for lunch. A pub lunch, of course. Bangers and mash. And ginger beer. Bliss.

Next stop, visiting the main parts of the city walls and then the York Brewery. I always associated beer with summer, but if you happen to be around at this time of the year, then it would be a shame not to pay a visit to the tiny brewery at York. After sampling 2 of their brews, a very charismatic Brit showed us around (or explained to us the whole brewing process really), after which we sampled yet another 2 brews. Very tasty indeed. A quick trip to the hotel and then dinner, after which a couple of shots of the minster at night and off to bed.

Besides all the medieval and Gothic architecture, what really impressed me during the first day was the fact that, while we were wrapped up in 3 or 4 layers of clothing and still complaining at times, most of the youngsters walked around on the Saturday night wearing T shirts, short dresses with bare backs and other such summer clothes. Is this normal behaviour? Are they immune to the cold?

The Sunday started with breakfast and check out and then off to the gardens behind the minster, which, all laden with snow, really looked like anything but a garden. The ruins of the abbey there were almost as impressive as the minster. The final stop after a quick coffee was the Jorvik centre. I had previously never really seen anything related to the Vikings, but I suppose this was a very good start. It was very well presented, in typical English style, and enjoyed every minute of it. Except the bit when we "drove" past a Viking trying to take a dump...especially considering that it was a very interactive show, with smells and all...

Another pub lunch finished off the morning and then it was time to get the train back to London, with a lot of good memories of the north. Oh, I forgot to mention, also with a nice aching bruise on my bottom from my slip down a staircase, courtesy of the ice! And now that I have seen the old (original) York, I guess I should be thinking of visiting New York!

V for _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

No, not "Vendetta", though, of course, we all love that movie and is a must-watch on and around 5/11. Hint: first letter 'V' and last letter 'A' are correct. Yup, Valencia. We are just back from 4 great days in the Spanish town which has been on the "To visit" list for quite a while and which was our first trip for 2012. It was a quick affair: in 15 minutes, I had booked flights, hotels and airport transfers and, after borrowing 2 Valencia books from a friend who had actually lived in Valencia for a couple of months, I was totally immersed in the city and all it had to offer. Until we actually visited the place last Thursday and experienced it all, at first hand...

Like most of our trips, the 'commute' started on Wednesday night, with the usual bus ride to town and then the coach to one of those airports which somehow are labelled "London-XX" but which, to date, I fail to understand how an airport even outside the M25 is in London. Anyhow, we got to London Stansted at around 3am-ish and after deciphering all the stores there, we boarded the plane to Valencia. And that was our night's sleep: 2.5 hours on a Ryanair plane. Touchdown and off to the city centre and I immediately started making out a couple of observations...

Spain may be only the channel and the bay of Biscay away from the U.K., but there are imaginary oceans between the 2 countries. People talk and yell on the metro, no persistent messages of "Mind this" and "Do that" every 5 seconds which seem to address an audience with extreme dementia and, of course, not a word in English, anywhere (though with my fair Italian speaking skills and the odd appended 's', I managed to get tickets). Check-in at the hotel done, a 5 minute walk awaited us which took us straight to the main attraction of Valencia: the masterpiece of its own architect-turned-superstar son, Santiago Calatrava.

Wow, the scale and openness of the place. And thinking that this was all riverbed, makes it even more special. The sheer scale of the urban space and the "buildings" forming the C.A.C. was not compromised by the otherwise s****y weather which welcomed us for the first 3 days (though it was no deterrent for taking a total of 1100+ photos, each). Architecturally speaking, the Spanish are well less refined than the Brits when it comes to detailing and workmanship, but so far I have not seen anything as daunting as this mega complex. 150,000,000 euro worth of steel, concrete and water provided endless joy to our architect eyes.

Having bought the admission tickets, we entered the Science Museum, again totally impressive from a structural/design point of view but, although it was fun and interesting, it was surely not as well presented as any of the London museums. A quick bite and we started with the long walk along the ex-riverbed of the River Turia. I must point here that anyone with an allergy to and/or phobia of oranges should not dare set foot on Valencian soil. The sight of orange trees, fully loaded with fruit, became such a common sight all over the city that it soon became something to take for granted and not wander at anymore.

Having surveyed the Gulliver, Palau de la Musica, a number of the bridges and spaces in the Turia, we finished off the afternoon with some shopping at Zara (where else but in Spain?) and then a very tasty dinner of rabbit paella and bountiful salads, after which we headed to the hotel for the first decent sleep in over 30 hours. Only after visiting the C.A.C. at night, which was probably even more impressive than during daytime, courtesy of the reflection magic which Santiago correctly envisioned to be occurring in his shallow pools.

Day 2 kicked off with breakfast and then immediately started the tour of the historic part of the city. First stop: something very Spanish - the bull arena and its museum. Although slightly disappointed that I could not be inside the actual ring, the visit to the Museo Taurino was very interesting and somewhat unique. After a quick look at the impressive North Station, the first of Valencia's 3 main squares, Plaza Ajuntamento, where the Town Hall and the Post Office are, though the latter is probably more dominating and impressive than the former.

The itinerary proceeded with a 2 hour roam around the narrow streets of the old quarters, probably highlighted by the "discovery" of the church of St. John Hospitaller, intrinsically linked with Malta and the Knights. A much-needed pit-stop followed at the Horchateria El Siglo, which furnished us with a horchata and the accompanying fartons in the shadow of the Santa Catalina bell tower just off the second main square. Next, the Mercado Central and its fabulous bright interior and even more impressive collection of all kinds of sea food and meat products of all sorts and strange body parts...

Across the road, we visited the Lonja, whose twisted columns left a marking impression but somewhat blurred by the persisting hunger. Two streets away was lunch: tapas! A quick and unceremonious affair but exceedingly tasty (and salty) meal of grilled sardines, sea snails, salted cod, bread and white wine. At this point, I started to get confused at the endless variety of bathroom signs in Valencia: servicios, lavandos, laseos, the universal W.C. and then caballeros or hombres to indicate male...why can't they simplify the nomenclature and not confuse me further when I really need to go?! Anyway, let's proceed...

More exploration of the old quarters followed, including the final main square, Plaza de la Virgen, the awesome cathedral and its wholly Baroque and fluid facade, the Almoina (which we visited later and is probably one of the best preservation projects I have seen to date) and then the only Norman Foster building in Valencia: the Palacio de Congresos, or "beached fish"; all of his buildings seem to adapt weird nicknames! Back to the centre, we visited the well-hidden Banos del Almirante, a visit which seemed like a private tour since we were just 2 being shown around! Finally, a few shots of the cathedral area by night, then a super-tasty dinner of marinara-style paella and salad and off to bed.

Day 3: first a visit to the Barrio del Carmen, or the Carmen quarter. A somewhat bohemian part of town, with colourful graffiti decorating many shopfronts and alternative outlets, all centred around the old Carmelite church and the Torres de Serrano and Torres de Quart, which we both scaled to the summit later in the day and probably were responsible for the leg cramps which I still have 2 days after...

The rest of the day was mostly dedicated to the C.A.C., first with a 3D show in the Hemisferic and then a good 3 or 4 hours in the Oceanografic, with its huge collection of fish, sharks, sea mammals and the impressive show at the Dolphinarium. I felt slightly uneasy walking down the glass submerged tunnels with sharks and sting rays swimming above my head; it will probably be the closest I will ever get to these sea beasts...

Back to the centre, we visited a number of churches and the cathedral again and most of the buildings we had seen earlier by night; it is a totally different landscape seeing the wonderful variety of medieval and Baroque buildings floodlit, but as I pointed out earlier, probably the highlight was the Almoina archaeological site.

The final day started with the check-out and then immediately exploiting the long-awaited sunshine which I had stereotypically associated with Spain but had not yet manifested itself. Visiting the Jardines del Real, the modern Hesperides and then the Cabecera proved to be the best way to make the most of the sunshine, but we had to pay a visit, albeit a brief one, to the Museo de Bellas Artes. The final stop was by the marina and the beach, characterised by the ultra-modern Vels e Vents and then a final amazing lunch of paella, Iberian pork and tiramisu.

The proxima parada would be sadly be London, though happily laden with 1.4GB of photos (each) and countless cherished memories of yet another Spanish destination off our list and surely not the last!