A series of purpose-evolved villages – of late-model apartments line the Costa del
Azahar - The Orange Blossom Coast. 
To our amazement, the holidaymakers leave all of their beach wares out overnight. |
EXCERPT FROM SARA’S JOURNAL August
14, 1999
Torrenostra (Our Towers)
I’m watching a boy of no more than six. He’s with his grandfather, sitting at
the bar, spooning creamy liquid into his mouth. Horchata is Valencia’s summer
treat – a sweet, milky, semi-frozen concoction of ground earth-almonds called chufas
produced mostly in the nearby town of Alboraia. The white stuff is continually stirred in
a machine at the bar. With it the boy has a plate of rosquilletas – sweet,
crunchy breadsticks. He munches and sips from his teaspoon while his grandfather
socializes, nursing a jet black café solo.
A few hours later the Med appears, between highrises and orchards – a path of
orange groves and condominiums between us and the gradual wading pool that is the Spanish
Riviera. The Costa del Azahar – The Orange Blossom Coast – is a strip of fine
clay beach flanked by dense groves, between Valencia and the fortified town of Peniscola.
The resorts are mellow, interspersed with fishing ports supplying prawns and mussels to
the local restaurants. Behind them the landscape buckles into medieval hilltop towns, each
crowned with a decaying castle, each seemingly unable to compete with the seaside. Between
the developments of Benicassim and the beaches of Peniscola there’s a series of
purpose-evolved villages – beachside towns of late-model apartments. The beaches are
carved by their patrons – shallow, flat coves with breakwalls to save the sand from
the sea’s gentle but persistent surf. It’s unbelievable in the evening, when
strolling from the eucalyptus forest to the waterfront. The villagers – the Spanish
families who’ve come to the coast for the month of August to escape the heat of the
cities – have left their belongings on the beach like temples to relaxation and
togetherness. Nothing’s locked up. Nothing’s labeled or identified. Each bundle,
marking the beach like a castle, includes a striped umbrella tower (closed for overnight),
with walls of flip-flop sandals, tatami beach mats, water wings, paddle games, snorkeling
gear and beach chairs in varying stages of rust and fraying. It seems everyone’s here
doing the exact same thing no point in lugging the stuff home every evening when the sun
gives way to the religious for the exact same reason for exactly two to four weeks, every
day, with old friends, and there’s preparation of the barbecue. At the umbrella
castle-city I slalom to the shore and dip my toes in something warm and murky. It’s
shallow, turgid, and tepid. It takes 500 metres of wading to get wet above the knees. From
the pristine, difficult, deep and tousling Atlantic we’ve come to the threshold of
Europe’s playground. The Mediterranean laps at my ankles, she’s tired from her
experiences, her bathers, and worn down from ancient-everything to easy-going. |
