Living with 8 people under one roof? Sounds like a sitcom. Or a horror movie. Depending on the day. It’s loud, it’s messy, and someone always steals your yogurt – but guess what? We actually look out for each other. We even chip in for cleaning supplies and food. Real adulting stuff. Gold star for us.
On the last day of our Spanish course, we gave our teacher Jesús a bouquet of flowers and snapped a group photo. The guy looked so happy, I swear he nearly evolved into a Disney character right in front of us. Pure joy, no filter needed.
Now, behind our house? BOOM – instant nature. Like, actual fields and flowers and chirpy birds. It’s all very Instagram-worthy. But if you’re headed to the supermarket, buckle up. There’s an „adventure route“ that involves climbing fences, dodging thorns, and risking your dignity. Indiana Jones, but for groceries.
This week we created a cleaning schedule. (Yay, democracy!) Guess who got picked first with Florian? Me. But plot twist: everyone bailed to go drink with Mr. Maier. Classic. So I did what any exhausted hero would do – I cleaned the whole damn house myself. Kitchen? Sparkling. Two bathrooms? Sanitized. Floors? Swept, mopped, and polished like Mr. Clean himself did a walkthrough.
Sure, it was tiring. Sure, I now have beef with every dust bunny in existence. But when the squad got back and said they could eat off the floor? Chef’s kiss. Also, it finally smells like lemons and justice in here.
Oh – and I treated myself. Bought the most expensive strawberries I’ve ever paid for. Worth every damn cent. Locally grown, sun-kissed perfection. No moldy imposters, no mushy disappointment. Just sweet, crisp, juicy flavor bombs straight from the fruity heavens. Best. Strawberries. Ever.
And the real MVPs of Valencia? The cats. They’re everywhere. Lurking, lounging, judging. You’re never alone on the streets here – there’s always a cat watching. Probably plotting. Definitely majestic.
EXTRA BONUS ROUND: It’s Palm Sunday – Domingo de Ramos – and we thought we missed the parade for Semana Santa Marinera. WRONG. Turns out, in our very own neighborhood, the evening procession had just started. Florian and I basically WWE-tag-teamed our way into clean clothes and ran to catch it.
And holy palm leaves, it was magical. Long lines of people in traditional robes, some barefoot, some carrying religious statues that look like they belong in the Vatican’s VIP section. Locals holding woven palm branches (a classic symbol of peace and Jesus‘ entry into Jerusalem), incense thick in the air, and solemn music from brass bands echoing through the streets. It wasn’t just a parade – it was a full-on emotional rollercoaster wrapped in tradition and goosebumps.
Valencia doesn’t just celebrate Holy Week – it lives it, breathes it, and marches it down your block like a boss.
Next week? I’ll be back with more chaos – and I’m checking out the local Easter festivities. Bunnies, eggs, and maybe a resurrection or two. Stay tuned.