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It was a pleasure seeing you naked … tales from a Hammam

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This weekend I was very naked.  I went to a Public Hammam and to quote my friend Clare, “I wish I could have been even MORE naked.”

A Hammam is similar to a steam room (think Turkish bath house) where Moroccans go habitually to cleanse themselves.  I’ve since done a bit of reading on the subject (probably should have done that before going) and am super into the culture of the experience and am so glad I did it.

Note that if you have a Hammam at a spa or hotel, know that you are A. probably overpaying and B. potentially not getting an authentic Hammam.  But not everyone wants this type of experience or has access to it,  so you do you.

Now, the Hammam ritual is a series of cleansing and relaxing and socializing.  Black soap (which can really be a shade of dark green) is used to soap and prep the skin, and a rough glove is used to exfoliate.  Suds and scrub.  And chat and catch up with your friends and family, for a Hammam is also a social gathering.

I went to the Hammam Marassa in Rabat with three of my Remote  Year friends: Sam, Sara, and Immaculate.  We entered a room that was tiled floor-to-ceiling with blue and white tiles, and after a few starts and stalls with my French skills, we paid, got our gloves and soap, and looked at each other shrugging, Well I guess we get naked now.  

Inside the bath house was two more completely tiled rooms, and the ladies who worked at the Hammam (I’ll call them our scrub ladies, who were mostly naked themselves) led us to the room in the back.  It was hot and steamy, and walking naked through the first room we notice that we could have definitely kept our underwear on if we wanted.  But mentioning this to Sara, she was all hey, we’re here, this is it.  And I agreed – Let’s do the thing right.  So there are 20 people in this Hammam of all age ranges who are naked or mostly-naked.

I was shy for about 12 seconds.  I’ve gone through multiple stages of hating my body and loving my body and scrutinizing my body and hiding my body and parading my body and working out a lot and not working out enough and eating too much and not eating enough, and currently I’m in a “I’m a little soft but whatever because I like pastries for breakfast” phase.  Which means in those 12 seconds, I was self conscious in front of my friends, in front of the locals, and in front of our scrub ladies.  And then Immaculate started naked dancing and our scrub lady started naked dancing and really, it was all okay.  As a reminder, everyone is naked.

And so, we sat down on the tiled floors and got sudsed-up with black soap and then scrubbed down so that mounds of dead skin were coming off.  I wasn’t too surprised since I’ve been living in dusty Rabat for a month and have been to the Sahara and back, and I really needed a good scrub-down.  The exfoliation was painful in the ‘hurts so good’ way.  My arms, stomach, back, feet, chest, legs — everywhere visible was cleansed (again, we’re naked).  Then we were rinsed with buckets of cool water dumped over our heads and I walked away (holding hands with my scrub lady) feeling brand-spanking new.

 

So I’m sitting here now, typing this, rubbing my baby-smooth arms and am again, so grateful for these experiences.  Grateful that I say yes even when it sounds weird, grateful also that I have friends who say yes, and when I’m lying on my side with my leg up getting scrubbed on my inner thigh, I’m grateful for my friend Sam who looks at me from a similar position and says “Just maintain eye contact,” making me burst out laughing.  So ladies, it was a pleasure seeing you naked.  I wouldn’t have wanted to do that with anyone else ❤

 

Sam, Sara, Immaculate, and Me

You Don’t See Camel Poop in Pictures

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What You See:

 


What Actually Happened:

4 hour train ride from Rabat to Marrakech.  A sandwich for lunch on the train that’s a roll with a few slices of cheese.  A Parisian riad manager named Laurent who describes the Marrakech market and square environment as a theater performance.  Mint tea.  A dip in the pool of the riad with a cool glass of white wine.  Being shouted at from various market stalls in the square, asking if I’m American and do I want to look at this or guess what spice this is pretty lady?  Dinner at a local food stall that says it’s beef but I’m not so sure.

Spending a full 10 hours riding in a car before we even arrive at the camels.  Stopping for lunch – cous cous and tajine.  Taking 112 naps in three hours, drowsy on anti-nausea medication.  Sitting in the middle seat and physically leaning on my friends as we go through the switchbacks up and down the mountain.  Hopping onto the camel, assessing its health and if it is being treated properly.  Smiling and naming my camel Henry.  Realizing immediately that the way camels walk is not convenient for riding.  In a moderate amount of pain.  Laughing out loud the entire ride because it’s so bumpy and everyone is laughing and trying to hold on and I can’t believe this is my life.  Trying to take pictures of everyone while they aren’t taking pictures of everyone else.

Arriving at our tents and realizing how sweaty and dirty I am and how much camel poop I’ve stepped in.  Eating dinner (tajine again but this time it’s wonderful).  Seeing some stray cats and trying to feed them the tajine.  Getting to know our tour guide, Said, over wine and hookah.  Telling riddles around an unlit campfire.

Lying on a dirty outdoor couch, looking up at the moon with drums playing in my ears trying to soak in every moment.

Falling asleep on said dirty outdoor couch and waking up while it’s still dark.  Walking up a huge dune to watch the sunrise but realizing there’s too much haze and fog and all of a sudden it was light and we missed it.  Agonizing over our soreness and chafing and whatever else was going on down there.  Discussing the proper undergarments for camel riding and how that is definitely NOT a thong.  Riding a camel again that morning anyway.  Back in the car for the entire day.  Trying to locate a restaurant in Marrakech that doesn’t serve Moroccan food because all we’ve had the past two weeks is cous cous, tajine, and pizza.  Getting a private room at an Italian restaurant and devouring wine and linguine and more wine.  Sitting in a thick cotton hotel robe and discussing  how much we’ve seen and how much we could continue to see.  Talking about what the hell we were gonna do when this year is over.  Having no answers but acknowledging that that’s okay.

 

You don’t see this in pictures.  You see me smile, you see a camel.  I’m okay with that.  Just know: behind my smile is always a backstory – sometimes joy, sometimes pain, and sometimes a little camel poop.

Sometimes I like working in a cubical

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Confession time: Sometimes I really like working in a cubical.

 

Silly huh?  I break free from the confines of a structured corporate job, have the ability to work from a variety of different places every month, and yet: cube.

In the two and a half months I’ve been traveling with Remote Year, I’ve worked from a dorm room, several cafes, my living room, an airplane, a terrace, a rooftop, the beach, a park, a Gothic castle, and three different coworking spaces.  And yet, in my current coworking space called 7AY, I have chosen a cubical over the long communal tables of the first floor or the highly coveted couches and cushions underneath a berber tent on the roof.

 

I’ll give you that it’s a nice cubical.  Not 3 solid walls blocking all light.  I picked one by a window.  It’s clean.

 

So I have to conclude that the stigma against working a ‘desk job’ isn’t about the desk itself.

So what is it?  What makes a ‘desk job’ a desk job?  Plenty of jobs physically have a desk.  CEOs have a desk but I don’t think they’d ever refer to their work as a desk job.  Teachers have desks, though they rarely sit at them.  So it must imply something else.  A ‘desk job’ seems to symbolizes grunt work, isolation, and a lack of independence, but I don’t think that’s necessarily true.  We should rename them to be Jobs-that-are-physically-performed-while-sitting-at-a-desk-but-have-nothing-to-do-with-said-desk.

I admit that, unlike some of the other Remotes, it wouldn’t kill me to go back and work an office job again after this.  The act of ‘going to the office’ isn’t what bothers me.  A commute doesn’t bother me.  Waking up early doesn’t bother me.  Repetitive conversations with coworkers about weekend plans don’t bother me .  Actually I really like those conversations.  The community of colleagues and interaction with others is what draws me to a job – me working in isolation on my couch would never work out.

I hear people say they hate all desk jobs.  Do you?  Do you really?  Have you tried them all?  What’s with the generalization?  The desk job isn’t about the desk.  It’s about THE JOB.  It’s about the tasks you perform; it’s about independence or collaboration or both.  It’s about getting satisfaction and pride from your work.  It’s about your boss and your coworkers and your work/life balance and feeling appreciated and respected and treated as a professional.  That’s what you’re looking for, that’s what you should prioritize, and that’s how you find a job you love.

What drew me to this remote lifestyle – and what would bother me about going back to an office job – isn’t the ‘lack of desk’ remote-ness of it all.  Apart from the travel, I joined Remote Year for the push to find professional freedom — the opportunity to be my own boss, set my own hours, and directly impact my own income.  And not just the ‘opportunity’ do to so – I am forcing myself to be successful only because I have no other option.  Make it work, or go home.  Get in or get out.  If I want to stay with RY I have to hustle.  This week I launched my own business in addition to working on several other projects.  It’s a resume review business with a service-minded approach: for every resume I review for a fee, I will turn around and provide the same service to a military vet for free.  This idea has been floating around in my head for THREE YEARS.  I created the website a year ago, and still it just sat.  Sat and sat and sat and made me feel guilty every day for not having the time (MAKING THE TIME) to roll it out.  And now, I’ve launched it.  Now the hustle really begins.

Just because I’m not tied to a desk doesn’t mean I don’t play by the rules.  I work, sometimes on weekends, sometimes from a desk, and sometimes doing work I don’t particularly feel inspired to do at the moment.  But my boss is a hardass, and she says I better get moving.  I’d tell her to go jump in a lake, but then I’d have a back and forth conversation with myself and for everyone’s sake it’s best to avoid that.

Tomorrow I might go with the floor cushions, but in the end I have work to do and it doesn’t matter if it gets done on a floor or a desk or in the middle of the Sahara.

Today, I chose a cube.

 

 

***With 7 years of Human Resources recruiting experience, I’ve launched http://www.JumpStartResume.com in order to provide professional resume review services while at the same time giving back to those who’ve served our country.

Get Inside my Head: Moroccan Edition

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I decided to let you be privy to some of the thoughts bouncing around my head this week.  No psychoanalysis please.
-Is the customs line really that long?
-Hey I’m in Morocco.
-Hey I’m in AFRICA.
-I bless the rains down in Aaaaafricaaaaaa (I BLESS THE RAINS)
-Who could possibly be ringing my doorbell at 1:30am?
-I need to just launch my new business already. Stop procrastinating.
-Woah this coworking space is crazy awesome.
-Did I just say ‘Si’ instead of ‘Oui’? That was stupid.
-What if I set up a Berber tent in my next apartment? I don’t think it would match my current IKEA furniture.  I should get some new furniture.
-If I could eat 12 plums a day, I would.
-Mental note: look up what happens if you have more than the recommended serving of plums.
-Do I want a glass of wine? Yes. But it’s Monday and you’re in Morocco and that’s not a thing. Plus you should really cut back on wine until we’re in Argentina.  Hmm that’s not realistic. Wait until happy hour on Thursday.  Good plan, way to go Case.
-IT’S THURSDAY AND THIS ROOFTOP BAR IS NOT A BAR.
-Is this cab driver going to … yep he is. Okay where’s that seatbelt?
-Does that little fuzzy kitty look hungry? He does. Let’s feed him.  Don’t pet him though. Fleas.
-I can buy flea killer.  He’s so FUZZY!
-Did you know you’re in Morocco? Cuz ya are.
-Do I want to do a camel ride out of Fez or Marrakesh?
-How many side trips out of Rabat am I doing this month?  How many is too much? How many is not enough?
-Do I really need to watch all of the Remotes snapchat stories? This is getting ridiculous.
-Do I love it here?
-I love it here.
IMG_3657

THE PLUMS!

Today I woke up in Africa

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Travel days.  I love to travel, in the sense of actually being somewhere not my home, somewhere new, somewhere different.  So I suppose I love the noun travel.  But the actual verb TO TRAVEL makes me want to rip my arm off and beat myself over the head with it, while gouging out my eyes with my red plastic spork.

I’m not even joking.  Ask the poor souls who had to sit with me at the food court or at the gate or in the customs line(s).  I wasn’t as grumpy as I can get when I travel with my family (sorry guys), and I wasn’t as hangry as I was when we flew above Aruba in circles for hours because a different plane had a flat tire (true story), but I admit I’m not the most relaxed traveler.  I’d love to travel like my grandparents would, the Carrs wearing khakis and white tee shirts to board a cruise ship, or the Joneses loading up the RV for yet another cross country adventure, carefree attitudes in tow.  Maybe someday I’ll get to that point.

At least I don’t throw up on planes anymore.

Except that one time last year.

…..

So we made it to the Casablanca airport unscathed.  After getting into the wrong van (don’t ask), having an address change fiasco (don’t ask) and watching a guy high on something drop trou in the middle of the street (REALLY don’t ask), I’m in Rabat, Morocco.

My apartment is, let’s say vintage.  We have a huge common room with couches surrounding the perimeter so I can host about 20 people, although our butts would go numb in half an hour because a couch here is apparently thin padding on top of a rock.  I’m in a 3BR apartment with two lovely ladies in a great little neighborhood called Agdal.  It’s more of an urban community, and there are plenty of shops and restaurants and ice cream and fellow Remotes around to keep me busy.  Some other Remotes live in the Rabat city center in the Medina, which is a big market.  People are spread out with stalls and big blankets stretched out selling anything from fruit to tea kettles to leather to rugs and clothing.  The volume of people there would make any claustrophobic or agoraphobic person run in the opposite direction, but I like it.

The coworking space is, in a word, awesome.  First floor is open and airy, with long communal tables and some great catered food options for lunch.  Second floor has meeting rooms and modern styled cubicals.  The roof, which is obviously my favorite thing ever, is a traditional berber tent with rugs, couches, tables, and fans.  A grown up Moroccan pillow fort.  I’m feeling inspired already.  BRING IT ON, MUSE!

Rooftop tent of 7AY, our coworking space

All 3 floors of 7AY

The Reason to Go Back

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Wrapping up Month Two of Remote Year with a bang (although rather than a bang,  the sound is ocean waves crashing combined with Kanye tunes on a ukulele, with overtones of rooftop whisky).

I’m having trouble with words today but I really wanted to explain Portugal in all its amazingness.  Someone described Lisbon as if the city has a secret hidden in plain sight, waiting for you to discover it.

The roads and walkways are done with a Portuguese pavement, which is small flat-ish stones arranged like a mosaic.  This is both beautiful and treacherously slippery.

Lisbon’s downtown is hilly, which means you can come upon a vista out of nowhere.  Pleasant surprise!

One of my favorite spots is the Time Out Market, which is a big hall that brings together a lot of the local restaurants in a shared space.  You can go with a group and each eat something from a different food shop – just be prepared to hunt for a seat.

But what’s going to bring me back to Portugal isn’t Lisbon alone, but the surrounding towns.  Easily accessible by train or car, these places are what make Portugal so fascinating.

I spent a weekend in Porto, the home of Port wine, bridges, and a landscape that rises from the river as if it’s 2 dimensional; colorful and begging to be explored.

My favorite part of Porto we stumbled upon accidentally-on-purpose.  My friends and I heard some music drifting down a small walkway, and decided to follow our ears.  We ended up at a street market with gorgeous art (my weakness!) and some stupid good sandwiches.

No available sandwich pictures, they were demolished too fast

I have so many other places I’d like to eventually explore in Portugal – like the fishing town Ericeira and the breathtaking Lagos.  I always say you need a reason to come back and explore somewhere more (the reason I’ve been to Nevada four times and still haven’t gotten a picture with the Welcome to Las Vegas sign) so I don’t mind that I didn’t hit all of the hot spots.  Portugal, I’ll see you again.  Xoxo

Next stop:  Morocco!

Connecting with a New Country

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I’ve been in Portugal for about 6 days now and while I settled into my accommodations immediately, it’s taken me a while to get a feel for the country itself.

Remote Year has us in student housing – aka a dorm community – which I am right at home with.  It’s bringing back lots of memories from Bucknell University, my alma mater.  My current room may contain less textbooks and cheap vodka than my 2005 freshman dorm, but it’s just as cozy, minimalistic, and private.  We have shared kitchens on each floor and a big kitchen, common area, and rooftop terrace on the 6th floor.  Being an extrovert, I gain energy from being around other people so I am particularly loving this set-up.

But Lisbon itself had me a little … wonky.  It’s not in-your-face beautiful like Valencia, but still has an allure and charm. We’re living and working north of the city center/downtown which has a bit more flavor, but it’s only a 20 minute trudge up and down hills to get there.  (I’m being sarcastic – walking is the way to go!  Work those glutes.)  I’ve had plenty of fun moments so far this week — watching the Euro 2016 win in a crowded plaza was incredible — but a lot of them had more to do with my RY family and less with our new home.  Minus the grandma at a local restaurant dancing around with a potted plant on her head.  That was all Portugal.

Anyway, I missed out on the Remote Year city orientation (attending a sweet wedding) which may explain a bit of my Lisbon acclimation difficulty, or maybe that’s just an excuse.  I spent most of my first weekend in Portugal sleeping (wake up at noon, get food, back to sleep)  or working random hours, and started to become a little worried that (A) I was sick, or (B) that I’d never find routine here.  Happily, I ended up with option (C) give yourself a break and adjust in your own way, Casey.

So that’s what I did.

I spent yesterday afternoon on the back of a scooter, winding around Sintra, driving past castles and along the coast with some adventurous friends.  Wind whipping, bright sun, crashing waves, accidental horn honks, and wet labyrinth tunnels got me appreciative of just being there.  No pressure to see every landmark, climb every castle or summit, or to eat in every restaurant or find the best cafe.  I’m not here as a tourist, after all.  I’m here to be a part of the local culture, to live and work and go out and see exactly what I want to see, nothing more and nothing less.

My To-Dos for the month:

  • Take a surf lesson (my high school short board skills are definitely gone)
  • Eat my weight in Pasteis de Nata, an egg custard pastry
  • Head to Porto this weekend
  • Spend more time downtown
  • Find lightweight pants for Morocco (next stop)

 

Repacking the Suitcase

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I went home at the start of July for a bomb wedding and had the opportunity to evaluate the possessions that will stay with me for the rest of my Remote Year journey – unless of course I lose it, break it, or share it.

What I Have Not Used So Far:

  • Sweater
  • Jackets
  • Cold weather clothing of any kind
  • Wedge heels (only wore twice)

What I Rely On:

  • Black maxi dress
  • All of my other shoes
  • Shorts
  • Jeans
  • Patterned tops

My theory in packing was to rely on neutral colors and styles for tops and bottoms.  This, as a theory, makes sense.  I’m wearing the same clothes every other week, so no need to stand out.  However, in practice this does not make me feel cute, attractive, stylish, or fun.  So I’ve swapped my gray, black, and white tops for things with a bit more flair to make me feel GOOD about what I’m wearing.  Because that’s what dressing is all about – to make you feel like a rockstar.

Plus, everyone on this trip is wearing the same clothes over and over.  It’s a non-judgemental group here with Remote Year Magellan, so there is absolutely no reason to be self-conscious about wearing my Oh My God Becky tank top every two weeks.

So, I went through every item in my suitcase (clothes, electronics, tchotchkes) and made hard and fast decisions while holding them a la “The Life Changing Magic of Tidying Up” (a great read by the way, if you’re into that sort of thing).  Other items I ditched included my iPad which I never used, the wedge heels, and my hair dryer, curling iron, and straightener.  For those last three, I realized I was wearing my hair wavy every day which is (1) easy, (2) quick, and (3) comfortable — it’s dang hot in a lot of the places I’m going and blasting my face with heat is about the last thing I want to do.  And I reasoned that if I were to ever want to do my hair differently, I have friends who share.

 
Side note: I’ve used both my spork AND my headlamp in Portugal. I’ll call that a win.

 

Pile of items left behind. Why did I think I would use a resistance band?!

 

 

A Wedding and FOMO

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Feeling a whole lotta crazy as I sit here at the airport.  And not just because I’m traveling from Philly to DC to London to Lisbon.

I attended my cousin Caitlin’s wedding to her German man Derek this weekend and I don’t think I’ve ever been to a wedding where every single person was on the dance floor by the second song.  As my uncle put it “This family really needed a wedding.”   From the sick dance moves performed by my 16 year old cousin Mitch, to the ridiculous garter toss, to the moment when my cousins Ryan and Tyler walked their very proud Mama Suzanne down the aisle, to the series where all grandsons twirled my Nana around like she was a ballerina, it was a blast all around.

As Maid of Honor and a self-proclaimed badass, I gave a toast to the newlyweds.  And because I am so proud of Cait and Derek and the way they shared their love with me, I wanted to share my speech with you. 

Welcome!  My name is Casey Carr-Jones and I am Maid of Honor and cousin of the bride.  On behalf of Caitlin and Derek, I’d like to thank you for attending this amazing celebration of their marriage!

I’ve known Caitlin since she was born, and in between the matching outfits and last minute sleepovers, we were fast and close friends.  A lot of my favorite memories with Caitlin are our time spent down the Jersey Shore in Stone Harbor, which is a place where Nana and Grandad have been taking our Moms since they were little.  The building where our families live is about a block away from the local fire department, which as you can imagine is quite busy during the summer with all the fireworks and barbeques.  Anytime someone called in to report a fire, the fire whistle sounded and the entire fleet of firetrucks would whizz off to attend to the fire (in many times would be a false alarm).  

Now little Caitlin had an obsession with anything loud and obnoxious, and she quickly fell in love with the fire station.  Anytime the fire whistle went off, Caitlin would run to the corner, watch the fire trucks head out, and she would chase them to try and spy on the fire.  It doesn’t matter if it was 10am and we had just gotten to the beach, or 5pm during dinner, or even in the middle of the night.  If the whistle went off, she was running.

A lot of her other girl cousins started to join her on these sprints, myself included.  We would run to the fire (or non-fire), spy for a few minutes, and walk back.  It was on these walks that Caitlin and I would share details about the goings-on in our lives.  It was on one of these walks that Caitlin started talking to me about this guy named Derek.  Now, I had heard Derek’s name for several years because they were in the same friend circle, but this time it was a little different, more serious.  A big crush.  And then later that summer, the day they both left to attend separate colleges in fact, they started to date.

I, the well-meaning older cousin, tried to give Caitlin advice.  Don’t do it!  I said.  Definitely don’t go to college with a boyfriend.  It’ll never work out.

Now I ate my words continually during the course of your relationship and I have to say how happy I am that you two fought through a long distance relationship and have grown so much as a couple.

Caitlin, you are my best friend, my confidante and sidekick.  You are so patient, positive, silly, and go-with-the-flow.  You make it so easy to be your friend and you never have a bad word to say about anyone, except maybe Ryan or Tyler.  I am so thrilled that you met Derek and that you decided to spend the rest of your lives together.  Derek, you are so protective and sweet to Caitlin, and it’s almost unbearable how generous the both of you are to others and to eachother.

I know that when Caitlin gets up to do something spontaneous like chasing a fire truck, Derek is the kind of guy who will lace up his sneakers.  And if either of their sirens goes off in a time of need, I know the other will come running.
So I’d like to propose a toast: to Derek and Caitlin, to firetrucks and forever.
—

And now, airport FOMO has set in.  I mean REALLY set in.  Luckily, I was very busy with weddingness and a Stone Harbor, NJ vacation with my uber-awesome family so I hardly had time to keep up with emails and messages from my fellow Remote Year squad, but now I realize that everyone’s had one extra week.  One more week to bond. One more week to learn about each other. To explore Lisbon.  To take sweet Instagram photos with #nofilter.  I would never have missed this week for the world, but it’s still scary to rejoin a group that I only recently met.  I just hope that I can fit in as well as I *think* I did in Valencia.  Here goes nothing!

A Quickie in Valencia

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After one month of living in Valencia, Spain through the Remote Year program, I believe that I could live here happily for years. But I also believe that one can visit this city for 5 days and really get a sense of the culture and flavor.

I know a few people who refuse to travel long distances unless they can stay for 2 weeks.  THIS IS IRRATIONAL and usually just an excuse.  Be brave, little Piglet.  If you keep waiting until you have enough vacation days or until you have enough money to stay at that 5 star hotel, you’ll never make it.  You’ll just end up using your days off to watch tv or run errands, and will spend your money on less meaningful vacations.  Place more value in world travel.  Take the red eye and get a move on.

So why do you want to follow my advice instead of just consulting Trip Advisor, Yelp, or Google? Cause I did it.  I tried some really crappy places too – I went to overpriced tourist-trap restaurants by accident and even sat down to tacos and waited an hour before realizing that in fact, we did not communicate properly to not only say we wanted tacos, but that we’d like them today please.  Gotta love Spain.

Here’s why I love Valencia:

  • Manageable layout: Valencia is flat, big enough to have neighborhoods with different vibes but small enough to walk from end-to-end.
  • Friendly locals: They may not know much English but they will work with you (with a smile) to get on the same page.
  • Sunny and consistent weather.
  • Great sleeping/eating patterns.  5 meals a day, sleep in, siesta, and stay out late.  If you come from the east cost, you can just stay in that time zone without much jet lag.

 

A few notes:

  • This itinerary assumes an overnight flight on Tuesday night.
  • Breakfast:9am / Almuerzo (second breakfast): 11am / Lunch: 1:30pm / Afternoon Snack: 6pm / Dinner:9pm
  • All shops and restaurants close between 2 and 5, and nothing is open on Sundays.  Plan accordingly.
  • Recommended hotel/hostel location: Either in El Carmen which is old city and near many plazas and cathedrals, or Russafa which is south of El Carmen and more trendy.

 

Wednesday

Arrive in Valencia in the morning, attempt to check in to hotel or just leave your bags at the front desk

Ease yourself in with a Paella de Valencia from La Lola.  Note that Paella de Valencia contains chicken, rabbit, and sometimes snails.  You can also order with just chicken, or seafood, or vegetarian.  It’s okay if you feel super full afterwards – lunch is meant to be the heaviest meal of the day.

Siesta

Dinner outside at La Plaza de la Reina – pick any restaurant that can seat you outside.  Order tapas and enjoy the fact that it stays light until 10pm.  Order an Augua de Valencia (local cocktail) and enjoy the sunset.

Thursday

Breakfast @ Bluebell Cafe in Russafa – a fave of many Remotes, which has tasty coffee, smoothies, and mimosas, delicious chai bowls, and my fave: avocado toast on rye.  Followed by carrot cake.  And more coffee.

Walking tour! I didn’t do this til my last week and it was a blast.  There are several options, I went through freetours.com for the Old City tour and saw the central market and Valencian cathedral among others.  These tours are free but you should tip the guide at the end because most likely the tour was a combo comedy/history show. Absolute must-do.

Hungry for lunch?  Check out La Papardella which serves Italian with a Spanish twist and has a special lunch menu.  Only want a snack?  Grab a Churro @ Valor in the Plaza de la Reina.  Be sure to order with dipping chocolate.

Siesta

Dinner – Picnic in the park (take the ramp down by Pont de Real and walk south).  Grab a baguette, meat (jamon/ham or chorizo) and cheese and a bottle of wine and head to the park.  Pro tip: bring a wine bottle opener and cups, and a big blanket to sit on.

Nightlife: If you’re walking south from the park, grab a craft beer at Tyris on Tap in el Carmen, or check out Olhops down in Russafa for a similar vibe.

Friday

Take the morning and explore the City of Arts and Sciences.  Walk around the giant modern buildings, try the museum or the aquarium or planetarium.

In the afternoon, hit the Beach – hail a cab, ask the driver to drop you at Playa Malvarrosa.  The blue and white huts along the beach serve Heineken and some snacks.  Plenty of restaurants along the water to pop in for a late lunch.

Siesta

Dinner at La Finestra – you have little-to-no control over what type of pizza you’re getting, but prices are amazing and the atmosphere is locals-only.

Umbracle – finish dinner around 12pm and walk over to the Umbracle, which is in the City of Arts and Sciences you saw this morning.  You’ll find it has transformed overnight into a club scene.  Note that locals don’t show up until 3am but if you want to avoid a line and the crazy crowds, it’s okay to arrive a little early and enjoy your drink before the music really starts pumping.

Saturday

Pop into that pastry shop or cafe you’ve been eyeing all week for breakfast.

Head over to Carrer de Colon for a little shopping and exploring.  Pop into Zumm Salads for a lighter meal (for a change).

Siesta

Dinner @ Gordon 10 – this is a nice steak place disguised as an English pub.  Order the price fixe steak dinner – you will not regret it.  ~30 euro will get you multiple courses, steak, plus dessert plus a bottle of wine.  Bueno.

Sunday

Travel day, departure.

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So there you have it.  A solid long weekend in a beautiful city in Spain.  Now get those flight alerts going and make it happen!