Costa Blanca

From Barcelona to Benidorm via Alicante, Benidorm to La Marina via Orihuela, and Orihuela back to Barcelona via Valencia, our route looped through a couple of overlooked, yet beautiful, cities on the eastern coast of Spain.

The Low Festival took us to Benidorm which, contrary to how it sounds, is not a city-state, but in fact a coastal city in the province of Alicante. While the tourism industry has been actively destroying its stunning coastline for the past half-century, which is now fragmented by looming, apocalyptic-looking skyscrapers and littered with shorter, run of the mill businesses, its natural beauty is not at all inconspicuous. We stayed at a hotel with the word “fiesta” in its name, which set my expectations for the accommodation so low that in spite of the reality that our room for three was indeed a room for two with an extra bed, further constricting an already tight space, I had to sleep with earplugs night and day, and the place was teeming with severely sunburnt Brits who swarmed the basement breakfast buffet with a zealotry only paralleled by the Brexit (tempting, but low in nutritional value), I was, overall, satisfied with my stay, though it did help that our bedtime hours were mostly constrained to between 4 a.m. and 9 a.m. and, by day three, we were in zombie-like states.

The festival itself was enjoyable. Attracting an older crowd, it was lower key than most. I developed a particular affinity for the Spanish musician Zahara’s songs. It was also nice to be able to spend the days at the beach, even if it meant that the concerts ran a little too late for my taste. And in spite of the tourist traps, we managed to find a few good restaurants during our time there. My favorite was Freiduria Los Peces, which served up some of the best fried seafood I’ve had.

Following the festival, we made our way further south again, this time past Alicante, to Orihuela. Distinct from the Orihuela of my imagination, the actual city of Orihuela is a beautiful small city, dotted with history. In contrast to where we stayed in Benidorm, we had space and quiet, other than the deafening sound of the afternoon cicada, which provided the perfect level of white noise for naps. As we caught up on sleep, enjoyed homemade meals, and went for dips in the pool, the days disappeared almost indiscernibly until the week came to a close.

The morning before we left, we drove out to La Marina, an uncrowded beach near Torrevieja, for a picnic and a swim. The surrounding area and even the beach itself reminded me of Assateague, if only for the empty land and eroding coastline. The water was much warmer, bluer, and calmer though, and the distance between shorelines much shorter. It’s hard to believe that the image comparisons are from memories over 20 years ago and that in such a small expanse of time, so much has changed.

On our way back to Barcelona, we stopped to spend the night at a friend’s place in Valencia. I hadn’t seen him in almost a decade, and it was great to catch up. Reliving memories of the past, many of which I’d nearly forgotten, it was interesting to learn who remembered what- and why. Over dinner at La Tasqueta del Mercat, a new Spanish restaurant that reminded me at once of new American restaurants in both New York and Baltimore, I realized just how much our separate paths are merging and blending in the infinite stretches of time. A lifetime later, I was there.