Alcantera

                                         Alcàntera de Xúquer (Ist Season)

     Like Roman Gaul, the Comunidad Valenciana (CV) is divided into three parts (provincias): Castellón, Alicante, and Valencia. Last year, we lived in Alicante, the southernmost of the provinces. But we decided to flee the hooligans, mini-golfs, and Burger Kings and buy a small house in Alcàntera de Xúquer, 40 kms south of Valencia city in the valley of the Ribera Alta.

     The region is filled with citrus groves: mostly oranges, but also mandarins, lemons, and caquis. There is a spider web of roads and paths that serves the groves; the River Xúquer, with its numerous tributaries, meanders through the valley. This region gained a lot of publicity when, in 1982, the Dam at Tous burst, flooding the whole valley and completely destroying a number of villages. (They have completely relocated and rebuilt the hamlets of Gavarda, Tous, and Beneixida.)

     It took and while and a lot of patience to get the house remodelled. (We pretty much gutted the whole original.) But it turned out to be a gem. We have a winding spiral staircase, and an ancient wall that emerged from the plaster that had covered it before. Our bedroom has a magnificent skylight, and we can lie in bed and see the stars and the moon. From the terrace, we have a 360 degree view. At night, we can see, in the distance, the lights of the trucks and cars--like a marching column of lightning bugs--moving along the autopista, framed by the purple neon of the roadside whorehouses.

     Alcàntera has about 2000 residents. It is adjacent to the somewhat larger village of Carcer, separated only by a broad avenue. This division, however, has significance somewhat akin to that of the Mason-Dixon Line. (Alcántera is PSOE--socialist---, and Cárcer is PP--Aznar conservative.)

     I suppose that most small villages are the same in that everyone knows everyone and everyone is related to everyone. In Alcántera, there is an interesting cast of characters.

     Manoli and Enrique run the Bar Kukis, right next to us. Manoli, 45ish, is bubbly effusive, and gregarious. Enrique is melancholic, laconic, and asocial, although he seems to be mellowing with his fight to save his leg from diabetes related gangrene. Their 24-year-old son, also Enrique, is a pleasant and thoroughly unpretentious fellow. The daughter, Gema, 17, is twiggy-thin and has a face full of hardware; she’s studying to be a hairdresser.

     Pepe, an elegantly mannered man in his 70´s, spent 20 years working in France, and now lives in a palatial 100 year-old house filled with precious antiques; he takes his walk, Kant-like, past our house at precisely the same time every day. He has apparently given up the gay life and turned his attention toward Heaven. He goes to Mass every day, and his house is filled with all manner of crucifixes, virgins, and other saintly paraphernalia. He doesn’t seem to realize that Ratzinger, whose picture is prominently displayed on the wall, would, given his druthers, roast Pepe and his ilk like hotdogs.

     Sometimes Pepe runs into Nieves and Amparo, two 80-years-olds, who hobble around on ulcerated legs.

     And then there’s another Pepe, the “artist-bohemian,” who seems to stake his image more on his Dali-style moustache than on his artwork. He sits every day for hours at the bar, chain-smoking and drinking beer.

     The “cacique” of the village—the man who secretly always wanted to be Franco—is called “El Petit.” He, along with his sons, owns a large construction material business, and apparently lots of other things. (It was he who threatened us with a lawsuit if we opened a window in our bedroom that would have looked over his warehouse.) His sons have kids who come and visit us.

     Life here is regular and predictable. Blanca gets up and has to be at school at 8:30. I keep sleeping. When I finally exit the covers, I have breakfast and go out for a run, a walk, or a bike ride. The environs offer a fantastic variety of places to explore, and I’ve been delighted by the prospect of taking a different road every day and always discovering something new. One day it’s weaving through the groves; the next day it’s mountains. I can run to a 15th-century hermitage, as well as the Tous reservoir.

     Blanca gets home at 1:00, and we repair to Bar Kuki´s, where Manoli has lunch (a three course, home cooked feast, complete with wine) waiting for us. After glutting ourselves, Blanca takes a short siesta and goes back to school until 5:00. I read (or sleep). When Blanca gets home, we usually just putter around, reading, listening to music, etc. until it´s time for bed.

     In addition to the exploring on foot or bike, there are a number of interesting places easily accessible by car.

     Of course the most important of these is Valencia City. It’s the third largest city in Spain, and although it´s noisy, crowded, and chaotic, it has a great deal to offer. There is a host of historic buildings and monuments (the silk Exchange, the Mercat Central, the Serranos Towers, the Cathedral, and the Migelete Tower. And the Turia river bed is a runner’s paradise. The recently constructed City of Arts and Sciences is, if you like that sort of thing, a major attraction. Valencia is famous for its night-life, much of it concentrated in the old Barrio del Carmen.

    Xativa is Valencia´s “second city.” It is famous for its castle, which overlooks the city, and for being the birthplace of several Borgia Popes: Calixtus and the infamous Alexander VI (1431-1503). The latter was the “holy father” of, inter alia, Cesare and Lucretia Borgia.

    One striking feature of the ambiance is the almost complete prevalence of Valenciano as the lingua franca. (Of Blanca´s 25 students, all speak Valenciano at home.) The language issue has all sorts of subtle ramifications and nuances; this is a socio-linguist’s paradise.

What’s going on? There’s a war on several fronts:

(a) against the imposition—from the central government in Madrid--of Spanish;

(b) against the hegemonic Catalans. (As a language learner, I’m often caught between the Scylla of “casteanismes” and the Charybdis of “Catalanismes.” )

Re (a): Valencianos feel linguistically imposed upon. And they certainly were under Franco, who actively discouraged the regional languages. The graffiti don’t usually include “Eso no es España” that one sees all over the Pais Vasco. But there is certainly a strong movement in favour of Valencian “nacionalismo.”

     With respect to (b), there are a number of views:

(1) Catalan and Valenciano are completely different languages;

(2) Valenciano is a “dialect” of Catalan;

(2A) We should call the language spoken in the Communidad CV ¨Catalan¨;

(2B) We should call the language spoken in the CV ¨Valenciano”;

(3) Valenciano and Catalan are the same language;

(3A) We should call the language spoken in the CV “Catalan”;

(3B) We should call the language spoken in the Communidad Valenciano “Valenciano.”

For what it’s worth, my view is closest to (3A). Obviously we´re dealing with what, in the heyday of analytic philosophy, used to be called “open textured concepts” (“language,” “dialect,” etc.) But supposing that the criterion for sameness of language is something like “mutual intelligibility,” Valenciano and Catalan are the same. Granted, there are differences in pronunciation and diction. But if an American inner-city black person, a Yorkshire Englishman, an Australian outbacker, and a Scots Highlander all speak “English,” then a native of Alicante and her counterpart in Barcelona both speak the same language. (Could we call this common language “Vatalan”?)

     The jewel of the Valencian language is Tirant Lo Blanc, by Joan Martorell (Valencia, 1490). It’s the Don Quixote of Valencia. In fact, Cervantes himself singles out Tirant for special treatment; when most of the Knight’s books are burnt, Cervantes´ priest declares that it is the best book in the world.[1] It’s the archetypical saga of Knight-Errantry, filled with lots of violence, gallantry, and sex. Here´s a sample:

En la fertile, rica e delitosa illa d´Anglaterra habitava un cavaller valentíssim, noble de linatage e molt més de virtuts, lo qual, per la sua gran saviesa e alt enginy, havia servit per llong temps l´art de cavallería amb grandíssima honor, la fama del qual en lo món molt triumfava, nomenat lo comte Guillem de Varoich. (Capítol Segon)

Translation:

In the fertile, rich, and lovely island of England there lived a most valiant knight, noble by his lineage and much more for his courage. In his great wisdom and ingenuity he had served the profession of chivalry for many years and his fame was widely known throughout the world. His name was Count William of Warwick. (R.S. Rudder).

     Closely intertwined with these linguistic issues is the larger question of “identity.” Many Valencianos seem to believe that there is some “essence” of being Valenciano, and they are very frustrated that no one seems able to find it. [2]

I got a taste of Valencian “identity politics” when Blanca took me to the weekend “trobada” (encounter), which was held in the neighbouring village where she teaches. (What’s the name of the village? It depends. If the Valencian nationalists are in power, it’s called “Castelló de la Ribeira”; when their enemies are in control, it’s called “Villanueva de Castellón.”) The event featured speeches, songs, presentations, and various “cultural” activities (e.g., face painting), which were orchestrated by the kids in the villages that make up the Ribeira Alta. Blanca´s school dedicated a tremendous amount of time to preparing for this event. In my position as “consort,” I had little option but to spend my Saturday watching the Valencianos do their thing. Many of the speeches were very fiery, and there was an atmosphere which brought to my mind images from both Woodstock and Leni Riefenstahl’s “Triumph of the Will.” My reaction was a mixed one of pity and fear.

  But the people in the Alcàntera don’t appear to be very much involved in all this, at least as far as I can detect. But then again, I’m not teaching in the school. (In Catalonia, it’s gotten to the point where students are being asked to report teachers who speak too much Spanish.)

   I’ve really enjoyed living here this first year. The villagers are remarkably accepting—breaking into the extremely closed society of a small Spanish pueblo is no easy task--, although many of them are still bemused by the fact that a couple of “rich Americans” have chosen to move in. (When they hear Blanca’s textbook perfect Valenciano, they are even more perplexed.) The tranquillity is wonderful, especially after the hubbub of Polop and Alfas Del Pi. There’s almost always a soft breeze, and the church bell tolls out the quarter hours; the sweet scent of orange blossom hangs in the air, and the calm rhythm of unchanging routine provides a perfect backdrop for more unstructured sorties into the world beyond.

Notes:

[1] “!Valame Dios!—dijo el cura, dando una gran voz--,!que aquí esté Tirante el Blanco! Dádmele acá, compadre; que hago cuenta que he hallado en él un tesoro de contento y una mina de pasatiempos . . . . Dígoos verdad, señor compadre, que por su estilo es este el mejor libro del mundo . . . ”(Don Quijote,Cap.VI).

[2] The classic here is Joan Fuster, Nosaltres Els Valencians (1962).