Only Rain

Friday, November something.
I landed in Manises airport an hour ago and taxied (the metro is closed) to the Ruzafa barrio to meet my friend Mariajo. As I stand on the corner of Cuba and Puerto Rico, it's life as usual in the gentrified hood. The area, where rent used to be cheaper than in other parts of the city, was home to gitanos, and immigrant communities and other vulnerable parts of the population.

Now it's home to Vintage.

The social fabric isn't fully lost though, as well-off ladies drag cute, reluctant kids off the street and toward the shower, IPA-drinking graphic designers share the terraces with civil war era abuelos downing tinto de la casa by the gallon, and burning Marlborough reds by both ends. Chinese dudes chain-smoking cheap cigars and sip £1 doubles stare amusingly at the team of foreign executives attempting to manoeuvre their fancy rental bikes in the narrow sidewalks after a long, bountiful work week. Allianz? AXA? Goldman Sacks?
At this point, you probably wonder what a middle aged dude freshly fired from a tech startup is doing in Valencia in November. If you follow the news, you probably know about the DANA, Spanish acronym for "Depresión Aislada en Niveles Altos", which translates to "isolated low-pressure system at upper levels". It's a weather pattern that occurs when a mass of cold air collides with warm air over the Mediterranean Sea, causing heavy rain and storms.
Just to clarify. I'm not doctor without border or red cross. I'm not from here. I don't live in Spain. I'm not even Spanish. And yet, this place is home-my dad's home, my grandparents' home, my friends' home.

On paper, I'm supposed to be in London, with my family, polishing up my CV and chasing job leads. But in my gut, I know I have to be here.

I pretend it's not a big deal, getting canned. "It's business, not personal," right? That's the lie we all tell ourselves. But it is personal. It hurts in ways I didn't expect. It's not just about the money or the work-it's about identity and purpose. And right now, my mood is swirling somewhere between uncertainty (fear) and resentment (anger). Fight or flight. Classic. Secretly, I just need something, anything, to keep my mind occupied. I need something bigger than my bruised ego. Drown my sorrows.

Fortunately, I've come to the worst place.

Based on the news accounts, and reports from friends, the DANA levelled parts of the city. A sense of urgency drove me here. I can't fix what's broken, but I can show up. I can do something. For my friends. For myself.

That was the idea.

Here I am. At the corner of Cuba and Puerto Rico.

I somehow expected to stand at the corner of Maripol and Gaza, a war zone. I feel a mix of relief and self doubt. The idea of going back to London now, like right now, creeps up. But I can't. I made a "mistake" before leaving, and now I need to see this through.

I meet mi chica, Mariajo.
Tiger mom.
Actress.
Dancer.
Artist.
Teacher.
Master decorator.
Hunter gatherer.
Fierce tribe leader.
I am so happy to see her. I wish the circumstances were different.

We jump in her car and head south to meet Oso, bear in Spanish.

Grizzly in Valenciano.

Rafa, his human name, is main reason I am in Valencia.

-

Shock and Aftermath

We leave the city behind, driving through untouched, vibrant neighbourhoods. People sit at terraces, sharing drinks with friends, but then the signs begin: muddy rain boots, garbage bags duct-taped over legs, brooms resting at their feet.

Waze, traffic and poor co-piloting (or fate) lead us to a more direct, quicker path. But Mariajo, alarmed, questions the algorithm: "Can't go there. It's closed."

Trust Waze, baby. Just trust Waze.
We drive a mile further, through to the Sedavi pueblo, and everything changes.

Emergency floodlights reveal the brutal force of the tsunami-like wave that caused the insane damage seen on TV.

Walls of debris and cars stacked two or three high created two straight driving lanes through the pueblo. Thick mud everywhere. The side streets are used to pile up more drowned cars, waiting for access roads to clear so utility vehicles can pass. The stench of rotting garbage, organic decay, and petrol confirms the devastation. A dad drags a sad-looking girl through the muddy sidewalk, both covered in barro, and carrying plastic bags. Home-cooked food from another home because if the poor man and the heartbreaking little girl live around here, they've got no home left. A Chinese dude, sitting on a pile of garbage, smokes a rolled-up, staring at nothing. The bankers are elsewhere, in another world.

Two hundred and fifty people died in the pueblos. Dozen are still missing. Thousands lost everything. And it could have been worse.

The region, Europe's largest rice producer, had just harvested this year's bounty, leaving acres of empty fields to collect the floodwaters. Lives were saved, but no one knows if rice will ever grow here again. The Albufera, a beautiful lake in a protected area, is so polluted it may never recover; fishing is forbidden. Every day, bodies are pulled from its waters.

-

Stories That Haunt

Mariajo and I finally make it on time to Pasta-Pasta in El Perello, where she meets Oso every Friday for the same meal. These two have been together for 12 years. Rafa is my friend. I've known him since I could walk, and I have loved him since the first day.

Fun fact? We decided not to tell Rafa I was coming. Surprise him. Lift his spirit, Mariajo said.

I am worried.

Rafa is not a guy who's gonna get all emotional and immediately update his Story on Insta. At best he'll bearhug me, and tell me to get the fuck back home to my wife and kids. At worst, he'll bearhug me, and tell me to get the fuck back home to my wife and kids. He's a bit old school.

But he just bearhugs me. Breaks a rib or two. He seems truly surprised, asks what I am doing here, how is "macho man" (my son), and if I want one or two beers? I say: not sure, good, three.

Must have been a tough week, knowing these two. They clearly didn't stay home watching the news. The day after the storm, they were in Cataroja pushing barro and distributing supplies with Rafa's van.

We sit, order, and catch up. For once, I mostly listen...

People walk past. They all stop to chat with Rafa and Mariajo, tell their stories.

Each experience is different, but all the stories end in the same, devastating way. Stories of survival. Of ruined homes and lost businesses. Stories of people spending the night on top of vans, calling for help that never came. Stories that cling like mud, destined to haunt.

These stories serve a purpose. Retold enough, they become part of the collective consciousness, a warning for future generations. Next time, people won't rush to save their cars from flooded basements-they'll head for higher ground to save their lives.

I will spend the next few nights at Oso's house in the fields, La Casita del Campo, only grazed by the storm, as if DANA was just a story someone else had told.

-

Dreams and Mud

I wake up before sunrise, soaked in cold sweat, unable to recall the nightmares. Just fragments-futile attempts, endless failures, like Sisyphus pushing his boulder up the hill only to watch it roll down.

I know what's keeping me up. That "stupid" idea of mine. Just before leaving for Valencia, and without thinking this through, I asked a few friends and former colleagues for donations. Not sure why. Never did this before. Didn't really expect anything. But some good people donated and I am now responsible for a small war chest (around 500 euros). And I have no idea what to do with it...

I grab a rusty bike and ride to the village to catch the sunset, the memory of its beautiful beach engraved in my mind since I could walk.

But that was before the DANA.

I can't help to think about Macho Man running around like a possessed headless chicken on this exact same beach last summer, jumping in the pristine waters like a super hero to fend off gentle waves (or an impending mega tsunami), as if the whole of mankind depended on it.

Suddenly I miss the subtle weight of our small world untouched by all this.

I miss my family.

I just want to fucking cry.

-

Two Dogs, One Love

Back at La Casita, our Saturday is being organised. Instead of planning the ideal time for the first Mahou of the day, Mariajo and Rafa work the phones. We discuss what to do with the donation, decide the best use for the war chest. Mattresses? Microwaves? Toys for the kids? The options are endless, the resources painfully finite.

Volunteers are flooding the street taking advantage of the weekend to help. There's no urgent need for emergency supplies or food. I am ready to go, but there's nowhere we're needed.
Eleven days after the DANA, time has come to look inward. The field around La Casita, which Mariajo turned into a little garden of Eden, has suffered some damage. A large tree has fallen on a roof in the patio and threatens to bring the shaky structure down. A giant cactus covered with 15cm poisoned needles has been unrooted and must be cleared. The chicken coop needs fixin'.
Usually, Mariajo walks with the lightness of a ballet dancer, probably because gravity fails to get a proper hold of her tiny frame, but today she moves with difficulty. Lumbar pain. The weight of the world...

Plan for the day?

Mariajo wants to start the work around the house.

Rafa tells me he got a call from the Alicante police a few days back. They found two of his dogs and brought them to an animal rescue centre in Bustos, 162km down the coast. Perhaps we should take advantage of the down time to pick them up.
So, our first mission isn't to clear debris or distribute supplies, but to find two of the three family dogs, Bob and Marley, and bring them back home to la Casita.

How did Rafa's dogs end up 162km away from home?
They were staying at a doggy hotel near La Casita because, apparently, two of the three mutts are savages. Bob and Marley are causing resentment between Rafa and Mariajo. The two beasts constantly escape la Casita together (the fence is 2 meters high) and go on deadly rampages in the fields, hunting lizards, mices, rats, and stray cats.
Based on what we patched together from the cops, the dogs had escaped the kennel (what a surprise) when it flooded on Tuesday night. They survived the arrowing ordeal and were rescued a day later near Cullera, 3 miles down the coast. Then they escaped again (lol), and were found by the Alicante police helping in the area. On their way back home, the kind officers dropped Bob and Marley at a rescue centre in Bustos. An English couple cleaned them up, fed them, and said Bob and Marley slept for two days straight.

As we drive in the rescue centre parking, a man with massive tattooed forearms, the rescuer in chief, I assume, takes his phone out and starts filming the tear-inducing reunion between two good doggies and their loving owner.

Good content.
The reunion between the grizzly bear and the two wolves is not going viral anytime soon. No tears of joy, just a wolf pack reuniting after a long hunt. Rafa is Alpha. Unquestionably. This is probably why these two killers are so good with humans (and so bad with cats). Rafa orders the beasts in the car and thanks the officers for their help. I am assigned to the Brits.

These kind strangers, owners of BARC Animal Rescue, spent days rescuing animals, cleaning, feeding, and reuniting them with their owners. Yet, they witnessed tragedy too-horses, ponies, dead cats, and dogs scattered across fields. For some reason, the image of a bloated pony stays with me longer than it should have.

Bob and Marley are lucky. These two stuck together and made it home safely. In the van, Bob-a street-hardened mutt-rests his head on my shoulder and relaxes, if only briefly.

During the ride back, and for over two hours straight, Bob stares out at the road, panting nervously. Once he recognises the area near la Casita, he turns to Marley and with a quick nod, tells his bro "we going home".

-

Only the People Saves the People

On the way back, Rafa-my brother from another mother, whom I call Madre -reaches out to everyone he knows, checking if they need help. Most decline; they have what they need most.

From what I gather, the local decentralised government had delayed its response. Ignoring warnings from Madrid, they sounded the disaster alarm six hours too late, costing lives. Realpolitik and inefficiencies delayed coordination, and it was French responders who were among the first on the scene. But the locals-los Ché-had worked tirelessly from the moment the rain stopped.

Ten days later, government help has finally arrived.

The real heroes? The youth. Teenagers and twenty-somethings duct-taped garbage bags to their legs, picked up brooms, and cleared the streets, the houses, and the local businesses.

We get home late in the afternoon. Walk the dogs, have a beer or two.

Quick cena at The Club Social, the only open spot within walking distance. Service is legendary bad but the food is good and the place means a lot to me. It's where my grandma played cards on Sunday back in the late 70's, in a country in the midst of a difficult transition from fascism to democracy, from the Sunday mass to the Sunday mess, from shitty mud paths to La Ruta del Bacalao. Freedom was the new normal. Puzzle the new church. Ecstasy the new Eucharist.

We ate at the same table this past summer. Only Macho Man is missing in action, stuck in London for school duties. We had so much fun.

Today I am with my people, in a place I love. I am happy but I don't have fun.
Rafa and Mariajo are tired. We finish off quickly and go home.

-

Sunday. Bloody Sunday.

It's Sunday.

Beautiful day.

I ride to the beach, stupidly hoping it magically cleared overnight.
Stupid.

Same mess. I see shadows rummaging around while a yellow helicopter flies overhead.

I realise these are Guardia Civil pocking debris with long sticks, looking for bodies.

Suddenly I can smell it. Can't stay any longer.

Back at la Casita, Mariajo and Rafa have reached their limits. Mariajo limps around, her back shattered after days of relentless work. Rafa gives whatever he has left to help us move the fallen tree and saw it in manageable chunks.

He takes a small break after each effort, dry heaving.

Once the work is done, he's gone.

I stay with Mariajo, helping however I can (moving spiky debris, disposing of a bloated dead rat). I cut some wood while she starts the fire to grill a good cut of steak, Rafa's favourite. She hands me a beer, a fly swatter and tells me to keep the fire going for a while to make nice brasas.

My area of expertise. I feel on holiday. Then I feel guilty.

Thankfully, the neighbours show up right on time. Dani, Laura and the two girls Olivia and Julia. Adorable family.

Olivia immediately asks for Rafa.

Rafa won't come down to greet his favourite little person or eat his favourite cut of meat. He spends the day in bed, vomiting and shitting poison. Everyone seems to be sick of something. Weird flu, stomach pain, headaches. One can't spend two weeks bathing in shit and escape untouched.

Olivia, humanity's best hope, is stuck with me. But she make the best of it. We know each other a little bit, so we jump right in. She says her dad is the best fire maker in the world. She knows some tricks and she can help me if I want to. I definitely need the help.

Standing on her tippy toes, 8-year-old Olivia takes over the brazen fire. She lights sticks and makes shapes with the smoke. She sees hippos. I see my wife losing her shit (STEEEEEEEEEPH!!!!! GET THE BABY AWAY FROM THE FLAMES).
Lunch is divine, not only because it tastes really good (Dani's improvised chimichurri is dangerous), but because it feels very... normal. Then you hear the helicopters circling, you remember that Rafa is upstairs, that the pueblos are in ruin, and that little Olivia will tell the DANA story to her kids one day. A sad story. Core memory.
Dani, Laura and the girls head back to the city. Tomorrow is Monday. The girls' school is open. Life goes on.

At the end of the day, Mariajo and I go out to pick up one last dog, Pascual, who had been rescued by a kind family in Cullera immediately after the storm. We had to wait 30 minutes for the son and his gf to say their goodbyes to the (morbidly obese) fluffy canine.

While Bob and Marley fought for their lives in the wild, Pascual chilled in a nice home for two weeks. The mom said he liked home-cooked meals. Lots of them.

Mariajo, Rafa, Bob and Marley survived the DANA. Pascual, meanwhile, gained a few pounds.

-

Until Death, It Is All Life...

Monday. 14 days since the laser-guided bombardment. Because this is what it looks like. Pockets of life just erased while a mile away, life continues, seemingly untouched.

Rafa looks like shit, his broad frame bent slightly forward, battling a wrecked stomach. Most people would be in bed. Not Oso. He moves at a snail's pace, grimacing but stubborn. His family business has been put on hold for two weeks while he (and his brother/business partner Mario, from devastated Picanya) broomed barro, ventured into flooded garages, and distributed supplies with the big company van.

Today, he needs to deliver a zodiac boat 800km away. Most of his staff of hardened sea men stem from the pueblos and won't be coming to work soon, too busy putting back together what's left of their lives. Mario is busy at the port. David, their business partner, is fighting for his life. Rafa has got to do the job himself.

Here's the brief. A team of biologists need the boat urgently for an important project. Rafa asks if I want to join him on the road trip. Of course I do. He doesn't say but I think he's glad I come along. He's weak from being sick, and emotionally drained. And his phone rings every 20 seconds. More problems, more shit to do.

It feels strange to be leaving the city, driving westward while Valencia still struggles under the weight of its devastation. Guilt gnaws at the edges of my thoughts. It's hard not to feel like I'm abandoning something. But here I am, pushing those negative thoughts aside, focused on the road ahead. The sun follows us, pastel blue skies stretching out like a quiet promise.

My mom once estimated that Rafa and I have known each other since 1976. As the eldest, he was tasked to care for the little ones (me, his brother, and a few other terrors). Our fathers were best friends. Our mothers, inseparable. Every summer for two decades, we were family-sunburned kids running wild, stealing watermelons in the fields, playing futbito, fishing off El Embarcadero, living a life of endless adventures.

When Mia was born in Brooklyn, NY, 16 years ago, guess who showed up? Rafa. First and last time he ever set foot in NY. Rafa isn't very fond of big cities-or any city, really. He lives in a field with his dogs, drives a beat-up Honda, and works mostly on - or under - water. He's happiest fishing sunken vessels out of the sea, taking tourists whale watching, or crossing oceans on sailboats (often for tax purposes, as he likes to joke).

In the last 30 years, I've seen Rafa twice. When Mia was born in 2008. And last summer, when Sebastian and I visited during a road trip. Yet, as I settle into the passenger seat, there's no one I'd rather spend the next 1,600 km with.

Growing up, Rafa was my hero. He taught me to speak Spanish, how to fish, windsurf, make paella. He's a lousy teacher, though, because my Spanish is average at best, and I still can't fish, windsurf, or make paella.

At the first fuel stop, Rafa notices something flew out of the boat we're towing (a tiny screw, I assume). He looks concerned and says he needs to think about how to fix it (fix what?). I suggest turning around. The stubborn bear doesn't listen. We keep going.

On the bright side, we grab a cafe con leche, and a bocadillo. First time Rafa eats in over 24 hours. He still looks yellowish, but the coffee/sandwich combo seems to revive him. All the toxic crap he breathed and swallowed during those horrific days had to come out somehow.

As the car settles into the rhythm of the road, so do we. Images of the DANA fades behind us, and with it, some of the heaviness. For now, it's just two old friends, the open road, a few windmills. Don Quixote and Sancho Panza seeking one last adventure.

The sun sets. Rafa is tired. I can't help with the driving. One needs a special permit to tow a boat. We won't make it to the lake today. We stop at Hotel Peru, a random motel, down a quick dinner and crash

-

Man is an Invasive Species

We deliver the boat the following morning.

Remember, on the way, we lost something. I gather it's actually a two fuel tank. No shit. The massive 75L tank probably flew out on the highway at high speed, ripping the fuel line. We're fucked, halfway around the world.

The place is sick, though. Feel like the Patagonia of Europe.

But the epic-ness of the scenery doesn't solve fuel tank problem. We are searching for some boat-related very specific Yamaha apparatus usually found near large expanses of water, like Valencia, 800km away.

I walk around Patagonia while the eager biologists bounce ideas with Rafa. Truth be told, we fucked up by losing a fuel tank at high speed on a highway, but no one seems mad. Just fishing for solutions as a team. One of the biologists (Carlos) announced there's a boat dealership 50 km away and they might have the Yamaha full tank we're looking for.

Let's go. No choice at this point. Carlos, the biologist with the contact, jumps in the car and off we go. Let's go find a boat fuel tank in the Extremadura mountains.

The 100km drive through the hills of the Sierra de Pela region is life-altering.

First, Carlos explains with a thick local accent what he and his team are doing: they are in the midst of a multimillion euros operation. A biological warfare against a colossal enemy: an aggressively invasive Japanese fish who's name is lost in the accent.

The back story makes you sick. A greedy local fish farmer breaks a few laws and allows the involuntary release of the invasive species, which takes over the lake in a blink. The lake is actually a 32 mío reservoir built to irrigate the entire region. Completed 8 years ago, the dam has yet to release a single drop of water on the fields because a greedy motherfucker causes an ecological disaster.

Carlos and his crew of experts are about to organise the extraction, manual classification (the native species looks eerily like his Japanese cousin) and destruction of millions of fish so that the authorities can finally open the dam's doors.

The trip to nowhere gets even better. Carlos knows about all the species of the local fauna and flora, and points excitedly ahead when a massive bird circles the fields around us. An eagle! I shout eagerly. Aegypius monachus, or black vulture, actually.

Honestly, the place is mad. After Patagonia's barren expanse, the suroudings remind me of Wales in the fall. Again, Carlos the scientist disagrees with my assessment, because technically speaking... and he goes on, with his thick accent, about the local trees cell biology, soil retention, bla-bla-bla. He clearly knows his shit.

I'm not sure he's never been to Wales.
-

Powerless

Time flies.

We drive past a slick thermo solar station, a 100'000'000 euros investment. Carlos drops the hammer: they get practically no electricity from it, just enough to power the station. The doomed dam, the powerless power station. 132mio invested, nothing to show for. Human imbecility combined with a splash of greed and corruption.

I think of Valencia, where I thought I'd be right now, helping clean up the barro. DANA killed 250 people but it should never have happened. Years of maintenance work never completed in the canals and rivers, poor infrastructure, etc...

Carlos the biologist is right when he says that wildfires are not stopped when they rage in summer, they're stopped in winter with maintenance work.

Anyhow, we miraculously find a fuel tank and drive back to the Presa del Embalse de Alcollarín. Rafa installs the new fuel tank, and we hop in for a quick ride on the lake before leaving the scientists alone to save the world.

Good luck, pals. Our job in Extremadura is done. The trip back is smooth. We stop three times. We also chat a lot. It's nice.

We make it back for a quick dinner in El Perello, get home, and sink in bed without even showering. Mariajo, back in Valencia, isn't here to tell us to behave like humans.

It's takes me a while to fall asleep. I've got to expel some of the tension accumulated over 1600km, just sitting there. Processing everything that happened, the Japanese fishes, the ridiculous thermo solar plant, but also the fact that while we travelled far, far away, there are towns around Valencia where they still recover bodies, like these two little bros whose cute faces are in every TV screen.

Not sure what tomorrow will bring. They announce a new storm.

The wind is picking up. The dogs look anxious.

-

It's Only Rain

Under the threat of extreme rain, we spend the following day at Rafa's micro office at the nautical club. I try to help with some admin work but Vicky, the accountant, is on top of everything. I work on my CV, plan the next career move.

By mid-afternoon, red alerts buzz across everyone's phones. This time, the warnings come early-perhaps too early. Rafa suspects the government overcompensates, reacting swiftly to avoid repeating their previous mistake. But the damage is already done. Not by the DANA, but by weeks of distrust.

We packed up, and head home to walk the dogs before the announced storm.

One hour later, still no rain. Mariajo left us some chicken to cook at la Casita but we decide to ignore the warnings and head to El Perello for some tapas.

Everything's closed but one place. It's dodgy, greasy, and delicious. We eat and drink for the price of two London pints. But at 9:01pm, Carmen, the owner, decides to close the shop. The red alerts are spreading and she wants to make it home safely. The local crowd, already drowning in booze, protest. Government this, governments that. But Carmen's words are the law. We all take off. Frustration among the people is reaching new highs.

It still doesn't rain when we go to bed around 11pm, hating on the corrupt pols.

2 a.m. We wake up to thunder. Water is rushing in the house through the kitchen door. Outside, it's chaos. Rain pours, relentless.

Only rain, says Rafa.

We block the door with towels. He sends me back to sleep.

The sound of the storm makes it nearly impossible.

-

El Toyota

By morning, the neighbourhood is flooded (again). Thankfully, the damage is only superficial.

Nearby towns like Cullera aren't as lucky, flooded under a meter of water, their beaches unrecognisable, buried under mountains of debris.

Walking the dogs is an adventure in itself, a game of finding dry land. It strikes me how even a "minor" storm, in the context of Valencia's recent devastation, feels like another punch to an already battered body.

The entire city is in a standstill. Recovery is halted because the rain has made circulating on barro a slippery option. Navigation is forbidden. Rafa's boats are grounded.
Another day at the office, emptying Zodiacs filled with rain water, moving some to dry land, shuffling heavy stuff around. I hope to think I am helpful but truth be told, I am probably just a dead weight. But the real pros are stuck at home, and I am the only option available.

There's another, highly symbolic, project going on. My friends family's been lucky. No one got injured (even though Mario and his son barely made it home on time), the houses are mostly intact, the family business will survive. The only material loss is their late dad's car, an old beat up Toyota with 600'000km on the counter. It sunk and got taken by the wave that hit Picanya before Mario and his son could move it to higherground. They tried, but water was rushing too fast.

Mario, Samuel (who made it to work every day, DANA or not) and hired gun Alberto spend hours around the car every day. They basically need to break it down into individual pieces, cleanup each screw, and put it back togheter and hope it runs. It will take weeks. I can sense a firece determination within the team, as if Rafa Sr's car was a microcosme of the city, which needs cleaning, and fixing too. Lots of it.

End of the work day. I am flying back to London tomorrow. I am not going back to La Casita with Rafa. I am going to Valencia. Dani & Laura have offered to let me stay in their beautiful AirBnB penthouse for free. It's so kind, so convenient. And I get to see the girls one more time.
Got to say goodbye to Rafa. I try to tell him how much it meant for me to see him, to be here with them. He grunts, wraps his massive arm around my neck and choke me. To him, I am just Suizo Cabron, an overly sensitive pussy from the big city.

I spend the last evening in Ruzafa, where the week started, with my dear friends Sol and Mariajo. Seven days ago, I was standing on the corner of Cuba and Puerto Rico, watching people live seemingly normal lives, walking the kids home, and sipping a drink at one of the terraces.

Honestly, if it hadn't been for the traffic and road closures forcing us into the Paiporta area a week ago, I would have failed to fully grasp the extent of the devastation. After that first impression, everything else felt pretty mild; whether an entire field littered with hundreds of muddy cars, busted bridges, horror stories. Bloated ponies.

Today it feels the same, maybe slightly more upbeat.

It will take weeks to fix the subway, months to rebuild schools and clean the beaches, years to restore faith in politics, if ever.

Day-to-day life goes on, whether fate drops you at a nice terrace in trendy Ruzafa, or knee deep in barro a mile away.

-

The End of the Week: Reflection and Farewell

My mission here wasn't what I'd imagined. I hadn't cleared tons of mud or saved dozens of lives. But I'd done something just as vital: I'd helped my friends, who had given so much to help others.

Mariajo, Rafa, and their community carried the weight of a storm they didn't cause, the inefficiencies of a government they didn't trust, and the scars of loss they couldn't yet process. They needed someone to remind them to rest, to laugh, to care for themselves again.

As I get ready to leave, I take one last walk through beautiful Valencia.

The city centre is its usual self, busy and lively, as if nothing had happened. But a mile away, towns were still digging through mud, still recovering bodies. The contrast is jarring, but it is also Valencia in its purest form: resilient, defiant, full of life even in the face of tragedy.

-

You'll Never Walk Alone

This isn't my story-it belongs to the people of Valencia. I'm just the clumsy messenger sharing what I've seen and felt. But this city is in my blood. It's where I spent summers raising hell with Rafa and the gang, where we ate raw tellinas straight out of the sand bank, and chased every girl in sight, but from afar. It's where laughter echoes through every corner, where even a tragedy like DANA can't silence the joy.

I love the weird local dialect that seems to be good for jokes because every time it's spoken, people end up laughing. Or it is just that a good laugh is a remedy against despair.

I am at the airport, trying to the end the story. We're about to board and I don't know what else to say. Not a bad ending for a story that won't end soon.

Valencia will recover. The beaches will be cleaned, and the streets rebuilt. But the scars-on its people, on its politics-will take longer to heal. And in less than a decade, another storm will come. Maybe the canals will be maintained this time. Maybe the alerts will sound on time. Maybe fewer lives will be lost.

For now, I leave my home as I found it-imperfectly beautiful, determined, and still alive.

-

Post Scriptum

Note on the donations.

During the week, we received countless calls for help. Demolished schools that needs to be rebuilt, music schools without instruments for the kids, mattresses, microwave ovens...
But from day one, Rafa seems a bit concerned. He wants to make sure the money goes into the right hands, not in the wrong pockets. While Mariajo is ready to jump into action, Rafa and I procrastinate.
I leave Valencia with the issue of the donations unresolved. I told Rafa to look for the best option. If he can't find the right hands before the end of the month, I'll simply return the donations. It's stupid, I know...

-

Post Scriptum II

Fuerza David!