Lost in Valencia

Our plane lands smoothly in Barcelona under a bright June sun. My friend Armando is waiting at the airport, waving excitedly as we step out.
“Hi, Daniel!” he shouts, giving me a big hug. “I’m so happy you’re here!”
“Hi, Armando! It’s great to see you!” I reply.

Then he notices my sister. “And who’s this?”
“Armando, this is my sister, Julia.”
Armando greets her with the usual Spanish warmth—one kiss on each cheek. Julia blushes immediately and lowers her eyes.
“She’s a little shy, isn’t she?” Armando whispers with a grin.
“Yes, she is,” I answer, laughing, “but she’s lovely.”

We collect our luggage and head to a taxi. The ride from the airport to Armando’s flat takes about half an hour. Through the window, I watch palm trees, old buildings, and blue sky fly by. The taxi fare is forty-one euros and fifty cents—Armando says that’s normal for this part of the city.

When we arrive, the heat hits us, but a soft sea breeze makes it bearable. It’s lunchtime and we’re starving.
“Armando,” I say, “where can we eat?”
“There are two good restaurants nearby,” he explains. “One, La Paella Loca, makes the best paella in Barcelona. The other serves wonderful fresh fish.”
Julia’s eyes brighten. “I’d love some paella!”
“Great choice,” Armando says. “You can take the bus there. I wish I could come, but I have to teach a class this afternoon.”

So Julia and I leave for the bus station.
“Which bus goes to La Paella Loca?” I ask.
“I have no idea,” Julia admits. “Let’s ask someone.”

A friendly man in a white shirt tells us, “Take the number 35 bus. It goes right there. But it’s very crowded at this time.”
Julia frowns. “I don’t want to squeeze into a packed bus. Why don’t we just eat at the fish place next door?”
I pause, then smile. “I have a better idea. I’ll go to La Paella Loca by bus, and you try the fish restaurant. Then we can compare which one is better.”
Julia laughs. “Deal! Enjoy your adventure. I’ll call you later.”

I board the next bus and sit down near the window. The ride is smooth, the air-conditioning cool. I’m exhausted from the flight and soon fall asleep.

When I wake up, everything is silent. The bus is empty except for the driver.
“Excuse me,” I ask, rubbing my eyes, “where are we?”
“We’ve arrived in Valencia,” he says casually.
“Valencia?!” I shout. “How is that possible?”
“This is the express bus. It goes straight from Barcelona to Valencia.”

My heart sinks. I’ve taken the wrong bus! I thank the driver and step out into a completely different city. I grab my phone to call Julia—but the screen stays black. Battery dead.

I look around desperately for a phone box. A woman points one out to me. When I reach it, I realize Julia’s number is saved in my phone. I finally have a phone to use, but no number to dial.

Hungry and tired, I decide to eat first. I find a small restaurant nearby.
“Good evening!” the waiter says in Spanish.
“Good evening,” I answer. “Paella, please.”
He looks confused. I repeat the word, pointing at the menu. Finally he laughs and switches to English. “I’m new here. My Spanish isn’t great either!”
I burst out laughing. The whole situation is so absurd—traveling all the way to Spain to eat paella, and ending up eating it alone in Valencia!

After dinner, reality hits me again. I have no way to reach Julia. Then I remember: I still know my parents’ number in London. I rush back to the phone box and call home.
“Hello?” my mum answers.
“Hi, Mum, it’s Daniel. Please call Julia and tell her I’m in Valencia. My phone died.”
“In Valencia?!” she gasps.
“It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”

That night I find a cheap hotel nearby. I pay in cash, take a quick shower, and fall onto the bed. As I close my eyes, I can’t help smiling.

What a day—it started with lunch plans in Barcelona and ended with dinner alone in Valencia. Sometimes the smallest mistake becomes the best story of all.