Valencian hospitality

By Emerald Gao
Written on February 4, 2007

This is the tale of how Valencianistas are the nicest people to ever walk the planet. And also a parable about the importance of buying tickets beforehand. And also a linguistic farce. And also --

You get the point.

So there I was, standing on a street corner in Valencia, peering blindly at a street map, when a couple came up next to me. The man was wearing a VCF scarf, and must have noticed me staring at it or something, because he asked me if I was headed toward the Mestalla. I whipped out my scarf like an eight-year-old, and they motioned for me to follow them. As we were crossing the land bridge, he asked if I had my ticket, which I hadn't, prompting stricken expressions of concern from both of them.

-- ¡No hay entradas!

-- Well, damn.

We kept walking; I thought I might try my luck anyway, and tried to signal my intentions to them. After a minute, he turned to me again and said he might be able to procure tickets for me, then whipped out his cell phone and consulted some guy named Roberto. He reassured me again after getting off the phone: "Sí, es posible."

We turned onto a small alleyway close to the stadium, and the woman began explaining some complicated process about using season ticket holder cards to claim extra tickets, and then they shepherded me into a smoky little bar/restaurant filled with Valencia fans, young and old, grabbing a drink and a bite before the game. Near the back, I was introduced to two other men, Roberto and a friend apparently, and told to sit down and drink a Coke.

Which I did, since at this point I was convinvced they were all part of the mafia, and the evening couldn't possibly end without me paying some exorbitant amount of money to crouch behind the stands and peer at the game from behind someone's legs.

After listening to my situation ("estoy estudiando en Barcelona; es muy dificil ser Valencianista allí; me encanta Aimar"), Roberto whipped out his cell phone and consulted some guy named Pancha. The first man said that everything was good, that there would be a seat for me.

O glory day.

My Coke and I were ushered out of the restaurant and to the stadium. Pancha and one of his friends showed up just as the starting lineups were being announced, so I bade my two angels of mercy goodbye and followed the two Valencianista mafia men up up up to the very top of the nosebleed section, where we perched in the corner of the third tier, eight rows from death the very top of the stadium.

That place is tall. Fantastically tall, and packed full of Valencia fans yelling puta-madrid, collective effervescence stronger than anything I've known up until now. From the top it is impossible not to appreciate the magnificent altitude of the Mestalla, the vertigo of images and noise, the sheer force of the drums and claps and jeers and cheers all bouncing around, echoing, and rising, rising.

Anyway, the game was, like Quique Flores said afterward, one of the most complete performances I've ever seen from the team this season. Albelda was unquestionably the man of the match; TV cameras rarely capture his sense of positioning, but if your view is fixed, it's hard not to marvel at the way he covers every single inch of the pitch. Albiol, too, was such a trooper, colliding with Cañizares in the first half, and then with Butelle in the second half, but shaking it off to come back onto the pitch. Also, Morientes has broken his scoring record for Liverpool in just five months with Valencia, and Ayala scoring at our end was super exciting.

Chanting the players' names ("¡Mo-ri-en-tes! ¡Mo-ri-en-tes!" "¡Al-bel-da! ¡Al-bel-da!") and celebrating goals with my new friends from the Valencianista mafia was probably the highlight of this entire Spain experience so far. It was kind of absurd yelling American obscenities when they were yelling strings of Spanish insults right next to me, but if there's one thing I've learned, it's to punctuate everything with a nice, emphatic "¡JODER!"

That, I can do.

Anyway, the fans in the opposite corner had a sign that thanked Mista for everything he did for the team, so it was kind of nice that he was the one to score on us. True to his word, he didn't celebrate, and his teammates' respect for his decision was the classiest thing about them all evening.

Toward the end of the game, I wanted to pay the mafia for my ticket, but they didn't let me. So essentially, I went from potentially going to Valencia for nothing, to seeing one of the best games of the season for free. God, I love this team and these fans.

We were too high up to get decent shots of the field, but here's some of the stadium. I don't think I was able to capture just how high up we were, but suffice to say, we were high.

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