Lost, language, and other matters

Tonight, went back to try and find the jersey I’d left behind today. Found the café, which was an achievement in itself, as there’s a café/bar about every ten metres in Valencia (and probably in most Spanish cities). No joy. My miming and pulling at the other jersey I had on brought some recognition of what had happened, but no jersey. I think what the woman probably said in Spanish was: You are a fool and only a fool leaves his jersey behind. Go! The only reason I was carrying one was because it was chilly again when I set out this morning. By the time I’d got up the street the sun was well and truly hot, and I didn’t need the jersey for the rest of the trip. In spite of that most Valencians were wearing coats and scarves, even though the temperature, according to the sign in the underground train, was 20 degrees.
What does Valencia have in common with Rotorua? Every so often you get a whiff of something unpleasant - in Valencia’s case it’s more likely to be the drains.
The streets around the historic city, where we are, are very confusing. I’ve now got lost twice today, though tonight it wasn’t as bad. If I’m not careful I’ll be the next thing we leave behind on this trip. One part of the problem is that you’re surrounded by three and four storey buildings in narrow, one-way streets, and you’ve no landmarks visible. The other part of the problem is that on our map the street names are in one language while the street signs (which are mostly attached to the corners of buildings, as they were in Italy) are in another. In some cases there’s not much difference, but in others the difference is considerable. Once you get the hang of the fact that you’re possibly looking for a different word on the map, things fall into place a bit more, but it still trips you up. There doesn’t seem to be much consistency in the use of the languages: in some places you see things in both languages, particularly on public transport, but in others you have no idea what language is being used.
I’d thought I’d got the word for milk sussed: La Leche, as in the breastfeeding League. That was easy. But when I’ve tried leche in Valencia, they look blankly at me. It may be lette or latte; I really don’t know. Some shopkeepers have patience; others get into a Spanish grump, as in: You are a fool who only speaks English and dares to try to speak our wondrous language. Desist!
And there are two distinct types of people here. Those who we’d regard as Spanish from movies and other pictures, people who look more European. And then there are those who appear to be South American in origin. I suppose hundreds, maybe thousands of them were bought back as slaves during the Conquest, and these are the descendents, living alongside their original conquerors.